### Contents

  1. Free Download
  2. Copyright
  3. Dedication
  4. Chapter One
    1. January, 2011
  5. Chapter Two
  6. Chapter Three
  7. Chapter Four
  8. Chapter Five
  9. Chapter Six
  10. Chapter Seven
  11. Chapter Eight
  12. Chapter Nine
  13. Chapter Ten
  14. Chapter Eleven
  15. Chapter Twelve
  16. Chapter Thirteen
  17. Chapter Fourteen
  18. Chapter Fifteen
  19. Chapter Sixteen
  20. Chapter Seventeen
  21. Chapter Eighteen
  22. Chapter Nineteen
  23. Chapter Twenty
  24. Chapter Twenty-One
  25. Chapter Twenty-Two
  26. Chapter Twenty-Three
  27. Chapter Twenty-Four
  28. Chapter Twenty-Five
  29. Chapter Twenty-Six
  30. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  31. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  32. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  33. Chapter Thirty
  34. Chapter Thirty-One
  35. Chapter Thirty-Two
  36. Chapter Thirty-Three
    1. Present Day
  37. Chapter Thirty-Four
  38. Chapter Thirty-Five
  39. Chapter Thirty-Six
  40. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  41. Chapter Thirty-Eight
  42. Chapter Thirty-Nine
  43. Chapter Forty
  44. Chapter Forty-One
  45. Chapter Forty-Two
  46. Chapter Forty-Three
  47. Chapter Forty-Four
  48. Chapter Forty-Five
  49. Chapter Forty-Six
  50. Chapter Forty-Seven
  51. Chapter Forty-Eight
  52. Chapter Forty-Nine
  53. Chapter Fifty
  54. Chapter Fifty-One
  55. Chapter Fifty-Two
  56. Chapter Fifty-Three
  57. Chapter Fifty-Four
  58. Chapter Fifty-Five
  59. Chapter Fifty-Six
  60. Chapter Fifty-Seven
  61. Chapter Fifty-Eight
  62. Chapter Fifty-Nine
  63. Chapter Sixty
  64. Chapter Sixty-One
  65. Chapter Sixty-Two
  66. Chapter Sixty-Three
  67. Chapter Sixty-Four
  68. Chapter Sixty-Five
  69. Chapter Sixty-Six
    1. Free Download

## Guide

  1. Contents
  2. Start of Content

**Free Download**

**Join the author's VIP Mailing List and get your '80's on with a free copy of**

**Return to Casa Grande**

<https://mikecarlon.com/home/vip/>
**Also By Michael Carlon**

The Last Homily

Motel California

All the F*cks I Cannot Give

Winning Streak

Return to Casa Grande

Copyright © 2020 Mike Carlon

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 0-692-76075

ISBN-13:978-0-692-76075-8

For my parents Don and Arlene Carlon, to whom I owe so much.

## CHAPTER ONE

**5 Years Ago**

## CHAPTER TWO

JUST WHEN HE thought the day couldn't get any more depressing, Derek Krunch found himself checking into a short-stay residence called the Bali Hai hotel. No one was behind the front desk, so he obeyed the instruction to tap the bell for assistance. No response. He tapped the bell again and a moment later was confronted by an Asian woman whom he apparently had taken away from something more important than tending to her front-desk duties; by her age it was most likely a rerun of _Murder She Wrote_. If he were a betting man, Derek would have put his pension on the line and predicted that the name on her name tag would be Bloody Mary; sure enough, it was. Derek thought to himself, _What can I say? I was in my high school's production of_ South Pacific. That was a long time ago, though, and this was far from an enchanted evening.

"Welcome to Bali Hai," she said. "This is your special hotel. Do you need room for the night?"

Mary spoke with the cadence of an island girl from the musical. Derek wondered if she actually spoke like that or if she did so out of compliance to a rule in the hotel's employee handbook, but at that moment he wasn't about to question her motives.

"Yes, please," he responded and then bent down to pet his dog, Eddie. Most people name their dogs traditional dog names like Murphy, Reilly, or Spanky. Derek, on the other hand, named his dog after the mascot of his favorite heavy metal band, Iron Maiden. (You're not alone—his wife didn't understand his fascination with the band either.)

"Fifty dolla extra for Fido down there," Mary tells Derek, not bothering to look at the dog.

"Eddie," Derek replied.

"Huh?" the woman grunted.

"The dog's name is Eddie, not Fido."

"Eddie strange name for a dog. Either way, fifty dolla extra."

Like I said, you would not be the first to question the name Derek had bestowed on his four-legged companion. "Fine," he replied.

"To check in, you either need to show me some ID and pay cash or give me credit card. What's it gonna be, Detective?"

Derek chose the Bali Hai hotel because it came recommended from other guys on the Pompano Beach police force who, at one point or another, found themselves in a similar situation as Derek that evening. Marriage isn't easy for a cop; the pay isn't great and most spouses spend a lot of late nights worrying whether or not their husband or wife will come home safe. On top of the fear and anxiety over his safety, Derek's wife admitted to him that, after fifteen years of marriage, she did not sign up for the life of a middle-class housewife. When his paycheck wasn't enough to cover her expensive tastes, she found a job as the personal assistant to a well-known motivational speaker. Unfortunately for Derek, earlier that evening he had found said motivational speaker motivating his wife in their bedroom.

Derek knew many guys who spent a night or two at the Bali Hai after things at home went south, so it was the logical place for him to go. Plus, he knew they allowed dogs—even dogs named after heavy metal band mascots.

Derek was always interested in knowing how other people could spot a cop, so he challenged Mary with, "How did you know I was on the job?"

"Easy peasy, Detective. The only people who come in here looking for a room after nine p.m. are either ladies looking for place to boom-boom a johnny or cops who find themselves in need of shelter after things get tricky at home. You look more cop than hooker to me. Plus, you wearing bad suit, so must be detective."

"We could use someone with your powers of observation on the force," Derek replied. "The streets might be a lot safer."

"No way, Detective!" Mary stated emphatically. "I can't afford reduction in pay."

_Even a woman running the desk at a no-tell-hotel makes better money than a guy who puts his ass on the line protecting the citizens of Pompano Beach. Life is a bitch_ , Derek thought morosely.

Mary noticed some dried blood on his temple. "Where did you get that boo-boo on your head?"

Derek rubbed the bump on the top of his head and said, "Just another day on the job." He handed his Pompano Beach Police Department ID over to Mary, who studied it closely.

"You name is Derek Krunch?" He just smiled and nodded. She then took another moment to study his ID more closely as Derek waited for the inevitable observation. "You rank is captain. You name is Captain Krunch. That funny!"

_If only you knew how unfunny it was to be constantly compared to a children's cereal,_ Derek thought. Even the mayor of Pompano Beach, who was at Derek's promotion ceremony a few short weeks ago, couldn't help but throw a jab his way. "Ladies and gentlemen, please clap your hands to congratulate PBPD's newest captain, Derek Krunch. I hear he won't get soggy in milk." It wasn't the mayor's finest moment. If there was one thing Derek had learned about comedy, it's not going for the really low-hanging fruit; doing so is usually met with blank stares and deafening silence, as the mayor quickly found out.

"Oh, Mary, if I had a dollar for every one who pointed that out . . ."

"You'd be staying at a better hotel!" she quipped before he had a chance to finish his sentence. She then handed Derek back his ID and asked, "You wanna pay cash tonight so wifey doesn't know you here?"

Derek did want to pay cash, but not because he didn't want his wife to know where he was. The truth was, he was over the limit on all of his credit cards, but Mary didn't need to know that. "Something like that," he replied.

"I give you detective special, ninety-nine dolla a night plus only twenty-five for Eddie—but if he piss on da floor, I charge more. Tenth floor okay for you, Captain Krunch?"

He was too tired to do anything other than nod his approval.

"I have you in room 1002, penthouse!" she said, handing him a key dangling from a keychain. Not a modern plastic card with a magnetic strip, but an honest-to-goodness metal key that went into a lock and must be turned clockwise.

"I assume big strong man like you don't need help with bags, so if you need nothing else from me, I am going back to watching my stories."

The truth was, all he had time to pack earlier was an overnight bag, so there was no need to break out the luggage cart. "What are you watching?" he asked Mary, more out of politeness than of sheer curiosity.

"Just an old soap opera called _Casa Grande_ ," Mary replied. "That Blaze Hazelwood is hot piece of ass."

Derek remembered the show and the actor. Both were very popular in the eighties and he remembered hearing something about Blaze on the news recently. Someone had the bright idea to try to reunite the cast of that show and, during a news segment to promote the reunion, one of his fellow cast mates spilled the beans that he lost his virginity to Bea Arthur when he was only a teenager. If that wasn't bad enough, the poor guy was actually stabbed that same day by an obsessed fan. To Derek, it was a better storyline than anything they could write for his character on the show.

"Goodnight then, Mary," Derek said, but she had already turned her back on Derek and was heading back to the office behind the front desk. He looked down at Eddie, who looked up at him as if he was disappointed for some reason. He was a pretty smart dog, as far as yellow Labs go. Derek had no doubt Eddie would rather be back at his house in Fort Lauderdale instead of at a second rate pilot-themed hotel in Pompano Beach, but he didn't think his wife would have taken good care of Eddie since she threatened his life on a daily basis.

"You are better off with me, Eddie, trust me on that."

The two made their way toward the elevator. As he walked down the hallway, Derek noticed that the entire hotel was decorated with old pictures from the World War II era. Many included pictures of airmen who had long left this earth, and Derek was pretty sure that somewhere in this hotel the ghosts of old pilots congregated and told war stories over hard drinks as they chain-smoked cigarettes.

This tie in with aviation was no surprise; the hotel was located right next to the small Pompano Beach airstrip. The airport has no commercial flights coming in or out of it; it is largely used by the business elite of Fort Lauderdale who want to avoid flying commercially out of Fort Lauderdale International. And its real claim to fame is that it houses the Goodyear Blimp, the dirigible that provides aerial shots for many of the PGA's televised golf events during golf season.

After what seemed to be a needlessly long elevator ride up ten stories, Derek and Eddie emerged onto the tenth floor and located room number 1002. After struggling with the lock, Derek walked into a room which could only be described as "Polynesian chic meets an acid trip." Above the two double beds were paintings looking as if they were Bob Ross originals. As he looked at one more closely, Derek noticed that what he thought were birds sitting in "happy little trees" were actually multicolored cats hanging from branches. A lava lamp had been placed on the nightstand next to one of the beds, and kimonos hung in the closet instead of the traditional terrycloth bathrobes. Derek's mind wandered momentarily as he imagined Geddy Lee, Alex Lifeson, and Neil Peart from Rush walking through the halls of the Bali Hai Hotel wearing nothing but the kimono robes they wore on the back cover of their seminal _2112_ album. A great album, but a dark time in progressive rock for style.

Derek took a plastic bag of dog food out of his overnight bag, placed it in a plastic Tupperware container, and set it in front of Eddie. The dog looked up at Derek as if to say, "Hey buddy, if you are breaking up the family, don't I deserve some canned food or at least some Gravy Train? This dry, crunchy crap ain't gonna cut it from here on in."

"Sorry, buddy, I'll pick up some better stuff tomorrow," Derek said apologetically as he used the ice bucket as a makeshift dog bowl and filled it with water.

Tomorrow. Derek just realized he had not given too much thought about where he was going to stay tomorrow night, or even who was going to look after Eddie when he went to work. Just then it hit him how much his life was going to suck in his newfound situation. He decided to place those negative thoughts on hold for a moment and do what any other guy in his situation would do: go to the hotel bar. Before leaving the room, he turned on the radio for Eddie who seemed to like classical music. Derek found a station playing Mozart's _Marriage of Figaro_ ; ironic given the circumstances Derek found himself in earlier this evening. Don't do it Figaro, Figaro, Fig! Eddie finished eating and then made himself comfortable on top of one of the beds, closed his eyes, and fell asleep. _Lucky bastard_.

Derek tempted fate again and took the elevator down to the lobby. Again, the ride down was painfully slow, and he imagined the elevator powered by a hamster, or maybe a team of hamsters, somewhere in the hotel running in a wheel as fast as their little hamster legs could take them. Finally he made it down to the lobby, and a sign with a finger pointing to the right directed Derek to Clippers Bar and Grill.

Clippers was a traditional rectangular bar: dark wood, most likely mahogany; wooden bar stools with worn red leather on the cushioned seats. Above the bar hung a model of an old Pan Am Clipper seaplane—the flying boat made by Boeing and designed to take passengers in luxury over transoceanic flights from a past era.

The only other people at the bar was a group of two men and two women. Derek noticed that all four appeared to be straight out of the 1940s; they were using words like _dame, khaki wacky,_ and _eager beaver_ as if they were part of today's vernacular. Derek motioned the bartender over to order a drink, partly to quench his thirst and partly to get a better understanding of his fellow patrons.

"What are ya having, Mack?" asked the bartender; apparently he too was into using slang from a bygone era. The name on his nameplate read Joe Cable. _Great_ , Derek thought, _another South Pacific reference_.

"I'll take a Jamison, straight up, and a draft beer," Derek replied.

"Right-o, Daddy-o," the bartender said, adding some sixties beatnik slang to the bar's vocabulary.

He was back a moment later with drinks in hand.

To satisfy his curiosity about the group at the other end of the bar, Derek asked, "Say, what's with that group at the other end of the bar? Why are they talking as if they are in a World War II flick?"

"They're part of a film crew shooting a B-movie at the airfield across the street. They've been here all week, and they haven't broken character since they arrived. You ever hear of Eric Shon?"

"The director?" Derek asked. Eric Shon was notorious for B-grade movies bordering on soft-core pornography. Chances are if you regularly watch a premium cable channel after midnight, you've seen at least one Eric Shon movie. Derek knew his work well.

"Yep, this is his latest project. It's called _Pacific Theatre of Pain,_ and from what I can gather it's a slasher film set on an island in the South Pacific during World War II. I hear Nikki Six from Motley Crue is doing the score."

"Sounds like a winner," Derek said drily.

"You see that blonde at the other end of the bar?" Joe asked while washing some beer mugs behind the bar.

"Don't you mean that dame?" Derek replied snarkily.

Ignoring this, Joe continued, "That's Vanessa Crestwood. This is the first time she has worked with Eric Shon since her first film, _Fallen Angels_. They're thinking this one could get a wide theatrical release versus the straight-to-streaming fate that befalls most of Shon's films."

"I'll keep an eye out for it. Do you have a menu? I could go for something to eat."

Joe Cable handed Derek a menu, and hovered over him as he looked it over.

"The kitchen closes in ten minutes," Joe informed him.

Looking at the menu, Derek noticed that the Polynesian theme of the hotel didn't extend to the kitchen. He was faced with a choice between salads, burgers, and grilled chicken—nothing remotely prepared Polynesian-style. He ordered a burger and then sipped on his Jamison.

"What brings you here, Mack?" Joe says, after returning from the kitchen to place the order. No computerized ordering system in this hotel bar.

Derek suddenly realized up that so far he had not told a single soul about what he witnessed when he went home earlier this afternoon. _Surely a close friend deserved to hear the story before some lost-soul bartender at a World War II-themed roach hotel in Pompano Beach_ , he thought, but he quickly realized he was eager to talk with someone about it and, well, Joe asked.

"This afternoon I came home and found my wife on all fours," he began.

"Sounds like a good afternoon to me," Joe replied.

"She wasn't alone. Kneeling behind her was her boss, Kyle Kessler."

"The _motivational speaker_?" the bartender blurted out, loudly enough to rouse the attention of the four actors on the other side of the bar. "I've read all his books!"

For Derek, the only saving grace of this admission was that Joe Cable was a bald, forty-year-old bartender working at a World War II-themed bar in a South Pacific-themed hotel in Pompano Beach—not exactly a testament for Kyle Kessler's abilities. Derek took another sip of his Jamison and continued. "Things were going south in our marriage for a long time. She wanted more than I could provide. I went home early today to surprise her, hoping that we could have a last-minute dinner out. Clearly she didn't expect me home."

"Does that guy still make his students dress in white and walk on hot coals?"

Derek wanted to challenge Joe's use of the word _students_. In Derek's mind, Kessler didn't have students so much as _followers_. They all dressed the same, agreed to abide by the same diet, and chanted his mantras at specific times during the day. Derek's wife bought his bullshit—hook, line, and sinker.

"Yes, their white outfits were spread all over my floor."

"What did they do when they saw you?" Joe asked.

"That's the fucked-up thing about it. I opened the bedroom door and found myself staring right at my wife and Kessler. She didn't even blink or show any sign of remorse. Kessler removed himself from my wife, got off the bed, and then walked right toward me. He actually put his hand on my shoulder and told me to take a deep breath while thinking of a happier time in my life."

"Sounds like he was trying to lead you through a guided-visualization process. It really works."

Derek raised his eyebrows and looked Joe Gable the bartender in the eyes as if to say, "Really?" Then he continued, "Once I realized what was happening, I punched Kessler in the jaw, went to my closet and quickly packed an overnight bag, and then grabbed my dog. And then I came here."

"What are you going to do next?"

"I haven't figured that one out yet, Joe, but I'll be sure to let you know when I do," Derek said sarcastically.

"Hey, chrome dome," Derek heard from across the bar. Clearly the actors at the other end were trying to get Joe's attention by using another slang term from the 1940s—this one referring to the fact that Joe was bald.

"Duty calls, Daddy-o," Joe said, while someone from the kitchen delivered Derek's burger. "I'll check in with you in a bit."

Derek was about to take a bite out of his burger when the phone in his pocket began to vibrate. He put the burger down—which resembled a hockey puck more than something edible— and glanced at the number on his phone's caller ID. He thought it might be his wife wanting to talk about the events of this afternoon. If it was, he would have sent the call directly to voicemail and attacked the burger. Unfortunately, it wasn't. It was Detective Sam Tucan, a first-level detective who Derek took under his wing because Sam's father, Fred, was Derek's first partner when he was new to the job. Sam's old man died of cancer last year, and Derek had promised him on his deathbed that he would keep an eye on Sam.

"What's the matter, Sam?"

"Captain, I am sorry to bother you when you are off duty, but I need you to meet me by the pier."

Sam worked homicide, so Derek knew that his bad day was about to get worse. Still, one of the perks of being captain is that he had a number of detectives available to him who could work cases, leaving him to focus on departmental responsibilities. The fact that Sam was asking Derek to meet him at the crime scene meant only one thing: the victim was either someone he knew or one of PBPD's own.

"What's going on?" Derek asked.

"It's Sonny," Sam replied. "His body just washed up on shore. He's dead."

## CHAPTER THREE

"I DON'T KNOW what to do," Mia Michaels sobbed into the telephone while talking to her closest friend, Lucy Hendricks. "I can't get in touch with Sonny." Mia explained that earlier that afternoon, Sonny came home in what appeared to be a dissociative state. Lucy was aware that her friend's husband suffered from a mild disorder that mimicked schizophrenia but managed it reasonably well by taking a cocktail of prescription medications. The problem was when Sonny forgot to take his meds; if he suffered a head injury or was under an inordinate amount of stress, it could set him off into a place where his perception was separated from reality. Often in these situations he had exhibited alternate personalities and scared the hell out of his wife. Before the age of modern psychiatry, he may have been deemed possessed by the devil, but modern psychiatrists now know that what was once considered possession can now be explained by a host of psychotic conditions, schizophrenia being one of them.

"When was the last time you saw him?" Lucy asked.

"He came home early from work today, and I heard him talking gibberish as he was walking up the stairs toward our room. He was muttering something like, 'I have to stop this; I have to stop them,' but it was hard to tell because I was on the phone with my office at the time. He walked through the door to our bedroom, saw me on the phone, and went ballistic. And it looked like he had been bleeding from his head."

"He seemed a little off when I saw him at the office earlier, but I just thought he was stressed out. How bad did it get?" Lucy had known Mia since kindergarten, and they were extremely close. Mia was fortunate that Lucy and Sonny worked at the same company so she had someone to keep an eye on her husband if his condition start acting up.

Mia explained, "He opened the door to our bedroom and screamed at me for not coming downstairs to let him in." At other times when Sonny had been in a dissociative state, he claimed that his house keys no longer worked and accused Mia of changing the locks. Mia always kept the front door locked, even when she was at home, but she typically left the back door open, which was how Sonny was able to get in. "He started screaming at me when he saw me on the phone and I had to quickly hang up as I didn't want my colleagues to hear him."

"Was he violent? I swear to God, Mia, if he got violent again, you have to call the police on him!" One time when Sonny was in a similar state, he hit Mia, thinking she was a burglar.

"No, he was just really angry about something." Mia explained that Sonny has been very stressed at work lately and said she thought it had something to do with their company going public the following day. As one of the company's lead research scientists, she knew that Sonny was under pressure to constantly deliver the innovations that would lead to corporate growth, and she was aware his job could impact the price of the company's stock. The fact that Sonny was shouting, "I have to stop this," as he walked up the stairs signaled to her that something was wrong at work, and she suspected that whatever he found out may have helped put him in the dissociative state Mia found him in earlier.

"What do you think he meant by that?" Lucy asked. Mia was so upset that she missed the hints of desperation in Lucy's tone.

"I don't even know if _he_ knows," Mia admitted. "But he ransacked his closet looking for something, threw it in a bag, and then left. I'm really worried about him—he hasn't been answering his cell since he left the house. I think I'm going to have to call the police and file a missing person's report."

"I'm not sure that will help given that he is an adult who hasn't been missing for at least twenty-four hours," Lucy said. She was right; the police in South Florida weren't likely to put finding a missing research scientist who had a bad day at the office high on their list of things to accomplish. "However, I dated a guy last year who is a detective in Fort Lauderdale. Do you want me to call and see if he can come over and talk to you?"

"Lucy, yes—I would really appreciate that. Thank you so much!"

"Don't think anything of it, Mia; that's what friends are for. Just stay at home for the next few hours, and I'll ask him to come over."

Mia hung up the phone, feeling only marginally better than she did before talking to Lucy.

## CHAPTER FOUR

DEREK KNEW THAT he couldn't leave Eddie alone in the hotel room for too long, so he had no choice but to bring him to the crime scene. The Bali Hai hotel was located on Federal Highway between the Pompano Beach airstrip and the municipal golf course; the beach was about five miles to the east. Derek planned to head north on Federal Highway until it intersected with Atlantic Boulevard and take that east until he reached the ocean. Unfortunately Derek got caught at the bridge, which went up every forty-five minutes to allow taller boats to traverse the Intracoastal Waterway that runs parallel to the ocean. This added ten minutes to his driving time.

As he waited for the bridge to go up and then back down, Derek thought about Sonny Michaels, trying to prepare himself mentally for what he was about to see. Sonny was the son of retired detective Tony Michaels, who now spent his time as a gym teacher at St. Gregory's Catholic School in Plantation, where he had lived in the same home for over forty years. Tony, Sam's father, Frederick, and Derek all came up through the ranks together in the Pompano Beach Police Department. They were closer than brothers and, as proof of that, Derek was Sam's godfather and had been Sonny's sponsor for confirmation. With no children of his own, Derek felt as if both Sam and Sonny were his own children and treated them as such.

While the younger Tucan was destined for a career on the police force, the younger Michaels was destined for anything but; he was more academic-minded and adept at math and science. Plus, he suffered from a psychological condition that prevented him from being accepted into the police academy. Fortunately for Sonny, it was managed effectively by medication and did not impact his grades; in fact, he had been a straight-A student.

After a full-ride scholarship to Harvard for his undergraduate education, Sonny went on to Yale for his medical degree. He was socially awkward and more comfortable in a lab than with patients, so his advisors at Yale encouraged him to get a PhD and pursue a career in research. After earning his doctorate, Sonny took a high-paying job working in the lab at a Fort Lauderdale-based pharmaceutical company called Tepes Therapies (T2 for short). With his brains, Sonny could have worked anywhere, but he wanted to stay close to home as his father wasn't getting any younger.

Derek's thoughts were interrupted by a horn honking behind him; he had been so lost in thought that he didn't realize the bridge had closed and traffic was now flowing over the Intracoastal. Derek followed Atlantic Boulevard until it ended and then made a left onto A1A and headed toward the flashing blue lights that announced police activity in the area. He cracked the windows open for Eddie to ensure he didn't overheat; even though it was evening and cooler out now than it had been during the day, Derek didn't want to take any chances with Eddie. "Behave," he commanded the dog as he unbuckled his seatbelt. Eddie looked back at Derek, yawned with his tongue out, and rested his head on the armrest that divided the two front seats.

The first person Derek saw was Detective Sam Tucan. At six foot five and a muscular 230 pounds, Sam looked like a cross between Denzel Washington and a linebacker for the Miami Dolphins. He was all set to turn pro after playing ball for Boston College but was injured during his senior year, ending his playing days. He was trying to put up a tough exterior, but Derek knew how close he was to Sonny. He embraced Sam as he would his own son.

"Do you have any details?" Derek asked, getting straight to business as a way of masking his own feelings.

"A little boy hooked the body while fishing off the pier. He and his father thought they had a big catch but then had the surprise of their lives when they saw a human hand come to the surface of the water. The medical examiner got here about twenty minutes ago."

"Which ME did we get?" Derek asked.

"Pepper," Sam replied.

Derek sighed with relief. Dr. Charles Pepper was one of the best medical examiners in the city. Not only was he a talented doctor, he had the ability to make even the most complicated of circumstances easy to follow, which made a detective's job a lot easier. He also was a gem on the witness stand; juries were able to understand everything he said.

"Do you have a theory about what happened?" Derek asked.

"There are only three types of people who wash up on Pompano Beach," Sam stated. "Drug addicts and alcoholics who fall off the pier after overindulging in their vice of choice, people who jump off the pier in order to self-select out of the breathing habit, or people who are murdered."

Sonny led a very clean life and Derek was convinced he didn't fit into the first category. Similarly, while he was what you would call socially awkward, to Derek's knowledge Sonny never suffered from depression or anything that would cause him to take his own life. That left the third possibility: Sonny had been murdered. Sam must have been thinking the same thing, because he said, "Who the hell would want to murder Sonny?"

They walked over to where the body was to see how the medical examiner and his team of investigators were progressing. The two detectives stood by silently while they watched the investigators examine Sonny's body. After he was satisfied with his initial investigation, Dr. Pepper instructed his team to bag the body and transport it to the morgue, where an autopsy would be performed.

"I understand you knew the victim," Pepper said to Derek and Sam, removing his latex gloves. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"I know its early, Doc," Derek replied, "but can you tell us anything about how this may have happened?"

"Well, based on the rate of decomposition, I can tell you that he hasn't been in the water all that long. My guess is that he'd been there for under two hours. He's still relatively intact; usually those that have been in the water for a while have chunks taken out where the fish bite them."

The thought of someone he knew like a son being fish food was too much for Derek to handle. Sam sensed this and stepped in.

"Any idea how he may have gotten there?"

Pepper replied, "On the surface it doesn't look like foul play. There are no outward signs of trauma to the skull or any entrance wounds suggesting he was shot. So this could be a suicide or an accident; I won't know until I perform an autopsy, which won't be until tomorrow afternoon. I have a full caseload."

"Tomorrow afternoon?" Derek questioned. "Can't you give him priority—he's the son of one of our own!"

"Look, Captain, there's a chance I can get to him in the morning, but we are short-staffed and I've got the chief ME breathing down my neck to look at the stiffs that came in last week, let alone this evening."

The two detectives watched as the bag containing Sonny's body was loaded in the back of the medical examiner's van. "Please call me as soon as you know something," Derek commanded, while holding back tears.

"Aye-aye, Captain," Pepper said, heading for the passenger side of the van that would take him back to the hospital.

"I think I should do this alone," Derek said to Sam, referring to the fact that someone had to go to Sonny's father's house and break the news to him that his son was dead. "Why don't you go home and get a good night's sleep; I have a feeling that the next few days are going to be crazy."

Sam didn't disagree; he looked relieved that he would not have to face Sonny's father with the news that his only child was dead.

After Sam left, Derek stood on the beach and looked out at the water; he was reflecting on his memories of Sonny when he was interrupted by a booming voice behind him. "Hey, you there!"

Derek turned around and saw one of the waiters from the restaurant that was housed at the pier. Fisherman's Wharf was a local hangout for the PBPD, known for its Bahamian conch chowder and its baby back ribs, which were more popular than any type of fish the restaurant offered. Derek noticed that the waiter's nametag read Bobby.

"Party's over, buddy," Bobby said. "Time to go home. You're scaring away the few prospective customers we have."

Derek was emotionally drained and dreading what he had to do next: drive west to Plantation to break the news no parent wants to hear. Because of this, Derek didn't pay any attention to Bobby but simply turned and walked toward his car, where he found Eddie fast asleep in the driver's seat.

"Move over pal," Derek said. "We have a bit of a drive ahead of us."

Eddie did as he was told and moved over to the passenger side of the car. The pair then headed west toward Plantation.

## CHAPTER FIVE

LUCY HENDRICKS HUNG up the phone with Mia and looked into the mirror that hung in her office suite. Her brunette hair was pulled back into a ponytail—she typically went for a stern look while in the office—but since she was going to see her boss, Adrian, next, Lucy decided to wear it down. Adrian had commented to her more than once that her shoulder-length hair was too beautiful to be pulled back so tightly.

After she was satisfied with her appearance, Lucy immediately went upstairs to the office of the CEO. Her ascension in the ranks at T2 could only be characterized by one word: ruthless. She started at the company as a publicity intern, clawed her way up the ladder, and was now the senior vice president of corporate affairs. It was her responsibility to make sure that the company's reputation remained flawless, and this had never been more important than right now with the company set to go public the following day. All eyes would be on T2 tomorrow once the New York Stock Exchange opened for trading and, at this stage, investor confidence was critical. Any amount of mistrust might make investors skittish, and Lucy had been feeling the pressure ever since Sonny, the company's lead researcher, left the office in what could only be described as a frenzy.

When she reached the thirteenth floor, Lucy turned left and headed toward the executive wing. While she was the most senior woman in the company, she had yet to earn an office on the top floor—a fact that made her resentful. She entered the CEO's suite and was greeted by Sylvia, the CEO's executive assistant and gatekeeper. "Good evening, Ms. Hendricks," Sylvia said. "Mr. Tepes is expecting you and will see you now. Go right in."

Adrian Tepes was the forty-five-year-old founder and CEO of T2. Unlike other CEOs, the Romanian-born Tepes wore his hair long and sported a goatee, giving him an aura of mystery. It was rumored that Adrian was descended from Romanian royalty and could trace his lineage back to Vlad Tepes, otherwise known as Vlad the Impaler, infamous for his reputation of cruelty. Adrian himself had a similar reputation; he made it clear that one was either his friend or his enemy; there was no gray area in between. His enemies referred to him as The Count, a reference to his Romanian heritage and Adrian's own ruthlessness. Adrian secretly embraced the nickname for two reasons: He liked the idea of having a nickname that would instill fear in others, and he knew it would upset his enemies more if he didn't show any anger at the nickname.

Lucy walked into Adrian's office, suddenly realizing that she was holding her breath. At six foot four, Adrian was an imposing figure with classic Romanian features: a pale complexion, a long and pointy nose, emerald-green eyes, and long, straight hair that fell around his shoulders. He was in the middle of the room, pacing and talking into his cellphone; Lucy noticed that his suit jacket was draped across his chair and he was wearing a form-fitting white shirt and blood-red necktie. As usual she felt a mixture of both fear and attraction toward Adrian—a combination that often made her slightly anxious in his presence.

"I assure you, Stuart," Adrian said into the phone, "the matter will be dealt with swiftly and effectively. You have my word on that." Adrian hung up the phone and turned his attention toward Lucy.

"Do you know who that was?" Adrian said, staring directly into Lucy's hazel eyes, which appeared more green than brown today. There was no small talk with Adrian; he just went right to business.

"I'm guessing Stuart Barker," Lucy replied. Barker was a political animal in South Florida with big ambitions and one of the only people who could make Adrian nervous. He was currently the district attorney in Fort Lauderdale with his sights set on the governor's office. Adrian owed him a few favors and repaid Barker with the gift of a significant amount of shares of T2's preferred stock—which could be worthless if they didn't get the Sonny Michaels situation under control.

"Right you are, dearest Lucy," Adrian replied, taking a seat on the couch. His demeanor toward women straddled the line between charming and dismissive, and Lucy chose to believe he was more the former. "He wants assurance that the problem you brought to my attention earlier in the day will be taken care of. As you heard me tell him, I assured him that it would. Don't make a liar out of me."

Lucy took a deep breath and tried to swallow, only to find that her mouth was bone dry. Adrian quickly became irritated with her lack of response. "Where are we with that?" he asked impatiently.

"I just got off the phone with Sonny's wife," Lucy answered. "She doesn't know where he is."

"Do you know if he said anything to her about his work?" Adrian asked.

"She only said that Sonny was in an altered state when he came home, and she overheard him say something like, 'I can't let them go through with this.'"

"Do you think she knows anything more?"

"No. She didn't seem to."

Adrian paused, looked at Lucy directly in the eye, and folded his hand in such a way that his two index fingers made a steeple that touched his lips; it gave Lucy the feeling that he was hunting and she was his prey.

"Need I remind you, Lucy, that tomorrow is the biggest day in our company's history? At 9:30 a.m. I will be ringing the opening bell of the New York Stock Exchange, and shares of T2 will start trading on the open market. Many of us, yourself included, are going to be worth more money tomorrow than we could have ever imagined. Nothing, and I mean nothing, will prevent that from happening. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," Lucy said confidently. She didn't need to be reminded of how important tomorrow was to both her and the company, and she was well aware that, at least on paper, she would be worth tens of millions of dollars.

"How did you leave it with Sonny's wife?"

"She told me she was going to call the police, but I told her that wasn't a good idea because they wouldn't treat the case seriously since Sonny has only been missing since this afternoon."

"Good thinking—we can't afford to get the police involved in this. Are you worried that she will call them anyway?"

"No. I told her I would send an ex-boyfriend of mine who is on the police force over to meet with her and offer his help," Lucy said, smiling conspiratorially.

"I know that smile," Adrian said. "You don't have an ex-boyfriend police officer, do you?"

"No, Mr. Tepes," Lucy replied. "I was thinking of sending Lucky from security to find out more about what she knows and then take whatever steps he deems necessary to fix this situation."

Adrian seemed comforted by this. He stood up from the couch and walked toward his chair to grab his jacket. "It's time for me to fly, Lucy. The company jet is waiting for me at the Pompano Beach airport, and I'm on my way to New York; I'm scheduled to land around midnight, and I will be expecting an update from you by then on the Sonny situation."

"You'll have it," she replied.

"Thank you, Ms. Hendricks. You have the makings of a ruthless corporate executive. Keep it up and you will earn an office on this floor."

Adrian then turned his back to Lucy and walked through the door. No shaking hands, no showing her to the door, no politeness whatsoever. He simply left Lucy standing in the middle of his office. She thought the room actually felt a bit warmer since The Count had left his lair.

## CHAPTER SIX

WHAT DO YOU say to someone whose son has just been found dead on the beach? That's the question that Derek Krunch asked himself over and over as he drove west on Sunrise Boulevard toward Plantation. He had done this drive a thousand times and could probably do it blindfolded; after filling up at Al's Aamco station on the corner, he made a left onto 65th Avenue, a right onto 9th street, and a left onto NW 67th. Derek wasn't mentally prepared to face his friend yet, so he decided to drive around the block. As he did, a thousand memories came rushing back to him, and Derek had to pull over to regain his composure; he parked in the parking lot of Peter's elementary school to try get a grip.

Derek got out of the car with Eddie, who lifted his leg at the closest tree he could find. While Eddie relieved himself, Derek had a flashback to the day when he, Tony, and Sonny went to the field behind Peters Elementary School to fly the kite that Tony had purchased for his son's sixth birthday. The kite had the image of Superman imprinted on it, and Derek remembered how happy Tony was at his son's excitement. His memory was interrupted by a bark; Eddie was standing by the passenger-side door and wanted entry back into the car. "You're right, I guess we have to get this over with, pal," Derek said.

Derek drove around the block back to Tony's house. Number 841, a modest, four-bedroom ranch, was on the right-hand side of the street. Tony absolutely loved this house and refused to sell it even after the neighborhood started to get run down in the early 1980s. It was the house Tony bought with his then-wife Marie, and it was where they started their family; he often said the only way he was leaving that house was feet first.

Derek put the car in park, applied the emergency brake, and cracked the windows for Eddie. He would have brought Eddie into the house with him, but the dog was scared to death of Tony's two cats, Pepper and Bruce, and appeared to breathe a sigh of relief when Derek cracked the windows.

Derek knocked on the door—he remembered that Tony's doorbell didn't work. Tony appeared at the door a few seconds later. Derek couldn't help noticing that Tony seemed to defy aging. His hair was still jet black, his build remained muscular, and his voice was as boisterous as ever, "Well, well, well, what do we have here?"

"Can I come in?" Derek asked.

"What kind of question is that?" Tony replied. "Of course you can. Are you alone? Where's your wife?"

"That's a story for another time," Derek replied although, truthfully, telling Tony about the afternoon's _coitus interruptus_ would be a hell of a lot easier than what he was about to say. "Can we go sit down?"

Tony paused before responding. "What's the matter? You don't seem right. Are you in trouble? Do you need money?"

It was just like Tony to assume that someone else was in trouble and money could solve the problem; it was one of his more annoying characteristics.

"No, I don't need any money," Derek said, looking away from his friend. They walked into Tony's small den, and Tony turned off the TV. Tony sat on a yellow corduroy chair and Derek sat on a red love seat. Tony often joked that his furniture resembled ketchup and mustard.

"What's going on?" Tony said hesitantly. "You have me worried."

"Look, I don't know how to say this, so I'll just say it. Sonny is dead; his body washed up on the shore of Pompano Beach this evening. I am so sorry, but I wanted you to hear it from me first."

Tony stared at Derek uncomprehendingly. His face had turned to stone.

"Did you hear what I said?" Derek asked.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Tony asked. "What have I ever done that I deserve this?"

"I can only imagine the grief you are feeling right now. Do you want me to stay with you for a bit while you process this?"

Tony closed his eyes and thought for a moment. "I think I just need to be alone now to handle this my own way. Please see yourself out."

Derek reasoned that Tony's pride was probably preventing him from breaking down in front of someone else. He respected his friend's wishes, got up from the love seat, and saw himself out. Before he closed the door, he saw that his old friend was pouring himself a tumbler of Johnny Walker Blue and weeping uncontrollably.

Now that Derek had broken the news to Sonny's father, he had the unenviable task of telling Sonny's wife.

## CHAPTER SEVEN

IT HAD BEEN two hours since Mia hung up the phone with Lucy, and she still had not received word from Lucy's detective ex-boyfriend. It had been almost five hours since Sonny left the house, and her worry had turned to extreme anxiety; the only thing that calmed her nerves was cleaning the house. So far she had scrubbed each bathroom, mopped the kitchen, and swept the garage. She now turned her attention to doing the laundry.

She went into Sonny's closet to gather his dirty clothes and paused to smell one of his white undershirts. It held more than a hint of his aftershave, and she reminisced about the first time they met. He was a premed student at Harvard, and she was a journalism major. She heard rumors on campus about a brilliant premed student who was impressing even the stodgiest of Harvard professors with his intellect and talent for research and decided that she wanted to interview him for the student newspaper. Whenever anyone would ask how they met, she would tell the story about how it took her over two months to schedule an interview with Sonny and how he was completely dismissive of her throughout the entire interview. Oddly enough, the challenge he posed only served to increase the intrigue she felt toward him.

He would later admit that he was so thrown by her beauty that he didn't know how to act around her. They saw each other socially from time to time, and when she got tired of waiting for him to ask her out, Mia took matters into her own hands and asked him for a date. The two had been a couple ever since.

Three months into their relationship, Mia felt comfortable enough to ask Sonny about his nickname.

"Why does everyone call you Sonny?" she asked while they were together in her bed, her fingers making rings in the hairs on his chest.

"My real name is Anthony, which is the same name as my father, except everyone calls him Tony. My father is a detective in our police department back home, and ever since I was born his buddies on the force always called me Sonny. The nickname stuck; no one ever calls me by my real name."

"Does that bother you at all?" Mia asked.

"No—I love my father very much, but we are very different. He is a typical alpha male, and I am just me: a nerdy guy with a proclivity for math and science. Sometimes I feel as if I've let him down by not being the stereotypical athletic son I know he always wanted."

Mia quickly stopped playing with Sonny's chest hair and got on top of him. "Sonny Michaels," she said, placing both her hands on his chest for balance and looking him intently in the eyes, "you are all the man I will ever need."

Mia's daydream was interrupted by a buzzing coming from her pocket. She reached for her phone, hoping it was Sonny, but it was a number she did not recognize. Normally she would have let the call go to voicemail, but given the circumstances, she didn't want to take any chances, so she tapped "accept call" on the front of her screen and said, "Hello, this is Mia."

"Hello, Mia. My name is Gerry Fein," said a male voice. Mia noticed a slight Irish brogue; the caller was soft-spoken and his voice was almost hypnotic. "I believe your friend Lucy told you I might be calling."

"Oh, thank goodness, it's you. I've been waiting for your call since I got off the phone with Lucy. Do you think you can help me find Sonny?" Mia said with more than a hint of desperation in her voice.

"I promise you that I will do what I can," said Gerry. "First I need you to walk me through everything you know—but I'd rather we do that in person. Can I come over?" Gerry was very smart; he knew that if things went bad, it would be better if he had been invited into Sonny and Mia's house as opposed to having to find another way in.

"Of course—do you know where Victoria Park is?"

Gerry knew that Victoria Park was the name of a very exclusive neighborhood not far from the beaches of Fort Lauderdale. It was one of the town's oldest neighborhoods and featured beautifully constructed homes with lots of character. Living in Victoria Park meant money and told him Sonny had been very successful thus far in his career.

"I know exactly where it is; I'm coming from downtown Fort Lauderdale, and this time of day, I should be able to get to your house in fifteen minutes. Just one thing—do you have any dogs? I am afraid I am allergic." This was a lie; Gerry wasn't allergic to dogs, but if he had to improvise he didn't want a dog in the house whose barking might arouse suspicion amongst Mia and Sonny's neighbors.

"We do not have any dogs—I'm allergic as well."

"Mia, hold tight. I specialize in missing persons. If Sonny is out there, I promise you I will find him."

"Thank you, Gerry, I mean, Detective."

"Fifteen minutes, tops," Gerry said, hanging up.

Mia hung up the phone and realized that she was still standing in the closet holding Sonny's T-shirt. She was about to leave the closet when a shiny object caught her eye; Mia recognized it as a USB drive used for saving computer files. It must have fallen out of Sonny's bag earlier that afternoon, she thought. She wanted to respect her husband's privacy, but she couldn't help but think that something on this drive might hold a clue as to what was going on with Sonny. She went into his study and inserted the drive into an open USB port on his personal computer.

After the computer recognized the drive, it asked for a password. Mia wasn't anticipating this and took a guess at what his password might be. She knew his ATM pin code by heart and tried that first. The words "Passcode incorrect. One failed attempt out of three" flashed across the screen. She only had two more chances to get it right.

"What could it be?" Mia said to herself. She typed in "biteme," Sonny's favorite catch phrase. 'Passcode incorrect. Two failed attempts out of three. Warning: One more failed attempt and this drive will be erased" flashed across the screen.

Mia tried to clear her mind and think about what his password could be. She wanted to write out some potential combinations on a piece of paper, so she reached a pen that he kept in a mug on his desk. As she did so, Mia accidentally knocked over a framed picture of her and Sonny; it was a picture of them taken on their first official date. Sonny was wearing a T-shirt promoting the band Letters to Cleo—an alternative rock band popular in the '90s that he was infatuated with. "It can't be that easy," she said out loud. Knowing she only had one more attempt, she took a deep breath, typed in the phrase "letterstocleo," said a silent prayer, and hit Enter.

Instead of receiving a third and final warning, Mia was granted access to the disk. There was only one directory on it, simply named Research. Mia double-clicked on the folder and saw a number of subdirectories listed:

• Clinical Trials

• Data Sets

• Journal Article

• Secondary Research

Mia double-clicked on the directory entitled "Journal Article," as she thought it would be the only thing she could have any hope of understanding.

When the folder opened, Mia saw a number of versions of what appeared to be the same document. It was entitled Diabetes_Cure_Michaels followed by the date of the last revision. The most recent file was dated last night; Mia opened that one.

The article started with an abstract, a paragraph designed to give the reader a sense of what the article was all about. Mia had to read it twice because she couldn't believe what she was reading; the abstract suggested that Sonny's research led to a cure for Type II diabetes in lab animals—not just more advanced treatment, but a cure! Reading this, however, Mia didn't understand why Sonny was so out of sorts earlier and thought maybe Lucy might have an answer. She took her phone out of her pocket and dialed Lucy's number.

"Mia, how are you holding up?" Lucy asked. Mia was so consumed with what she had just come across that she missed the hint of desperation in her friend's voice.

"Still no word from Sonny," Mia replied, "but your friend Gerry is on his way over."

"Just be sure to tell him everything you can remember about Sonny's behavior this morning. If there's anyone who can help you, it's Gerry."

"Lucy, I found something in Sonny's closet; it must have fallen out of his bag."

This admission piqued Lucy's interest. "What is it?" she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"It's a USB drive with some of Sonny's research on it."

Lucy didn't tell Mia that earlier in the day Sonny went to Adrian and the senior management team with his research indicating he had found a potential cure for Type II diabetes in lab animals. While watching him present his data, Lucy could tell Sonny was extremely proud of this accomplishment, but there was a big problem with what Sonny had uncovered: T2 was the leading provider of diabetes treatments in the world. Their biologic treatments combined with sales of test strips, meters, and pumps earned hundreds of millions of dollars for the company; a cure would mean an end to profits. Therefore Sonny was told that the company would not be interested in developing a cure for Type II diabetes at this time. Sonny had left the room furious; it was the last time anyone in the company remembered seeing him.

"I don't know what I should do with this," Mia said.

"Mia, I am afraid the disk you have is company property; it must be returned to T2 immediately."

Mia was taken aback at how forcefully these words came out of Lucy's mouth. Their conversation was interrupted by the doorbell. "Gerry's here," Mia said. "I have to go—I'll call you later." She hung up the phone without waiting for Lucy's reply.

## CHAPTER EIGHT

ADRIAN TEPES WAS seated comfortably in a plush seat aboard his G6 private plane. He was a man who hated flying commercial as he generally disliked being around other people. While he traveled often for business and pleasure, he was a nervous flyer and combatted his fears in two distinct ways: First, he would enjoy a strong Bloody Mary before takeoff and second, he would only fly at night. There was something about flying under the cover of darkness that seemed to ease his nerves and, of course, the vodka in the Bloody Mary helped.

Adrian logged onto his plane's secure Wi-Fi connection; he had spared no expense on his plane, which he christened Count 1. He imagined that one day he would have a fleet of airplanes at his disposal that could take him anywhere around the world at a moment's notice. His first order of business was to get an update on what he was calling "the Sonny situation." As he waited for his computer to connect, he reflected on the events that unfolded earlier in the day.

It was a shit show from the very beginning. The day started with a ten-mile run on the treadmill in his home gym; this was the only time during the day he allowed himself to watch TV, and even then he would only watch the news channels. This morning his company's pending IPO was all anyone was talking about, and one panel discussion in particular caught his attention and ruffled his feathers. The panel consisted of a renowned diabetes doctor and leading nutritional experts who were arguing that no one should get rich off of a disease that is preventable.

It was an argument Adrian faced many times before: that companies such as T2 are only around because Americans were making terrible dietary choices. Sugar had become an addiction in American culture, and a spike in the number of cases of Type II diabetes was the consequence. However, as a capitalist, Adrian believed that people have free will and could choose to eat whatever they wanted; his role was that of the great enabler by reducing the consequences of their actions. For this reason, he attracted the interest of many food companies who wanted to see T2 succeed; if T2 could focus on advanced treatments for diabetes, their profits would be secured since people could continue to feed their sugar addiction without consequence. His early investors included the companies that make sugary kids' cereals, high-fructose soft drinks with little nutritional value, and a couple of the largest candy companies in the country.

The panelists characterized Adrian as a ruthless businessman who only cared about money. They were right on one point; Adrian was ruthless, but money was not his endgame. It was power, and tomorrow, after T2's IPO, Adrian would be one of the most powerful businessmen in the world—and it was all in jeopardy because of one idealistic research scientist who couldn't take a hint.

Adrian knew that Sonny Michaels was one of the most brilliant researchers on his staff. Sonny's breakthroughs led to the development of new therapies that could regulate blood sugar levels more effectively than the leading competitor, Diabetica. Sonny's research also led to the development of a new meter that could be tethered to a patient's cell phone, which could beam blood sugar level data immediately to one's doctor. This device, the SmartMeter, was so appealing to patients and caregivers alike that it soon became a market leader. Because only proprietary T2 test strips could be used in that meter, demand for strips rose along with demand for the device, which, after reading the strip, would flash an instruction on a patient's cell phone on how much of T2's therapy should be injected. Everything worked together and profits soared—all because of Sonny.

"Why does he want to throw that all away?" Adrian asked himself. A cure for diabetes would eliminate the demand for any and all of T2's products, thereby making the company's stock worth nothing. Adrian was not about to let that happen. He opened the company's secure instant messaging application and typed a note to Lucy.

AT: Where are we with the Sonny situation?

LH: Gerry is there now.

AT: Excellent.

LH: There's one thing you need to know, and you are not going to like it.

AT: What?

LH: Mia found Sonny's USB drive and was able to open it. She knows everything.

AT: That is unfortunate. Tell him to do what has to be done.

LH: Is there any way we can avoid that?

AT: You know the answer to that question. Oftentimes in war there is collateral damage. This is no different. I'll call for an update after I land, which should be in an hour.

Adrian closed his laptop and then his eyes, but he was too restless to sleep. The private flight attendant he hired for this flight appeared moments later with his dinner: filet mignon extra rare. He thanked her, and then cut into the meat, dipping a piece of bread into the blood-red juice. He began to feel calmer.

## CHAPTER NINE

GERRY FEIN WAS five feet five with tightly cropped red hair and a build like a tank. Anyone who thought his size put him at a disadvantage was in for a rude awakening; he was trained by one of the best paramilitary forces in the world, the Irish Republican Army—better known by its initials, the IRA. Gerry grew up in Northern Ireland and volunteered for the IRA when he was just thirteen years old. His specialty was intelligence, kidnapping, and interrogation, which is what made him so attractive to Adrian Tepes in the first place.

Most men with a pedigree like Gerry's don't wind up working at pharmaceutical companies, but T2 wasn't your typical pharmaceutical concern. Adrian knew he would face stiff competition in the industry, and he also knew he would need to run his organization as if it were at war with its competitors. As such, he wanted someone who could develop and run intelligence networks inside competitive firms and remove his competition without a trace if it came to that—and that's where Gerry came in.

Gerry had left Northern Ireland after the Good Friday Accords supposedly put an end to the violence in that area of the world in the late 1990s; a peace treaty, it seems, is an occupational hazard to a nationalized terrorist. The truth is, Gerry grew tired of living in poverty and decided to put his skills to use in a more commercial sense. He had heard stories about former "volunteers" getting contract assignments in America and was eager to make a "legitimate" living.

The fact that Gerry was living at all was a miracle. He had been kidnapped more times than he could remember, but he always found a way to escape his enemy without being mortally wounded. For this reason, his fellow soldiers in the IRA bestowed on him the nickname "Lucky," a nickname he was careful to shed once he came to America. In fact, anyone who recognized him and called him Lucky would never make the same mistake again.

Standing in front of the Michaels' house, Gerry glanced at his phone after ringing the doorbell. He saw a text message from Lucy Hendricks that simply read, "She has a USB drive that belongs to us, don't leave there without it." Gerry knew, though, that if she knew what was on the drive, he would have to leave with her as well. Adrian had made it crystal clear that no one could know about the implications of Sonny's research. No one!

He peeked in the window to the right of the door and saw a woman in her early forties walking to the door. _Not bad_ , he thought to himself. _Nobody told me she was hot_. Mia opened the door, and Gerry couldn't believe what he was seeing. She was about five feet eight inches tall, with a slim—but not slight—frame. Her chestnut-colored hair fell just below her shoulders, and he could tell she was someone who spent a lot of time on her looks. Once inside he wondered how an egghead like Sonny Michaels could have landed a woman this hot.

"Hi, I'm Gerry Fein," he said, leaving just a hint of his Irish accent. "You must be Mia. Can I come in?"

"Come on in, Gerry," Mia said, a hint of exhaustion in her voice. "Lucy speaks very highly of you."

Gerry was relieved that Mia didn't ask to see any formal identification. While he had a badge and police credentials, Mia seemed like the type who was smart enough to identify a fake badge from a real one.

"Is there someplace where we can go and sit down?" Gerry asked. "Maybe the kitchen?" Gerry preferred handling situations like this in the kitchen; for one thing, people tended to feel more at ease in their own kitchen. Additionally, kitchens almost always had tools that could be pressed into service if necessary; in the past he had used a fork, a knife, and even some cooking string to kidnap a target.

"Sure, follow me," Mia said, heading toward the kitchen. "Would you like anything to drink—maybe some coffee?"

Mia was visibly nervous, and Gerry attempted to put her at ease. "Not all cops drink coffee, Mrs. Michaels," Gerry said with a laugh, "but I will take some tea if that's OK—and I'll take a donut, too, if you have one."

Mia laughed in spite of her fragile emotional state, and Gerry took that as a good sign. The first rule of getting information out of someone, Gerry had been taught, is getting them to relax and like you. So far, he was succeeding.

Mia came to the table with two cups of hot water and a selection of teabags along with some milk and sugar. As they both prepared their cups of tea, Mia confessed, "I'm really worried about my husband; he stormed out of here earlier this afternoon, and I haven't heard from him since."

"I know you're scared," Gerry said, touching her hand to provide a sense of comfort, "and I know that you may not want to tell yet another person what happened this afternoon, but it's important that I know everything that happened. It's the only way I can really help your husband."

Mia recounted everything that she had told Lucy over the telephone. When she got to the part where Sonny was walking up the stairs muttering, "I have to stop this, I have to stop them," Gerry interrupted her to ask whether she had any idea what Sonny meant by that. He also asked if she was aware of what Sonny was working on and how familiar she was with his job at T2.

While she was answering Gerry's questions, Mia got a strange sense that something was off about Gerry. He had yet to ask her where she thought Sonny might be, the nature of his illness, or even what he had been wearing when he left the house. Something was wrong.

When she took too long to answer his last question, Gerry said, "Mrs. Michaels, the only way I can help find your husband is if you tell me everything you know. Did he leave anything regarding his work behind—his briefcase, his computer, or maybe a USB drive?"

The fact that Gerry was asking about a USB drive just minutes after Mia mentioned finding it to Lucy could not have been a coincidence. _What had Sonny gotten himself into with his research?_ Mia wondered.

"No," Mia replied, hesitantly. "Sonny took everything with him."

Gerry was starting to grow impatient with Mia; he knew she was lying about the USB drive, and the only reason he could come up with to explain why she was lying was that she had figured out he wasn't a real cop. Smart girl.

Gerry's demeanor went from gentle to abrasive in a heartbeat. His next question was not spoken with his soft Irish accent, but with the harshness of a man who grew up in one of the most war-torn places in the world. "Mrs. Michaels, if I were you, I would start cooperating and answer my questions—if you want to see your husband alive again." Gerry knew that the fear of never seeing one's spouse again often influenced someone to divulge information, but he quickly realized that Mia apparently wasn't any ordinary spouse.

In an instant, Mia threw her cup of tea in Gerry's face and then ran down the hallway to Sonny's study in order to retrieve the disk; she thought if she left Gerry to his own devices, he would eventually find the drive, and she wanted to protect it. She grabbed the disk drive out of Sonny's computer but was surprised at how quickly Gerry recovered. He was standing in the doorway of Sonny's office with one of her cast iron frying pans in his hands.

"You stupid bitch!" he screamed. "All I wanted was the USB drive, but now I'm going to make you pay." In his years of service with the IRA, Gerry had interrogated, tortured, and killed multiple women. At first it was hard for him, but over time it got easier as he told himself that one's gender did not make one any less of an enemy to the cause.

Mia reached for her phone and dialed 911, but just as the call connected, Gerry lunged across the room and knocked the phone out of her hands. He picked it up off the floor and tapped "end call" immediately. He knew that in such situations, emergency dispatchers were obliged to send a car to the address where the call originated; he had to act fast.

Mia was running on pure adrenaline; time seemed to slow down and all of her senses were heightened. She looked for something to protect herself with or use as a weapon, but the only thing she could find was a letter opener Sonny's father had given him upon graduation from medical school. While it was the length of a dagger, she doubted it was sharp enough to do any real damage.

Gerry had to act quickly in order to leave before the cops arrived. He sprang toward Mia, who managed to stab him in the arm with the letter opener. While the cut wasn't deep, it was enough to draw blood, some spilling onto Mia's wrist as well as on Sonny's desk. Mia paused for a moment when she realized that the letter opener had made contact with Gerry's skin, which was just enough time for Gerry to react. He raised the frying pan and brought it down over Mia's head. He heard a crack, and she slumped to the floor. After checking her pulse, he realized that she was breathing, albeit weakly.

Gerry had the presence of mind to know that he had to get out of the house immediately; he couldn't just leave her there—the police would arrive any moment and, in the event she woke from her injuries, she could provide a description of him to the cops. He had no choice but to take her with him.

Upon arriving Gerry had backed his car into the driveway and parked it against the garage door; he had even popped the trunk in case he needed to make a quick getaway with Mia. Now he picked up Mia, swung her over his shoulders, and walked toward the garage. He opened the garage door, put Mia in the trunk, got into his car, and drove away. Under other circumstances, he would have gone back into the house to clean the trail of blood leading from Sonny's study to the garage as well as retrieve the frying pan he used to hit Mia, but these were not ordinary circumstances; he was racing against the clock.

He made a right out of her driveway and a left at the stop sign at the end of her street. As he did, he noticed a police car coming from the other direction and made eye contact while saluting the officer who was driving the car. It appeared that Gerry Fein was Lucky once again.

## CHAPTER TEN

AFTER LEAVING SONNY'S father's house, Derek made his way back east toward Fort Lauderdale. Eddie seemed restless from the lack of exercise and made his frustration known with a loud sigh once Derek pulled out of the driveway.

"I'll give you a nice long walk tomorrow, buddy," Derek said, scratching Eddie behind the ears. This seemed to do the trick, and Eddie let out a small groan of contentment.

Derek didn't know how he was going to look Sonny's wife, Mia, in the eye and tell her that her husband's body had been found washed up on the beach. He knew how close the two were and, in Derek's mind, Mia was like a daughter-in-law to him. He could have let Sam take care of the task, but Derek decided he should be the one to break the news; he felt as if he owed it to Sonny.

Derek exited the Florida Turnpike at Sunrise Boulevard and made his way east toward the water. Sonny and Mia lived in the upscale neighborhood of Victoria Park, which was a far cry from the modest neighborhood in Plantation where Sonny spent his childhood. Pharmaceutical research, it seems, pays better than public service.

As he was heading toward Sonny's neighborhood, Derek's cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID that flashed across the screen of the radio in his car and saw that it belonged to Trixie, a recent informant of his. Trixie, whose real name was Cristopher, was a drag queen and a local celebrity of sorts; he ran a club called the CheeryHo and, for one reason or another, it attracted a lot of the criminal element. Trixie calling the night of a murder could mean he knew something. Derek tapped the "accept call" button on his car radio's display.

"This is Krunch," Derek answered.

"Oh, I bet you are crunchy, baby," replied the caller in a deep smoker's voice. "What are you wearing, big boy?"

"Trixie, I'm not in the mood for small talk—I'm in the middle of a murder investigation."

"All work and no play makes Captain Krunch a soggy boy," Trixie replied, undaunted. There were few people who could get away with calling Derek by that name; Trixie was one of them. Derek knew that any resistance from him would be met with an amount of ridicule only rivaled by a professional comedian dealing with a drunk heckler. "One of my girls heard some chatter about something tonight, and I think you should hear it. Her shift ends in ninety minutes—can you get here by then?"

"See you soon," Derek said.

"Bye, lover," Trixie said and hung up before Derek could object to Trixie's latest nickname for him.

As Derek made a right-hand turn onto Sonny's street, he noticed something peculiar. there was one police car parked out front with its lights flashing and what appeared to be an unmarked squad car directly behind it. "I will have the badge of whoever broke the news to Mia before I had a chance to," Derek said, looking at Eddie. He parked behind the unmarked car and got out. He approached the front door but was stopped by a uniformed officer.

"Nothing to see here," the officer said.

Derek flashed his Pompano Beach Police Department badge at the uniformed officer and said, "I'm Detective Krunch of the Pompano Beach PD, and I know the people who live here."

"Apologies, Detective, but how did you know to come here? This home invasion hasn't been reported yet."

"Home invasion?" Derek asked. "What are you talking about?"

"We got a 911 call from inside this house that was terminated before someone came on the line. As such, dispatch sent a car out to investigate. We didn't see anything wrong from the outside, so we peeked through one of the windows and noticed some blood on the floor over by the kitchen."

"Who are you talking to out there?" came a voice from inside the house. "It better not be one of the neighbors. I know you are a rookie officer, Quincey, but the number one rule in a home invasion is not to tell the neighbors any details about the case." The stern voice belonged to Detective Rodney Peters, a veteran of the Fort Lauderdale Police Department who was clearly in charge of the fledgling investigation.

"No, sir," Quincey replied. "This is Captain Derek Krunch of the Pompano Beach Police Department. He says he knows the owners."

Peters looked at Derek. "That can't be your real name."

"Believe me," Derek said, "it is. What's going on here?"

"How do you know these people?" Detective Peters asked.

"Sonny's father and I are very close," Derek said. "He and his wife are like family to me." He left out the part about Sonny's body being found earlier that day; divulging that information might mean that the Fort Lauderdale Police Department would take over the murder investigation, citing their superiority over the "small town" Pompano Beach Police Department. Derek didn't want that to happen.

"Any idea who would want to do them harm?"

"I can't think of anyone."

"What do you know about the couple?" Peters asked.

"The husband's name is Sonny, and he has a big job with a large pharmaceutical firm here in town. The wife, Mia, works in public relations for a consulting firm."

"Any idea if there was trouble in the marriage or if the husband was prone to violence?"

Derek thought for a minute before answering. "The guy suffers from a psychological disorder, but it has been under control for some time."

Peters' interest was piqued. "What kind of disorder?"

"I don't know what it's called, but sometimes he would see things that weren't there, talk to people who weren't there, that kind of thing."

"Sounds like schizophrenia," Officer Quincey offered.

"What?" Detective Peters asked.

"Schizophrenia. It's a psychotic disorder characterized by periods of dissociation with reality."

Derek and Peters looked at Officer Quincey with expressions of disbelief.

"What?" Quincey asked. "I took a psychology course at Broward Community College."

"Quincey, why don't you make yourself useful and see if this Sonny guy has a history of abuse toward his wife. Derek, why don't you come in here and see if anything seems out of place to you."

Derek walked into the house. It was a two-story home with an open floor plan; to the right of the front door was a dining area and to the left was a family room. Off the dining area was a kitchen, off the kitchen was another bedroom that had been turned into an office, and across from that was a mudroom that led to the garage. Derek immediately noticed a streak of blood leading from the office to the mudroom and into the garage.

"Oh my God," Derek said.

"There appeared to be a struggle. We found a cast-iron frying pan with blood stains on it in the office." Peters opened the door that separated the mudroom from the garage. "As you can see, the trail leads into the garage but then stops in the driveway. I'm thinking the attacker put the victim in the back of his car and drove away."

_First Sonny and now Mia,_ Derek thought. He started to tremble. "Who would do this to Mia?" Derek asked.

This comment intrigued Detective Peters. "Why are you so sure it's the wife?"

Derek paused, realizing he had just made a mistake. He needed to come up with something quickly. "Sonny was the kind of guy who knew how to handle himself; I doubt someone would have been able to remove him from his own house without more of a fight."

"Interesting," Peters said. "So this Sonny was a tough guy."

"Tough enough," Derek said.

"Look, I have a lot more work to do here while I wait for the vampires to come and clean up the scene."

"Vampires?" Derek asked.

"That's what we call our blood experts in the FLPD. I wonder if yours are as strange as ours."

While Peters had the unenviable task of investigating murders, the "vampires" had to get intimately involved with the blood that was left behind at crime scenes. It was their job not only to take samples but to document splatter patterns and reconstruct how an attack occurred. It took a special kind of person to embrace that as a career.

Officer Quincey entered the garage eager to share some news with the two detectives. "I just got off the phone with someone back at the station," he said. "It seems that someone from our precinct was dispatched to this house three years ago when Sonny banged up his wife pretty good."

"Well, that is certainly interesting. Most of the time in these situations, the husband is the number-one suspect; this adds a little support to that theory."

Derek's blood started to boil. He was aware of the incident that Quincey brought to their attention. Sonny was in one of his dissociative states and mistook his wife for a home intruder and physically assaulted her. He never forgave himself for that; however, Derek's rushing to Sonny's defense right now might arouse suspicion, so he decided to keep his mouth shut. Regardless, sooner or later the FLPD would find out that Sonny himself was lying in the morgue.

"There's nothing more for you to do here," Peters said. "Why don't you go home and let this all sink in? Call me tomorrow and I'll give you an update on where we are with the investigation." Peters handed Derek his business card; under normal circumstances, he would not have offered to follow up, but Derek was a fellow cop, and he could tell how upset he was. Peters noted that, over the course of their conversation, a glazed look came over Derek as if reality was slipping away from him. That tended to happen when someone was faced with a sudden shock, and an abduction of a close friend would certainly qualify as shocking.

Peters watched as Derek got into his car (which he would later recall as a car that was too nice for a small-town detective) and then went back into the home of Sonny and Mia Michaels. His instinct drew him back into the spare-bedroom-turned-study, which seemed to be where the most violence occurred. He noticed that the desk was extremely well-organized, as if the person who it belonged to suffered from a mild obsessive-compulsive disorder. But something bugged him about the desk, too; detectives have a natural instinct to spot patterns and something was off with this one. Then he saw it: a picture was out of place. Peters took a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket, donned them, and picked up the picture. It was a picture of who he guessed were the Michaelses in their early twenties. "Son of a bitch!" he screamed.

"What's the matter?" Quincey asked while running into the room.

"How could I be so stupid?"

## CHAPTER ELEVEN

"I'VE GOT THE girl." Those were the words Lucy heard when she picked up Gerry's call to her cell phone. Immediately, she felt nauseous; if Gerry had Mia, it meant that something had gone terribly wrong at Sonny and Mia's house.

"Where are you now?" Lucy asked.

"I'm in a safe house that only Adrian and I know about. It's better that you don't know where it is," Gerry replied.

Lucy thought, _No, it's better for_ you _if I don't know,_ but instead she said, "I need you to tell me what happened because Adrian is going to ask."

"She lied to me about having the disk, tried to stab me, and then ran down the hall. I hit her over the head with a frying pan, dumped her in my car, drove here, and now I'm calling you."

Lucy had to resist the urge to lose her dinner. How could it have all gone so wrong so fast? "What's her condition?" Lucy was scared to death that her friend might be dead.

"She's out cold but still breathing. Other than that, I ain't no doctor."

Lucy wasn't a doctor either, but she knew enough about head trauma to know that it wasn't enough that Mia was still breathing; her vital signs needed to be checked to ensure her blood pressure and pulse were stable, not to mention her oxygen saturation. Also, because she received a blow to the head, someone would have to make sure that there was still brain activity.

"I think I should send one of the company doctors over to check her out. We can't have a murder on our hands, Gerry. Which begs the question, did you clean up the house?" Lucy realized that a stab wound and a blow to the head would likely leave blood all over the Michaels' home.

"The bitch called 911 before I could get the phone out of her hand, so I didn't wait around to play maid. I actually passed a patrolman when I left the neighborhood. If I didn't hightail it out of there, it would have been worse."

_What have I gotten myself into?_ Lucy asked herself. Now she had an even bigger problem on her hands; not only was Sonny Michaels still missing, but his home had become a crime scene with traces of blood scattered throughout. She had to call Adrian immediately for some direction.

"Okay, I need to call Adrian," Lucy said. "Hold tight until you hear from me."

Lucy hung up the phone, pulled out a bottle of Scotch that she kept in her desk, and took a long pull off the bottle. When the false confidence that comes with alcohol hit her, she picked up the phone to call Adrian. He answered the phone in his characteristically demanding manner, free of any warmth or charisma. "Tell me everything is all right, Lucy."

Everything was far from all right, but Lucy knew she couldn't come out and say that for fear that Adrian's wrath would come over the phone lines and choke her.

"We still can't find Sonny," Lucy said, "but Gerry has Mia."

"Gerry having to take Mia tells me something went wrong at the house. What happened?"

Lucy told Adrian about Mia's finding Sonny's disk and then lying to Gerry about having it. She also explained about how Gerry had apprehended Mia and his failure to clean up the mess at the Michaels' home.

"Mia must have realized that Gerry wasn't who you said he was. That's a big problem, Lucy, because she'll know that you had something to do with it."

Lucy hadn't thought of that before, but she knew Adrian was right. If Mia were to somehow break free of Gerry's capture, she might be able to point the finger at Lucy, and then her own future would be in danger.

"What do you suggest we do?"

"Mia's finding the disk could not have been foreseen, so I can't fault you for that," Adrian said in an ice-cold tone. "Gerry, on the other hand, was too impulsive, and that's a matter that we will have to deal with later." Lucy had an ominous sense as to what that meant. Adrian continued, "In the meantime, we have to view having the girl as an asset—maybe we can use her as bait to draw Sonny out."

Lucy was certain that if Sonny came out of this dissociative state, the first person he would seek out would be his wife. However, she also knew the chances of that happening without medication were slim. Time was not on their side—most antipsychotic medication needed to be absorbed by the body for a few days before a patient saw signs of improvement, and it was typically administered in a clinical setting where medication, combined with other psychological treatment such as therapy, would nurse a patient back to health. In some instances, if a state were brought on by trauma to the head, another blow to the head could help snap someone out of state, but the chances of Sonny hitting his head again were slim to none. Lucy explained all of this to Adrian.

"Then I'll have to come up with another plan for how we can get Sonny to the safe house."

Lucy didn't want to admit it to herself, but she could see where Adrian was going with his plan.

"You're being awfully quiet, Ms. Hendricks. Have you forgotten that as of tomorrow you and I will be worth more money than the gross domestic product of most third-world countries?"

Lucy, who grew up poor, could feel the pull of money call to her like a lighthouse during a storm.

"I'm still here, Adrian. I was just thinking of an idea."

"By all means," Adrian said, "feel free to share your thoughts whenever you are ready." His dismissive tone wasn't lost on Lucy.

"Sonny is fortunate that his psychosis is rather mild. But even though it's mild, it still distorts his reality. When he has an episode, he talks to people who aren't there and sees things that aren't real. He creates his own reality around himself, and if you don't play along, he'll just walk away. Over the years we've learned to play along with him until we can get him the help he needs."

"In that case, Lucy, I am going to trust that you can reach out to Sonny and play along with him and then guide him to the safe house where his wife is being held. Please assure me that you can handle this one, simple assignment."

"I can do it, Adrian."

Adrian then proceeded to give Lucy the address of the safe house where Gerry was holding Mia hostage. "And if you ever waver in your ability to get this task done, dearest Lucy, just think of the money."

As Lucy hung up the phone with Adrian, a chill ran through her body. She took another long swig from the bottle, allowing the false warmth to envelop her like a blanket. She picked up the phone to call Sonny's cell phone but hung up quickly as it began to ring. She suddenly thought of a flaw in her plan. Lucy had been one of the people in the morning meeting when Sonny shared his findings. While she knew he was in a dissociative state and most likely wouldn't be aware of who was calling him, she couldn't take any chances. Anyone at T2 would be on Sonny's radar as someone who couldn't be trusted, and Lucy needed someone he still trusted to help direct him to the safe house.

Lucy thought of the perfect person but knew a phone call wouldn't suffice. She quickly packed up her things, took the elevator down to the parking garage, and got into her car, a 2011 Infiniti Q56, and began driving west toward Plantation. She was going to visit Sonny's father.

## CHAPTER TWELVE

WHILE LUCY WAS hanging up with Adrian, Captain Derek Krunch of the Pompano Beach Police Department decided to drive over to the CheeryHo nightclub and pay Trixie a visit. The CherryHo was located in a rundown neighborhood not too far from the Bali Hai hotel.

The neon sign across the top flashed the words _girls, girls, girls_ , leaving no doubt that the establishment known as the CheeryHo was involved in the sex business. In fact, this entire stretch of Federal Highway was littered with adult novelty shops, suspicious massage parlors, and strip clubs. The sex business was alive and well in this corner of Pompano Beach.

Derek noticed that the parking lot was not very crowded. He wondered if the recent bust at Cheetah's, a neighboring strip club, had anything to do with reduced customer traffic. A week ago the bartender of the aforementioned strip club had been arrested for selling cocaine to patrons who approached the bartender with the following code phrase: "I'd like some sugar in my coffee." Apparently, the bar was selling more coffee than most of the Starbucks in South Florida. To make matters worse, the night the bartender was arrested, vice cops pretending to be patrons were able to arrest eight of Cheetah's dancers for solicitation in the club's VIP lounge. It was a bad day to be a Cheetah.

Derek walked into the club and was asked by Amber, the hostess, to pay a cover charge of twenty dollars.

"Why is it so steep tonight?"

"Hey, handsome, haven't seen you in a while," the woman behind the counter said with a laugh. "You of all people know our girls are worth it."

"I'm not here for pleasure tonight, Amber. Trixie called me earlier—I need to talk to him now."

"Her," Amber corrected. When Trixie was in drag, he demanded to be referred to with a female pronoun.

"Is _she_ available?" Derek placed a stronger than necessary emphasis on the word _she_.

"I'll call her right now."

While Amber called Trixie, Derek peeked through the curtains to the main area of the club. There were only four people hanging around the stage, watching a big-breasted redhead do a striptease to an old hair metal classic from the early nineties before the rise of bands like Nirvana hammered nails into the coffin of the genre. Derek wondered if the band Warrant had intended to write a strip club anthem when they recorded Cherry Pie or if it was completely coincidental.

His concentration was broken when Amber said, "Trixie will be down in a minute. She is just finishing up a meeting and wants you to have a seat by the stage; she'll meet you down here in five minutes or so."

Derek took a seat across the stage from the other four patrons and recognized them almost immediately; they were the same four people who were sitting in the bar of the Bali Hai hotel earlier that evening. While the music was up pretty loud, every now and then he heard the occasional 40s slang come out of someone's mouth; employees were referred to as dames, dolls, and tootsies.

A dancer approached Derek to ask if he wanted a table dance, but he declined, citing his plans to meet with Trixie. She walked away disappointed that Derek wasn't an easy mark and moved onto the group of patrons sitting near the stage. A minute later, Trixie sat down next to Derek.

Derek noticed that she had lost weight since the last time he had seen her, so much weight that Derek was concerned for her health. "What's going on, Trixie? You're half the woman you used to be."

Trixie replied in her characteristic smoker's tone, "What can I say, darling, three packs a day over twenty years are taking a toll. But let's not talk about me, darling; let's talk about you."

"What do you want to know about me?"

"Why do you always look so unhappy?"

"It's complicated," Derek replied

"What, the old lady not putting out enough?"

"Something like that," Derek replied.

"With you men, that's always what it comes down to, isn't it? It's the only reason this club stays in business."

"Wait a minute—you called me here, remember? One of your girls overheard something and you thought I should hear about it."

"You are all work and no play tonight, aren't you?"

"Comes with the job."

"You see the redhead on the stage?"

"How can I miss her with those two big life preservers on her chest?"

"Well, she goes by the name of Pebbles, and she was hired to entertain three guys earlier this evening in one of our VIP rooms; she overheard something and wanted to know if I knew a cop who I trusted. That's why you're here, big fella."

The song was just about over and Pebbles was setting up her signature move: twirling upside down on the stripper's pole and ending with her legs at a perfect 180-degree angle.

"That's impressive," Derek commented.

"Impressive?" Trixie said. "It's downright not human. I'm a drag queen, and I'd want to hit that."

Derek and Trixie watched as Pebbles picked up her clothes and tips from the stage; unlike higher-class establishments with dressing rooms off the stage, Pebbles was required to walk down five rickety wooden stairs and put her clothes back on in front of the club's patrons. With her cave girl outfit back in place, Pebbles joined Trixie and Derek at their table near the front of the stage.

"Pebbles darling, this is the cop I told you about earlier. Derek Krunch, meet Pebbles, the newest addition to the CheeryHo cabaret."

"Is there some place private we can chat?" Derek asked. "I'm afraid I won't be able to hear you with all the noise here."

"We can go to one of the VIP rooms," Pebbles said in a high-pitched voice that reminded Derek of a dolphin. "If that's okay with you, Trixie."

"Now listen, Captain," Trixie said, "this information doesn't come for free. Nobody rides for free at my club—all it will cost you is the price of an hour in the VIP section: two hundred cash."

"Not including tip," Pebbles added quickly.

Inside Derek was seething, but he merely smiled and handed over the cash. He knew he needed to play it cool. He'd been in the police business long enough to know that most sources came at a cost, and this was Trixie's way of being able to provide her services and run her fee through the business in order to wash the money. Pebbles grabbed him by the hand and led him down a dark hallway and, after a few twists and turns, up a staircase to a neon-lit room. It was in the shape of a circle with private doors all the way around; the round shape gave Derek the feeling that he was in a spaceship out of a 1950s sci-fi movie.

They stopped at a desk manned by a bearded bouncer who looked as if he could bench press a freight train.

"Hey, Bruce," Pebbles greeted him. "I came up here with Derek to chat; can you let me into one of the rooms?"

"You know the drill, babe," Bruce responded. "A hundred dollars to get through the door and a mandatory hundred in drink orders over the course of the hour."

Derek couldn't believe what he was hearing. It would cost him a total of four hundred dollars to hear this information; he chalked it up to the price one pays when playing the game and just prayed that the investment would be worth it. He wondered how he would get these charges approved on his expense report but decided to worry about that later.

Derek handed over two hundred in cash to Bruce. "Room 6 is open, Pebbles; you can take him in there. And listen, mister, no touching allowed. We're not that kind of place."

"Understood," Derek said.

Derek was not surprised to see the sci-fi theme continued in the private room, which was dark and lit only by a black light. Pebbles was wearing a special lipstick that illuminated her lips in a unique shade of neon in the darkened room.

"So, what did you hear earlier this evening?" Derek asked.

"Oh, Captain, do you always jump right into business? Why don't you relax for a minute?" As she spoke, she sat on his lap with her legs spread across his pants. Her hands glided from the small of his back up to his shoulders, which she began to rub.

"I see that you have some tension, Captain. Is there anything I can do to relieve it for you?"

The moment between them was interrupted by a cocktail waitress looking to take a drink order. Pebbles ordered a bottle of prosecco for herself and Derek ordered a Scotch.

"That will be $100."

"Excuse me?" Derek asked.

"Don't be like that, baby," Pebbles said. "It's not cool."

"It's $75 for the prosecco and $25 for the scotch," the waitress said as she left to get their drinks.

"You got to play it cool in this place," Pebbles said, "if you want to fit in."

Fitting in was the last thing Derek had on his mind at the moment. He was in the early stages of a murder investigation and was eager to know what this stripper heard in hopes that it might aid his investigation.

Pebbles was clearly trained in the art of small talk as she continued to engage Derek in idle conversation while they waited for their drinks.

"So how long have you been on the force?"

"I started when you were in diapers."

"How old do you think I am?" Pebbles whispered into Derek's ear.

"At least half my age," Derek said, with a hint of a tremble in his voice.

"I like older men," Pebbles replied, biting her lip suggestively. Derek had a hard time hiding, for lack of a better term, his excitement.

Since Pebbles was sitting on his lap, she felt that excitement. "Is that a gun in your pocket, Detective, or are you just happy to see me?"

As if on cue, the cocktail waitress interrupted the moment that Derek and Pebbles were sharing to serve them their drinks. "That bottle of prosecco goes for $9.99 at my local liquor store; how do you get away with such a high markup?" Derek asked.

Pebbles put her fingers to Derek's lips, signaling him to stop talking. "Don't ruin the party, baby."

The cocktail waitress turned to him and said, "That will be $120—cash only."

Derek protested, "I thought you said it was $100 when you took our order."

"$100 for the drinks, $20 for the tip."

"Shouldn't a tip be optional?" Derek asked.

"Honey, nothing is optional in this place, except clothing."

Derek handed the waitress $120 and watched as she tucked the cash into her brassiere.

"Have fun, kids," the waitress said as she left the room.

Derek took a sip of his drink—basically water with a drop of Scotch in it—and Pebbles took a sip of her prosecco directly from the bottle.

"Can we please talk about what you heard earlier this evening?" Derek asked.

Pebbles reached behind Derek's neck and started playing with his hair. Her hips slowly started to gyrate to the beat of the song playing in the background.

"Well, baby, I was hired by these three guys to take them to the VIP room earlier in the evening."

"These three guys have a name?"

"That's the funny thing, Captain," Pebbles said, whispering into his ear. "They refused to call each other by their own names; they used nicknames. One was called Snap." As Pebbles said this, she reached around her back and undid the single snap of her bra, which fell to the floor. "One was called Crackle." Pebbles placed her hands behind Derek's head and forced his head downward into her bare breasts. "And one was called Pop." Pebbles moved her knee up and down Derek's inner thigh as if she intended to make him climax.

"Please stop that," Derek pleaded. "I'm married."

"Everyone I see here is married, baby. It's not cheating; it's just harmless fun."

"I need you to stop. Listen, I'm only here to find out what you heard earlier in the evening and then I need to get going; I'm in the middle of an investigation." Derek's tone left no room for Pebbles to argue; he clearly meant business. He realized he himself had been the victim of a con of sorts, and now he was seething inside. Between the time it took him to drive to the CheeryHo and the time spent there, he'd lost at least an hour of investigative time.

"Party's over," he said to Pebbles, who had already admitted defeat. She put her bra back on, as well as the cave girl dress she had been wearing when they first came into the room.

"How the hell do we get out of here?"

"Follow me, Detective." She led him through the nooks and crannies of the club and back to the front entrance where she waited a beat more than was necessary.

"What are you waiting for?" Derek asked.

"You haven't given me my tip yet." Another shakedown; these girls were good.

Derek looked into his wallet and saw he only had five dollars left. "I don't suppose this will cover it?" he asked.

"Baby, don't insult me. I have tuition and a little boy to take care of. A hundred is customary." She pointed over to the ATM machine.

Derek inserted his card, entered his personal identification number, and withdrew another hundred dollars cash. Before granting his withdrawal, the machine asked him to confirm whether or not he would like to proceed with the transaction after informing him that the machine owner charged ten dollars for each transaction.

"Son of a bitch," he said. He took the money and his receipt from the machine, handed the cash to Pebbles, and exited the club. Back at the car he found Eddie asleep in the driver's seat.

"Sorry, pal," he said. "What do you say we go back to the hotel and get some shuteye? We're going to have a long day tomorrow."

Eddie did not protest; he simply hopped over to the passenger seat, let out a sigh, and closed his eyes again. Derek pulled out of the parking lot and drove in the direction of the Bali Hai hotel. All he wanted to do was sleep, but little did he know that his last night of peaceful rest was in the rearview mirror of his life.

## CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ADRIAN HAD TWO rules of thumb when it came to business: never make decisions when you are nervous, and never, under any circumstances, lose. At the moment, he wasn't what he would characterize as nervous, but he was a little uneasy after his last call with Lucy. Now he not only needed to solve the Sonny problem, he had to take care of Sonny's wife, too. But Adrian, cunning soldier of Romanian descent that he was, had a plan for that.

The Count was no stranger to violence; where he grew up street gangs were common and one was either a fighter or a victim; Adrian would never be a victim. While he was rumored to be descended from Romanian royalty, his supposed royal blood did not manifest itself in a comfortable childhood. His father was an errand boy for the local Romanian mob boss, and his mother was a hopeless alcoholic who didn't pay much attention to Adrian. He vowed from an early age to never take the abuse his father endured from either his employer or his wife.

While some kids were driven to survive, Adrian was driven to succeed. He worked harder in school than any of his fellow classmates and worked ruthlessly to master English because he knew that English was the language of business. But he was no pushover; he trained in numerous martial arts and could handle himself in a street fight. One night he was attacked by three men when coming out of a bar; they were looking for somebody to shake down and picked the wrong mark. Adrian broke the nose of one of his attackers, the arm of another, and wound up head-butting and biting the third on his carotid artery to the point where he drew a little bit of blood. Oddly enough, he was not taken aback by the metallic taste of another man's blood; combined with the adrenaline running through his veins, it almost seemed to energize him.

Adrian was also a night owl who did his best thinking after the sun went down. In fact, most of his direct reports would receive highly detailed emails from him well into the wee hours of the morning. To keep his energy up, he would take short, fifteen-minute naps every three hours, which seemed to give his body all the rest it required to keep him performing at what appeared to be superhuman levels. Periodically he received blood transfusions while he napped; he claimed that adding fresh blood to his system helped him perform at a higher level than most men.

It was 11:00 p.m. and Adrian was now in his residential suite in the Ritz Carlton Hotel located on Central Park South. He loved staying at the Ritz in New York; the staff there was second to none in their attention to detail.

He picked up the phone to communicate his plans to Gerry at the safe house, an abandoned church in Pompano Beach. It was only thirty minutes away from the Michaels' house but far enough away to be out of the cross hairs of local law enforcement who, no doubt, were busy searching for a missing woman.

"Gerry, it's Adrian—what's the status on the girl?"

"She's stable. She woke up about twenty minutes ago claiming that her head hurts and she feels dizzy."

"Being hit in the head with a frying pan will do that to someone."

"I didn't have a choice, boss," Gerry protested. "It was either knock her out or get caught by the cops—and if there is one thing I learned in Northern Ireland, it's that it's better to leave with baggage than get caught."

"I understand the predicament," Adrian said coldly. "And now I am going to tell you what you are going to do about it."

Gerry listened as Adrian calmly told him the plan. "Can you handle it?" Adrian asked.

"Compared to Belfast, this will be a piece of cake."

"Good. I'm going to go out for a walk now to take in some of the sights of New York. The city is lovely this time of year."

Gerry wondered how lovely New York City could be in the dead of winter, but he knew better than to question his boss's motives.

## CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MIA MICHAELS HEARD the phone ring. Her head throbbed where she was hit with the frying pan, and her body was bruised from the bouncing she experienced in the trunk of Gerry's car. At the moment she was tied to a bed with duct tape, which also covered her eyes and mouth. With her sight gone, her sense of hearing became more acute, and she was able to make out bits and pieces of Gerry's conversation. Unfortunately, the person on the other end of the line was doing all the talking, so she couldn't get a sense of what the conversation was all about.

A moment later she heard Gerry hang up the phone and walk back into the room where she was being held.

"I'm going to take the tape off of your mouth to give you something to drink, but don't bother screaming because there is nobody around here to hear you."

Gerry ripped the tape off her Mia's mouth and she winced in pain but did not scream.

"That's a good lass," Gerry said with his Irish accent. "Here's a glass of water."

Gerry had to place the glass of water to Mia's lips since her hands were still bound to the bed.

"I think I need to see a doctor," Mia said after taking a sip. "I don't feel right."

Gerry thought to himself, _You need a priest more than a doctor_ , but he didn't voice his thoughts to Mia. He didn't want her to panic—what he had to do would be hard enough with a calm victim, let alone a frantic one. "If you cooperate with me, Mrs. Michaels, and tell me where we can find your husband, I will make sure you get the medical help that you need."

Mia wasn't reassured. For the life of her, she couldn't figure out what the people Sonny worked with, her friend Lucy included, wanted with him. "I have no idea where my husband is."

"Mia, listen to me, once we locate your husband, this will be all over."

"I told you and Lucy all that I know. He came home early from work today in a terrible mood. He was in one of his states; he became dissociated with reality."

"What did he tell you?"

"He didn't tell me anything. He looked at me as if I wronged him somehow and stormed out after getting something out of his closet."

"Tell me more about these states."

Mia thought back to the time when she discovered that Sonny suffered from a psychological disorder; they had been dating for a few months, and he had stayed over in her dorm room. It was right before midterms and Sonny was particularly stressed about his organic chemistry exam. She woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, and when she came back, the door to her room was locked.

"Sonny, stop playing tricks on me. It's late, and I want to go back to bed."

No answer.

"Sonny, come on. I'm not kidding, this isn't funny."

Still no answer.

Mia began banging on the door. Her room was next to the one belonging to Karen Murphy, the residents' assistant. Karen heard the commotion and came out to see what was going on.

"Mia, is everything alright?"

"Sonny stayed over, and I think he is playing a trick on me. He won't open the door."

Karen knocked on the door, "Sonny, this is Karen the RA. Please open the door."

Still no answer.

As the RA, it was Karen's responsibility to look after the safety of all the girls on the floor, so she had keys to each room.

"Do I have your permission to open the door to your room?"

"Of course."

"Mia, I know it would be out of character for you, but I have to ask: Were you and Sonny doing any drugs tonight? I want to know what I am walking into."

Mia looked at Karen, stunned. "No," she protested. "I'm not into that stuff, and Sonny isn't either."

Karen entered the room first, followed by Mia, but there was no sign of Sonny.

"Could he have left while you were in the bathroom?"

"I wasn't in there that long," Mia said. "Plus, his coat is still here." Mia pointed to Sonny's coat hanging on the back of her desk chair.

Karen then checked the closet—nothing. Mia thought she heard a noise coming out from under the bed, so she knelt down and looked under it. She saw Sonny curled up in the fetal position.

"Sonny, what are you doing under there?"

He looked at her blankly but did not respond. Karen also knelt down.

"Sonny, it's Karen. You need to come out from under there." She could have sworn that she heard him whimpering.

"Mia, I don't know what is going on here, but I think I have to call an ambulance. Something isn't right."

From under the bed, in a voice that didn't sound like Sonny's, came two words. "I'm scared."

"Why are you scared?" Mia asked. "You are here with me."

"They told me they are coming to get me," Sonny announced.

"Who?" Karen asked.

"The men who want my research," Sonny said.

Mia was aware of Sonny's research, but why anyone would want to come after it was a mystery. At this phase in his undergraduate career, Sonny was only working at the level of assistant in the school's DNA lab. While the lab was working on DNA sequencing and investigating the use of adult stem cells to combat autoimmune diseases, and while competing labs were eager to infiltrate Harvard, as a freshman, no one would target Sonny.

Karen, who was pursuing her doctorate in clinical psychology, said, "Mia, I hate to say this, but I think Sonny is having a psychotic episode. Do you know if he suffers from anything?"

"No. He's a little antisocial at times, but I think that's a result of him being shy. He's never told me about anything."

Karen peeked under the bed again. "Sonny, we are not going to let anyone come after you. Mia and I are going to take you somewhere where you can be safe. Will you come with us?"

Sonny nodded his agreement.

Karen called the RA on the floor below theirs and asked if she could help cover her floor as well. She and Mia then drove Sonny to Massachusetts General Hospital where, after being seen by a doctor in the ER, he was promptly admitted to the psychiatric ward. He was diagnosed with a very mild psychosis that mimicked schizophrenia and was often brought on by environmental factors such as high stress.

Her concentration was interrupted by Gerry. "Mia, I asked you to tell me more about these states that Sonny gets in," he said, raising his voice.

Mia shared what she knew about Sonny's condition and told Gerry he had not had a psychotic episode in the past five years. She explained that she thought the recent stress he had been experiencing at work was likely the culprit for his current episode.

"What happened during his last episode?" Gerry asked.

"Each one is different," Mia said, "but the last time he had an episode, he thought someone was chasing him, and he jumped off the pier in Pompano Beach. Thankfully it was during the day and the lifeguards were on duty; otherwise he would have drowned."

Gerry couldn't help but think to himself that one half of his problem might already be solved. If Sonny was already dead, his job would be a lot easier. _Luck of the Irish_ , he thought.

## CHAPTER FIFTEEN

LUCY PARKED HER car on the street in front of Tony Michaels' house. His semicircle driveway had two cars in it in addition to Tony's; one was an FLPD police cruiser and the other car was a black Crown Victoria that Lucy recognized as an unmarked police car. Lucy thought it was possible that Tony could be catching up with some of his old cop friends—he was a retired cop after all—but given the events of the evening, she felt the need for caution.

She approached the front door quietly and stood on the porch for a minute to try and hear what was being said inside. All she heard were the muffled sounds of what appeared to be two men talking to each other. She knocked on the door gently and was looking down at her shoes when Tony opened the door.

"Lucy?"

"Detective Michaels, do you know why I am here?"

"Did you hear the news, too?" Tony asked.

Lucy looked at him inquisitively, "News?"

"Sonny is dead."

## CHAPTER SIXTEEN

DEREK PULLED INTO the parking lot of the Bali Hai hotel and turned off the engine of his car. For the first time since receiving the call from Detective Sam Tucan, he wasn't in a rush to get anywhere in particular. He thought back to the events of his day, beginning with walking in on his wife cheating on him in his own bed. He remembered tearing through his closet, packing a bag, and leaving for the hotel. Of course he couldn't forget meeting Bloody Mary at the Bali Hai hotel or bartender Joe Gable, who both played their parts perfectly. He remembered the call from Sam, visiting the crime scene, and seeing Sonny's body being loaded into the medical examiner's van. He thought about sitting down with Sonny's father and informing him that his own son was dead. From there he recalled visiting Sonny and Mia's house and meeting Officer Quincey and Detective Peters, followed by his experience with Trixie and Pebbles at the CheeryHo nightclub. The troubling thing was, though, he couldn't remember a thing before coming home that afternoon.

He chalked it up to the trauma of the day's events. He turned to his trusted companion and said, "I don't know about you, Eddie, but I'm looking forward to turning everything off for a few hours."

But then Derek's thoughts turned to his wife; ever since he started investigating Sonny's death, he hadn't even thought of her. He wondered why she hadn't tried to call him after he left to try and explain herself. He knew she wasn't happy in their marriage, and their financial situation had a lot to do with that, but he knew that she still loved him, and deep down inside he still loved her. He thought there was a possibility that he could look past her infidelity and they could reconcile their differences.

He looked at his work phone and saw that the only call that had come in was from Trixie. _That's weird,_ he thought. _What happened to the call from Sam_? The received call log didn't have Sam's call on it. Had Sam called him on his personal cell phone? Derek carried two phones, one for work and one for personal use, because the bean counters wanted to make sure that no officers used their work-issued phones for personal calls.

Derek looked at the call log and saw multiple missed calls from his wife. He remembered that he had placed his phone in the do-not-disturb mode. _I guess she does care after all_ , Derek thought. As he switched between the missed call log and the received call log, he noticed that he did not see one from Sam. Could he have deleted it?

He knew there was only one thing he needed right now and that was a good night's sleep. He got out of his car and walked over to the passenger side to let Eddie out, but when he opened the door, Eddie was still. "I don't blame you for being tired," Derek said, picking up the dog and walking to the front door of the hotel.

As he passed the front desk, he caught Bloody Mary organizing the display promoting tourist attractions in Southern Florida. At the moment she was replacing a stack of flyers for airboat tours of the Everglades as well as discount coupons for something called the Jungle Queen, where tourists supposedly took an old-fashioned steamship to an island where they could watch a man paid minimum wage wrestle what no doubt were heavily sedated alligators. He noticed that Mary was wearing a grass skirt.

"Say, what are you doing back so early? It's only just past midnight, and this part of Florida doesn't get cooking until then. Younger than springtime are you, Detective; you need to go find someone to boom-boom."

"I'm married," Derek said wearily.

"Married shmarried, Detective. Where I come from, all the men cheat. You gotta wash that girl right out of your hair, Captain Krunch."

"I think I'm just going to go to bed."

"Suit yourself, Detective, but you are going to miss all the fireworks at the bar."

"What fireworks?"

"The actors staying at the hotel are filming across the street at airport. Well, director wants to film a scene right here at Clippers, only one problem—there's not enough patrons, so he hire some extras to drink in the bar. He pay for everyone's drinkies. Go to bar, Detective, and drink for free."

A drink sounded tempting.

Derek took the rickety elevator up to the tenth floor and opened the door to his room. He gently laid Eddie on the bed and put a blanket over him. Then he left the room and went back down to the lobby and into Clippers bar.

It was a lot more crowded than it had been earlier in the evening. The four actors were back in the bar, this time wearing period clothing from the 40's. There were also about thirty extras milling around, many of whom were smoking fake cigarettes to recreate what a GI bar in the South Pacific would have looked like during World War II. The production must have taken a break in shooting because the TV in the bar was turned on to a twenty-four-hour news channel, and a few of the extras were watching a financial update.

The anchor was talking about the upcoming IPO of Tepes Therapies, a local pharmaceutical company, which, the anchor explained, was the leading provider of prescriptions and devices to treat diabetes. As Derek watched, he got an ominous feeling in the pit of his stomach, although he couldn't understand why. A moment later, he felt lightheaded and lost consciousness, falling forward with his nose cracking against the bar.

## CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

LUCY STARED AT Tony in disbelief. "What do you mean, Sonny is dead? I just saw him this morning."

Tony smiled at her sadly. "I think you better come inside, Lucy." She noticed that his eyes were red as if he had been crying. _Could it be true? Could Sonny be dead? Could my biggest problem be solved?_ she wondered.

She walked into the house and was introduced to Detective Peters and Officer Quincey of the Fort Lauderdale Police Department.

"Officers," Tony said, "Tell Lucy here what you just told me. Don't leave anything out."

Detective Peters began, "At approximately 8:41 this evening, Fort Lauderdale Emergency Services received a 911 call coming from the Michaels' residence in Victoria Park, but the caller hung up before the call was connected. As a matter of procedure, Officer Quincey was dispatched to check out the home." Peters paused, and Quincey started talking.

"I got to the home at approximately 8:50 p.m. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary from the outside, so I peeked through a window, and that's when I saw the blood. I radioed back to the precinct, and they sent Detective Peters to join me."

Lucy's jaw dropped. These cops weren't here to tell Tony that his son had died—they were here as a part of an investigation into Mia's abduction.

Tony broke the silence that hung in the room. "Lucy, we think Sonny had something to do with it."

She was relieved and stunned at the same time; relieved that Sonny was their suspect, but stunned because Tony had just told her that Sonny was dead.

"I thought you said Sonny was dead."

"Earlier this evening, Sonny showed up here pretending to be a cop. He was in one of those states he gets in when he's under a lot of pressure. He looked me in the eyes with that distant look he gets when he's having an episode and told me that my son's body was found washed up on the beach."

Tony had a hard time coming to grips with what happened earlier in the day, and this was not the first time Sonny used the persona of a cop during one of his episodes. Sonny's psychiatrist felt that Sonny developed this persona because he never felt as if Tony truly accepted him. In therapy Sonny would often talk about how he felt his father wanted a stereotypical son and was disappointed that Sonny was more of an academic type. The doctor believed that the persona of Captain Derek Krunch was Sonny's attempt to bond with his own father.

When Sonny adopted this persona, he would investigate cases that didn't exist. He would tell strangers a story about how he caught his wife cheating on him earlier in the day and how she was never happy with his ability to provide for her financially. This was another attempt to find common ground with his father; Sonny's own mother left the family and ran away with a successful motivational speaker when Sonny was in middle school.

The therapist felt that Sonny chose the name Captain Derek Krunch for his persona because after his mother left his father would allow him to eat sugary cereals, and Cap'n Crunch was his favorite. His mother had been very controlling and had refused him most childhood pleasures such as sugary cereals, soft drinks, and video games.

"So Sonny isn't dead?" Lucy asked.

"No," Peters confirmed. "He's very much alive. In fact, I saw him earlier this evening."

"What?" Lucy asked, feeling more confused by the minute.

"Ms. Hendricks, it's not uncommon for a criminal to return to the scene of a crime and pose as someone trying to help with the investigation. This is particularly true with people who suffer from psychological conditions like Sonny does. He claimed to be a friend of Mia and Sonny's and was as cool as a cucumber. I didn't realize it was actually Sonny until I found a picture of him and Mia in the house."

With Sonny as a key suspect, Lucy was pleased that she and T2 were in the clear. While the circumstances for Mia and Sonny were tragic, she felt as if the tens of millions of dollars she would be worth tomorrow after the IPO would dull that pain. Plus, if she had gone ahead with her initial plan to use Tony to help find Sonny, she would have risked another person becoming suspicious of her intentions. For the first time since her morning meeting, things were starting to look up.

"So all you have to do is find Sonny now, right?" Lucy asked.

"Yes, but it is not going to be easy," Tony said. "When he gets in a state like this, he sometimes doesn't surface for a few days. He usually winds up as a John Doe in one of the local hospitals, and since he carries fake credentials when he is having an episode, it takes them a while to identify him."

"So we just have to wait and see? And what about Mia?" Lucy asked, dialing up some fake concern for her friend's well-being.

"We can only hope that he hasn't hurt her in any significant way," Peters said. "Tony tells us that, while his son has these episodes, he's rarely if ever violent."

"Our thought at this point is to try and play along with him," Tony said. "I'm going to call him, pretending to be grieving over the loss of my son, and then ask him to come back to the house to help console me."

"Do you think it will work?" Lucy asked. The hope she felt earlier started to dissipate. Per her instructions from Adrian, she needed to get Sonny to the safe house, but she couldn't do that if he were in the custody of the Fort Lauderdale police. Plus, while he was their number-one suspect now, a good investigator would be able to conclude that Sonny wasn't the one who took Mia—the blood analysis would reveal that there were two sources of blood at the crime scene: Mia's and Gerry's. No, she had to get Sonny to the safe house and couldn't waste any more valuable time at Tony's.

"Tony, I'm so sorry you are going through this, but I have a big day tomorrow, and I need to go home and get some sleep."

"Ms. Hendricks, I have a question," Detective Peters said.

Lucy wasn't expecting this; why would he have a question for her?

"What's that, Detective?"

"Why are you here?"

"Excuse me?" Lucy said indignantly.

"It's a simple question, Ms. Hendricks. Why. Are. You. Here?"

Lucy realized that she never explained why she came to Tony's house in the first place, but she was good at thinking on her feet. "I came to see if Tony had heard from Sonny. He left the office frantically earlier in the day, and I was on the phone with Mia a few different times, trying to calm her down."

"So you and Mr. Michaels work together. Can you tell me what may have upset him so much this morning?"

Lucy had to be careful here; she didn't want to say anything that could come back to bite her or her employer. "Our company is scheduled to go public tomorrow, so everyone is on edge. Our founder questioned the research methodology Sonny used and wanted him to rerun some data."

"Why would that set him off?" Peters asked.

Tony stepped in to reply. "My son is brilliant when it comes to his work. I'm not surprised that someone challenging his work would upset him—but I am surprised that someone would actually challenge his work; Sonny is meticulous about what he does."

"Look, I just work in corporate affairs and I'm not as close to Sonny's side of things, but that's what happened."

"Ms. Hendricks, you also said that you had spoken to Mia a few times today. You may very well be the last person who had talked to her before she went missing. It is very important for us to understand what you two spoke about."

Lucy felt her mouth go dry. She couldn't mention anything about Mia finding the USB drive with Sonny's research on it, so instead she relayed bits and pieces from her initial conversation.

"Mia is my friend. She was worried about Sonny and wanted to know if anything at work could have set him off. I told her about the meeting, and she told me about how oddly Sonny was behaving when he came home."

"Why do you suppose she didn't call the police?" Detective Peters asked.

_Because I urged her not to_ , Lucy thought to herself. "I don't know, Detective. If I were in that situation, I certainly would have. I am sorry, but I really have to go now; we have a very big day tomorrow."

"I want to give you my card, Ms. Hendricks. If you can think of anything at all that would be important for us to know, please give me call."

"Will do."

As Lucy shook hands with Detective Peters, she had the distinct impression that he suspected her of being involved in Mia's disappearance. She nodded to Officer Quincey, and then Tony walked her to the door.

"There's just one more thing, Ms. Hendricks," Detective Peters said.

_This guy is a regular Columbo,_ Lucy thought. "What?" Lucy asked curtly.

"Why did you drive all the way out to Plantation from Fort Lauderdale when you could have simply called Mr. Michaels?"

_Didn't this guy ever let up?_

"Excuse me?" Lucy said.

"No offense, Ms. Hendricks, but your office is all the way in downtown Fort Lauderdale, and Plantation isn't exactly around the corner. Why not just call Mr. Michaels on the phone?"

"I had plans in Plantation tonight, and I thought I'd see Tony personally," Lucy said.

Peters pushed her, "You had social plans the night before your company goes public?"

"I'm a single woman living in South Florida," Lucy responded. "I have a very busy social calendar. Is that a crime, Detective?"

"No," Detective Peters said. "Not yet anyway."

"Look, we're all on the same side here," Tony said to break the tension in the room. "Lucy and Mia have been best friends since they were kids. If Lucy knew anything, I'm sure she would say something. Right, Lucy?"

"How can that even be a question?" she asked in reply.

"Sorry, Ms. Hendricks, I am just doing my job," Detective Peters said.

"No harm, no foul," Lucy said, referencing a phrase that her late father always used.

With that, Lucy walked out the front door, took a deep breath, got in her car, and headed back toward Fort Lauderdale.

## CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

LUCY KNEW SHE had to get to Sonny before his father did; if Sonny wound up in custody, she would have a big problem on her hands if the FLPD figured out that Sonny's blood was not at the crime scene. She had to make sure there was no doubt that Sonny was behind his wife's disappearance, and this required getting Sonny to the place where Mia was being held. But how was she going to get Sonny to the safe house when she didn't even know where it was? She had to call Adrian.

"Is it still sunny in Fort Lauderdale?" Adrian asked, knowing very well that the sun had set hours ago.

Lucy gave her boss the update on where things stood. She told Adrian that the cops were under the impression that Sonny was behind the disappearance of his wife and had even showed up at the crime scene.

"Do you believe in fate?" Adrian said.

"What?" Lucy asked.

"Fate," Adrian repeated. "You see, Lucy, it is fate that you and I are meant to become extremely wealthy tomorrow, and it is fate that Sonny has solved our problem for us."

Lucy had a hard time following but did not want to admit as much to her boss.

"All we have to do is make sure that dear Sonny finds his way to the safe house where his wife is being held, and I'll take care of the rest."

Lucy knew that the less she was told, the better it would be for her in the long run, but how could she get Sonny to a place unless she knew the location?

"You are awfully quiet, Lucy. Are you having second thoughts about all of this?"

"Not at all, Adrian. But how I am supposed to lure Sonny to the safe house when I don't even know where it is?"

"Lucy, you know it's better for you if you don't know where it is, right?"

"Yes, but how do you plan on getting Sonny there if you don't know how to reach him?"

"What was your plan?"

Lucy told Adrian that the only way to earn Sonny's trust when he was in a psychotic state was to play along with him. She told him how Sonny adopted the persona of a police detective named Derek Krunch and was investigating his own murder.

"Lucy, leave everything to me at this point. I'll make sure Sonny gets to the safe house, and this way there will be no connections to you whatsoever. Trust me, it is better for all of us this way, and you will wake up a new woman tomorrow."

Lucy gave Adrian the numbers to Sonny's mobile phones; as a personal friend she had the numbers for both his personal mobile phone as well as the one he kept for work.

"Leave it to me, Lucy; everything will be all right."

"Okay," she said, hanging up. Feeling exhausted, she couldn't wait to put this day behind her.

## CHAPTER NINETEEN

"SOMEBODY CALL A fucking doctor or something!" Vanessa Crestwood yelled at the top of her lungs. "Jesus Christ, this guy is bleeding all over the place. I'm a fucking actress, not a fucking surgeon."

"What happened?" asked the bartender.

"Jesus Christ, I don't fucking know—one minute he's fine, watching TV, and then suddenly he takes a nose dive onto the fucking bar."

Eric Shon, the film director, came over and tried to calm his starlet down. He looked at Derek and said, "This guy is out cold."

The bartender reached under the bar for a first-aid kit. He put on some latex gloves and went over to Derek.

"What are you, some kind of fucking bartender doctor or something?" Vanessa asked.

"I only tend bar part-time—I'm also a paramedic," Joe replied, checking to make sure Derek was still breathing. He reached around his neck to check his pulse. "His vitals seem good."

"Maybe he had one too many," Eric said. "I think that was the guy we saw earlier when we were taking a break from shooting."

Joe had to chuckle to himself at Eric's statement; ever since they arrived at the hotel, it seemed as if they were on one long party week interrupted by the occasional break to film a scene. _Pacific Theatre of Pain_ most likely was not destined to win any accolades next awards season.

Joe gently pulled Derek up from the bar, but he still didn't regain consciousness, so Joe laid him down on the floor.

"Please give him some space," Joe asked as everyone gathered around. He sifted through his first-aid kit and found some smelling salts. He popped the capsules and held them under Derek's nose. Derek started moving immediately and opened his eyes; Joe helped him to sit up.

"Do you know where you are?" Joe asked.

"No. What happened?"

"One minute you were sitting at the fucking bar and the next minute you took a nose dive into the fucking peanuts," Vanessa said. "Jesus Christ, can't men hold their fucking liquor anymore?"

Joe looked at Eric. "Can you please do something about your little starlet over here?"

Eric grabbed the star of his production and walked her to the other side of the bar, where they began making out like teenagers.

"Do you remember being here earlier?" Joe asked.

"I'm not sure where here is," Sonny replied.

"You're at Clippers Bar in the Bali Hai hotel in Pompano Beach."

"Pompano Beach?" Sonny said. _What am I doing here?_ he thought to himself.

"Do you remember being here earlier?" Joe asked again.

"Give me a minute to think," Sonny replied. He thought long and hard about the day but could only remember what happened that morning. He remembered meeting with the senior management team to run through the results of his research into a potential cure for diabetes, and he remembered that meeting not going the way he intended. He remembered getting angry about that and storming out of the meeting; everything else was a blur.

"I can't remember anything after this morning," he replied.

"You were here earlier," Joe said. "You told me that you went home early and found your wife in bed with her boss."

_My wife!_ Yes, something was coming back to him. Something to do with his wife, but what?

"Then you took a call on your phone and left the bar without even touching your dinner. You remember anything?" As a paramedic Joe had seen a lot of head injury cases, so he decided to give Sonny a quick neurological exam. He asked Sonny to follow his fingers with his eyes, left to right and up and down. He did a quick check of Sonny's reflexes and asked him to walk across the bar as if he was performing a field sobriety test. Sonny passed these tests perfectly.

"Everything seems fine," Joe said, "but I have one more question. What is your name?"

"My name is Sonny Michaels, and I think my wife is in trouble." As Sonny said these words, he felt the phone in his pocket vibrate. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and looked at the caller ID; he didn't recognize the number immediately, but he felt a lump form in his throat when he recognized the voice on the other end of the line.

## CHAPTER TWENTY

ADRIAN WAS EATING a blood orange when Lucy had called him; after he hung up the phone, he picked up the orange again and finished it. While it was after midnight, he had never felt so alive; he now had a challenge on his hands. He closed his eyes, took a long sip of red wine, and reached into the inner pocket of his sport coat for his cell phone. He dialed the number that Lucy had given him. The voice on the other end said, "Hello."

"Do you know who I am?" Adrian asked, dropping all pleasantries. His tone was a combination of confidence and arrogance.

Sonny excused himself from the bar and found an isolated place to sit in the lobby. He was smart enough to realize that he was in a precarious situation; he had experienced a loss of time, which meant that he likely slipped into a psychotic episode after leaving the office earlier that day. He knew that in such circumstances he had a tendency to adopt a persona and play it out until his episode was over. Since Adrian started the conversation by asking if Sonny knew who he was, Sonny reasoned that Adrian suspected that he may be in a state. An affirmative answer to Adrian's question would indicate that Sonny was himself again, while a negative answer would mean he was still in the throes of a psychotic episode. Sonny thought it would be best to play along.

"I get a lot of calls on this line, pal, and I don't recognize your number. What do you want?" Sonny did his best to sound annoyed.

"As a detective, I imagine you would get a lot of calls."

Detective? That information was helpful. Sonny was aware that one of the personas he developed when he had an episode was that of a police detective.

"And I get a lot of people who waste my time, so if you are one of those, I ain't got time for you."

"Don't hang up so quickly, Detective. I have some news about the murder you are investigating."

_How did Adrian know so much about what I was up to earlier in the day?_ He didn't have time to worry about that now, though. Adrian must know what happened to Mia, and Sonny had to play it cool in order to find her.

"Who are you?" Sonny asked.

"My name is Harker, Jonathan Harker."

Sonny almost laughed when he heard the name. Jonathan Harker was one of the primary antagonists in Bram Stoker's seminal vampire novel _Dracula_. _This guy really believes his own bullshit_ , Sonny thought.

"How can you help me in my investigation, Mr. Harker? I've had very long day and I just want to go to bed."

"Your victim was in over his head with some very powerful people who could stand to lose a lot of money as a result of some poorly thought-out actions. I can point you in the right direction, but I'll need some assurances."

One piece of the puzzle was coming together for Sonny. The data he shared this morning could have a negative impact on the company's IPO—a potential cure for diabetes would kill demand for T2's services, thus making the company's stock eventually worth less than the paper it was printed on. "What kind of assurances?"

"These are some very bad people, Detective, and if they knew I was sharing their secrets, let's just say my own mother wouldn't be able to recognize me. I will only talk under two conditions: we only talk in person, and I don't have to testify in court."

Sonny had to admit that Adrian was playing his part well, but the last thing Sonny wanted to do was rush into an in-person meeting with someone he now considered the enemy. Sonny also knew that Adrian was in New York to ring the bell at the opening of the New York Stock Exchange tomorrow morning, so clearly whatever he had planned was a setup.

"I think we can meet those conditions. When and where would you like to meet?"

"I appreciate that you have worked a long day, Detective, but time may really be of the essence here. I suggest meeting within the hour at the abandoned church on Pompano Beach. Are you familiar with St. Gabriel's?"

Familiar? When Sonny's grandparents were alive, they lived in Pompano Beach, and he had spent many a Sunday in the pews at St. Gabriel's.

"I know the place," Sonny replied.

"The back door to the church will be open. Meet me in the confessional on the right side of the church, and I will confess to you all I know about the death of Sonny Michaels. But you have to come alone, or else I walk. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Sonny replied. "I'll see you in an hour, Mr. Harker."

"Don't be late," Adrian said and ended the call.

Adrian drained the wine that was left in his glass and let out a roar of excitement. The combination of the wine and the adrenaline running through his veins was incredibly invigorating. He made one more call that night to Gerry at the safe house to tell him how he was luring Sonny to the church. He gave Gerry some very specific instructions as to how everything should play out once Sonny was captured; failure to follow these instructions, Adrian warned, would be catastrophic.

After hanging up with Gerry, Adrian decided to go for a run through Central Park. Even though it was well after midnight, he needed a way to work off his adrenaline and he thought a run through the park would do him good. He dressed in all black from his skullcap down to his tights. In fact, he looked more like a cat burglar than a jogger; as he ran toward the park he pictured himself as a ghost running through an uninhabited world. He never felt more alive.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

SONNY WAS SCARED to death for his wife's safety, and there were questions that needed to be answered immediately. How did Adrian know about Sonny's persona as a detective, and how did he know that Sonny's detective persona was investigating a murder? Why would he think that Sonny's wife was in trouble?

This last question bothered him the most. The only explanation he could think of was that his wife somehow found out about his research and the company knew about it—which could only mean that Lucy was involved somehow. It made sense; if Lucy was concerned about his erratic behavior when he left the office, she would have logically called Mia to see if she had seen him. _They would have talked throughout the day to check in on whether or not anyone had heard from me_ , he thought. But how would his wife have found out about his research?

He felt the need to look through his bag, but he didn't know where he would have left it. Maybe in the car? He reached into his pocket for the keys. As he pulled them out, another key fell to the floor—the key to his room. He was lucky that it was a real key attached to a keychain with a room number printed on it: 1002. He made his way up to the tenth floor in an elevator ride that seemed to take forever.

The doors opened on ten and he found his way to the room. Before inserting the key into the lock, Sonny put his ear against the door; he thought he heard sounds coming from inside the room. It sounded like classical music. Odd.

When he entered the room, he saw his bag slung over the chair nestled under the desk in the corner. He turned off the radio, which explained the classical music. Knowing he was short on time, Sonny emptied out his computer bag. He was looking for something in particular. Earlier in the day, Sonny had made a backup of all his research and placed it on a USB drive secured by a password. He was fearful that someone at the company would erase his data and therefore wanted to make sure he had a copy of it. The drive wasn't anywhere in the bag, however. Sonny reasoned that it must have fallen out of his bag at home—and Mia must have found it.

Sonny knew that Adrian wouldn't leave anything to chance; if he thought Mia knew about Sonny's work, she would become a target. Now there was no doubt in Sonny's mind that Mia's life was in danger. He had about forty-five minutes to get to the church, but he couldn't go alone; that would be suicide. He needed help, and while he wanted to turn to the police, it was entirely possible that he himself was a suspect in his wife's disappearance. There was only one person he could trust right now—his father. Sonny pulled out his cell phone and dialed his father's number.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

TONY MICHAELS COULDN'T sleep. He kept tossing and turning, playing back the events of the day over and over in his mind. He was troubled ever since Sonny showed up earlier that evening, but what could have set him off? To the best of his knowledge, things were fine at home and the job was going well. Tony was aware that his son's company was about to go public, but Sonny didn't work in either the finance or legal departments, so he couldn't imagine why that would have been a cause of stress to his son.

And then there was Mia's disappearance; while Sonny was known to adopt different personalities, he was never known to be violent except for the one time when he had mistaken Mia for an intruder. He couldn't believe that his son would hurt his wife—there had to be another explanation for her disappearance. Until he got in touch with Sonny, though, these questions would remain unanswered.

Since he couldn't sleep, Tony decided to look for something to read. Browsing the shelves in his study, he suddenly noticed a couple of old photo albums. While his wife had left him over three decades ago, Tony could never bring himself to completely erase any evidence of their former life together. He reached for one of the albums, the one that chronicled Sonny's birth through the time he was five—the year his wife left. He smiled as he saw pictures of Sonny in the hospital, pictures of his first birthday, and pictures of the three of them at a Florida theme park when Sonny turned five.

Tony remembered that it was at Disney when they learned that Sonny was different. It was back in 1982, and Sonny had a great time on many of the rides, but as the day went by, the park became more and more crowded. Sonny's mother became impatient waiting in line in the hot Florida sun and grew increasingly agitated. Sonny picked up on this and started to become stressed himself. By the end of the day, Tony felt as if the sweet boy who was his son had turned into someone unrecognizable. At one point, Sonny claimed not to recognize his parents and started causing a scene. Once they got back to their hotel room and Sonny had a chance to calm down, things went back to normal.

Over the years, similar episodes would occur, becoming more frequent when Sonny got stressed. Tony and his wife were called to the school on multiple occasions because of Sonny's erratic behavior, particularly on days when major assignments were due or tests were administered. His mother, who had a hard time reconciling the lifestyle she wanted with the realities of being married to a cop and a son with psychological challenges, became increasingly distant to Tony and their son. She wound up leaving her husband a Dear John letter, explaining that she wanted more out of life than he could provide and leaving the task of raising their son solely on her husband's shoulders.

It wasn't easy, but Tony and Sonny managed without her. Fortunately, Tony's parents lived in Pompano Beach and would help with Sonny whenever they could. It was Tony's mother who suggested that Sonny get tested by the school psychologist to determine whether or not he had a learning disability. During World War II she worked for the US Army administering personality and aptitude tests to prospective officers, and she recognized a pattern with her grandson. After multiple exams, the doctor concluded that Sonny suffered from a psychosis that mimicked schizophrenia but was more mild. Through medication and stress avoidance, the psychologist felt he could manage his condition just fine and be mainstreamed in school.

Sonny not only did well in school, one could say he flourished. While he was considered gifted by his teachers, his aptitude in the classroom didn't translate socially; he was awkward and shy around most people, especially girls. Tony didn't care about any of that. He loved his son and vowed to do anything to protect him from what he knew from experience could be a cruel world.

Tony started to feel drowsy but was startled by the sound of his home phone ringing. _Who the hell would be calling me at his hour?_ The phone in his study was an old-fashioned slimline phone and did not have caller ID, but given the day's events and the time of the call, Tony decided it would be best to answer.

"Hello," Tony said.

"Dad, thank God you picked up. It's me, Sonny."

"SONNY!" Tony shouted. "Where are you?"

"It's better that you don't know," his son replied.

For a brief moment, Tony felt the wind go out of his sails as if someone had punched him in the gut. _Oh no_ , he thought, _this is another character_.

"Did I come over to see you earlier?"

One of the things that Tony could never understand was what exactly happened to Sonny when he adopted a persona. Sonny never remembered what happened to him when he was in one of these states.

"Yes, you were here earlier this evening—don't you remember?"

"No. Why did I come over?"

"You came to tell me that my son's body was found washed up on the beach in Pompano."

"Has anyone else been by?"

"Just the police—and Lucy."

"Lucy!" Sonny exclaimed. "Did you tell her that I was there and what I came to talk to you about?"

"Yes, but why are you so concerned about Lucy? It's Mia you should be worrying about."

Sonny paused for a minute. Lucy was the key—that's how Adrian knew that Sonny had taken on the persona of a detective, which meant that she'd been in contact with Adrian and might have an idea of where Mia was.

"What do you know about Mia?" Sonny asked.

"Only that the police think that you kidnapped your own wife." Tony told his son what Detective Peters and Officer Quincey relayed to him earlier that evening. "Right now you're their number-one suspect."

"Shit!"

"Son, if you know anything, you have to go to the police."

"They won't believe me, not after everything I did today," Sonny stated with more than a hint of desperation in his voice.

"What have you gotten yourself into?"

Sonny proceeded to tell his father the story about his research, the meeting he had that morning, and the reactions of the senior management team. "Dad, they are afraid that if my work becomes public the company will become worthless and they'll lose a fortune. We are talking some very powerful people here, people for whom money is worth more than life." He explained his theory of how Mia must have been kidnapped because she found the USB drive containing Sonny's research and then told Lucy.

There was a long pause on the line; Tony wanted to believe everything his son was saying, but it was just too perfect. While it showed a motive for Mia's disappearance, he was worried that his son was constructing it all as he went along.

"You don't believe me, do you?" Sonny asked his father.

"Son, I think you need medical treatment. I'll meet you at the Broward County General ER and we can take it from there."

"I'm fine now, Dad! I wasn't before, but I am now, and I need help."

Tony knew that the more he got upset, the more likely his son was to have another episode. He tried to calm him down.

"I'm sorry, son—I'm just worried about you and worried about Mia. The sooner I can see you both, the better I will feel."

"Believe me, Dad, the only thing I want to do right now is find my wife, but first I have to talk to Lucy."

"Why Lucy?"

"Because she is the key to everything that happened tonight."

"Where can I meet you? You shouldn't be doing any of this alone right now."

Sonny knew that he needed someone's help, but he was worried that if he got his father involved, Tony would become another of T2's targets. He couldn't let that happen.

"No matter what happens tonight, Dad, I want you to know one thing: I love you."

After these words were spoken, the line went dead. Tony fell back into his chair, completely exhausted.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

SONNY GATHERED HIS things, placed them in his bag, and went to the bathroom to wash his face, which was still bloodied from smashing his nose on the bar. Unfortunately, he didn't have a change of clothes, and his white shirt was stained with blood. Nothing he could do about that, though, since there weren't any men's clothing stores open at 1:30 a.m.

Once he got down to the lobby, he reached into his pocket and took out the key to his room and placed it on the front desk. Bloody Mary was on the phone with one of the hotel's guests.

"I am sorry, Ms. Crestwood, but nothing I can do about that. We don't get that channel on our TV system. . .Yes, I know you are upset, Ms. Crestwood, but I just work front desk; I don't make decisions about cable system. Yes, Ms. Crestwood, I will pass along your comments to the management team. Have good night." Mary hung up the phone and immediately stuck her middle finger out at it and said, "Crazy Hollywood bitch."

Sonny politely coughed to get Mary's attention.

"Ah, Captain Krunch, you leaving so soon. Where's Eddie?"

_Of all the names I could have chosen for my alter ego, why the hell did I call myself Captain Krunch_? he asked himself. _I really need a new doctor_.

"Who is Eddie?" Sonny asked, fearful that he had another companion he wasn't aware of.

"Don't be funny with me, Detective, you know who Eddie is. Your little doggie who doesn't say much."

"I just want to check out."

"You paid cash when you came in, Detective. I can't refund your room just because you leave early."

"Can I just get a receipt, please?"

"No problem for you, Detective." Mary pressed a few keys on the front desk's computer and a few minutes later the dot matrix printer under the desk printed out a receipt. Sonny thought that the airlines and the Bali Hai Hotel might be the only organizations keeping the dot matrix printer business alive in the second decade of the twenty-first century.

"You come back to Bali Hai any time, Detective. Bali Hai your special hotel."

"I'll remember that." Sonny left the hotel, got into his car, and never looked back. He had thirty minutes before he needed to get to the abandoned church on Pompano Beach, but first he needed to pay a visit to Lucy Hendricks.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

_I DESERVE THIS_ , Lucy thought to herself as she submerged herself in a hot bath. While it was odd for her to be awake at almost two a.m., let alone taking a bath, Lucy reasoned that after the day she had, she deserved some pampering. As the water enveloped her like a blanket, she reached for the glass of wine she had left on the floor next to the tub. She took a sip and felt for the first time all day as if she could finally relax.

The day had started out normally; she got into the office at seven a.m., cleared her inbox, and prepared for Adrian's nine a.m. senior leaders meeting. Every morning he expected to be briefed by the heads of each department—sales, marketing, finance, human resources, and corporate affairs, which was Lucy's responsibility. She knew Adrian was anxious about the upcoming IPO, now only a few short hours away, and he never wanted to leave anything to chance. When he heard that one of his own scientists had a research breakthrough, Adrian insisted the data be presented immediately, and that's when everything started to fall apart.

Lucy had known Sonny ever since he and her best friend, Mia, started dating in college. She struggled to see what her friend found appealing about Sonny; he wasn't what you would call classically handsome, and his social skills left a lot to be desired, yet Mia was head over heels in love with the guy. There was no accounting for taste, she supposed.

Lucy and Mia met the first day of kindergarten and quickly became inseparable. As they grew up, Lucy began to resent certain things about her friend; Mia was a classic blonde beauty with a bubbly personality, whereas Lucy had to work a little harder on her looks. Mia was naturally smart and all the teachers loved her, while Lucy had to work twice as hard just to maintain a B average. Mia's parents were wealthy and happily married; Lucy's parents were poor and separated.

Over time, Lucy began testing their friendship by manipulating Mia. She would give her the cold shoulder and then blame Mia for not being invested in their friendship, or she would spread rumors about Mia at school and then bring them to Mia's attention while trying to appear as her white knight. Mia's other friends periodically warned her about Lucy, but Mia refused to believe that her intentions were cruel.

Given her personal relationship with Sonny and his wife, Adrian tasked Lucy with the job of calming Sonny down and making him see how investing in a potential cure for diabetes would be bad for the company as a whole. While it would be years before the FDA would even approve a cure, just the rumor that T2 was working on a cure could send its stock price down since its primary business was managing and treating the disease. A cure would mean a drop in demand, and a drop in demand meant that Lucy would not be worth eight figures on paper tomorrow morning. She wasn't going to let that happen.

"Sonny, what are you doing?"

"I'm packing up my desk. I quit. I just presented you and the other senior leaders with unassailable research that we have a potential cure for diabetes, and you shit all over me."

"Sonny, I know you are upset but—"

"Upset? I've spent the past fifteen years of my life working at this company, helping to make it what it is today. It's my research that led to the therapies and devices that make T2 the market leader, so don't tell me not to be upset when I present data that shows how we might improve the lives of millions of people around the globe with a potential cure for diabetes."

"Sonny, you have to understand that we are going public tomorrow and . . ."

"You know, Lucy, all you think about these days is money. That's all anyone at T2 is thinking about. Well, you know what? Life isn't all about money and having more than someone else. My life is about helping find better ways for people who are suffering from a terrible disease to manage their lives better. Now I've found a potential cure for that disease, and if this company doesn't want to be a part of that, fine—I'll find another company that does."

Lucy knew she was reaching dangerous territory; If news broke that a leading scientist from T2 stormed out of the company armed with a potential cure for diabetes, the media backlash would be devastating. If she wanted a life beyond the middle class, she had to do something.

Sonny kept his father's nightstick on his desk as a reminder of his humble roots. Lucy instinctively grabbed the nightstick and cracked Sonny over the head with it. When he dropped to the floor like a stone, Lucy hightailed it out of his office and immediately went to the company nurse's office, where she reported that an employee had lost consciousness and hit his head on a desk. The two went to Sonny's office, only to find it empty.

From there her day had gone from bad to worse after Mia divulged that she found Sonny's research. _I had no choice_ , Lucy thought to herself. _It's either them or me_ — _and it's not going to be me!_

Lucy took another sip of her wine, enjoying its calming effect. She took some deep breaths and tried to clear her mind. To do so she imagined Mia and Sonny vividly in her mind, glowing with the color red outlining their bodies. With every breath she took, she saw them getting smaller. She replaced the red with green and then blue. Once they were super small, she imagined putting them in a box and filling the box with heavy rocks. She pictured herself on a cliff overlooking the ocean, counting to three and throwing the box into the ocean, lost forever. As she did so, she allowed herself to smile. Her smile lasted until the doorbell rang.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

SONNY WAS RUNNING on instinct. He had no idea what he would do when he confronted Lucy, but he was convinced she was central to his wife's disappearance. Going to the church alone would mean certain death, and he reasoned that Lucy could be his insurance policy. He had no choice but to force her to go with him, but how? Kidnapping was not a specialty he picked up at Harvard or at Yale Medical School, but he did know a thing or two about how the body works. If he could get close enough to put her in a choke hold, he could cut off her circulation momentarily, causing her to lose consciousness and drop to the floor. If executed correctly, she would be out long enough for him to put her in his car.

He parked the car, checked his pockets for his false identification, and walked to the door. His heart was beating in his chest like a kick drum as he rang the doorbell.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

A RINGING DOORBELL just before two a.m. could in no way be a good thing. Lucy quickly got out of the bathtub, dried off, and walked to her bedroom where she could turn her TV to her security system's input and see who was at her front door. She made sure that it was recording.

Sonny! What the hell was Sonny doing here? Adrian said he was going to take care of that problem! She grabbed her phone and sent him a text message.

_Sonny is here. What do I do?_

A response came seconds later.

_He should be on his way to the safe house now. When I spoke with him earlier he was still in his detective persona—he must have stopped to see you as part of his "investigation." See what he wants, but don't mention you know anything about the girl's disappearance. Check in with me after he leaves._

Lucy threw on sweatpants and a sweatshirt and walked downstairs to answer the door.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

SONNY, PRETENDING TO be Derek, was becoming impatient. He was about to ring the doorbell again when he heard footsteps coming from inside. He heard the locks disengage and, a moment later, was staring directly at the woman who hit him over the head with his own nightstick earlier that day.

Lucy and his wife were the best of friends, but Sonny had a hard time understanding why. Whereas Mia was confident, Lucy was extremely insecure, and this insecurity played out in any number of ways. Once, when Mia and Sonny were first dating, Lucy started a rumor that she saw Sonny with another woman as an attempt to sabotage her friend's relationship so she could be at the center of Mia's attention. It backfired when Sonny was able to prove that he was with his father on the night in question. When Mia asked Sonny to help get Lucy a job at T2, Sonny begrudgingly passed her résumé along as a favor to his wife rather than out of a desire to help Lucy. In hindsight, it was one of the biggest mistakes he ever made.

They stared at each other silently for a moment, and then Sonny said, "My name is Derek Krunch with the Pompano Beach Police Department. Are you Lucy Hendricks?"

"Yes," Lucy said. Deep down she wondered if Sonny was faking.

"One of your colleagues, Sonny Michaels, was found dead on the beach earlier this evening. You were one of the last people to see him alive, and I have a few questions for you. Can I come inside?"

Lucy wanted to keep Sonny on her front doorstep so everything he did could be recorded by her security system. "We can talk right here, Detective."

Sonny was not planning on this. He didn't want to attempt to grab Lucy out in the open, but it was the middle of the night and no one appeared to be awake. With his wife's life hanging in the balance and the clock ticking, he threw caution to the wind and lunged at Lucy.

She instinctively moved back, falling on the floor of her foyer with Sonny on top of her. He managed to slide off of her and get behind her. As she tried to get to her feet, one of his hands wrapped around her neck while the other came up at a ninety-degree angle. He applied a little pressure on her carotid artery, and in seconds she was out.

Sonny threw Lucy over his shoulder and carried her to his car. Fortunately, no lights came on from any of the neighboring houses. Since he knew she would regain consciousness in a few minutes, he put her in the trunk of his car and drove away.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

IT WAS TEN minutes after two in the morning, and The Count was getting restless. He didn't know what to make about Sonny showing up at Lucy's house; he assumed that Sonny would be at the church by now and wondered why he stopped at Lucy's place. If anything, Sonny's actions made Adrian feel that he was no longer in control—and Adrian couldn't stand not being in control.

When Lucy didn't text him back, Adrian began to worry that something had gone wrong. He texted Lucy again, but when she didn't respond, he feared the worst. He opened his laptop and, after a few keystrokes, viewed a live feed of Lucy's security system on his screen. He had access to the security feeds of everyone on his senior management team; Adrian made it a condition of employment that all senior staff members would install a security system in their homes. No one put up much of a fight, as T2 paid for the installation and monitoring; had they known they were giving up some of their privacy in return, many might not have agreed. Adrian fully believed that only the paranoid survived; if he suspected that an employee was disloyal, he would have his security team watch hours of footage to obtain the evidence he needed.

Nothing was showing up on Lucy's feed, which included a view of the front porch. There was no sound coming from any of the microphones hidden throughout her house, and none of the feeds from any of the other cameras showed anything either. He suspected that Sonny had either convinced Lucy to go with him or he had taken her by force. Adrian rewound the footage by five minutes. He saw Sonny waiting at Lucy's door; the camera picked up his car in the background, a black Audi SUV. _At least he has good taste in automobiles_ , Adrian thought to himself. He then watched Sonny take out his identification as if he were introducing himself to someone. A moment later he saw Sonny lunge forward. Two minutes later he saw Sonny carry Lucy out of her house, stuff her in the trunk of his SUV, and speed away.

Adrian had underestimated Sonny; it was a mistake he would not make again. He played a mental game of chess and concluded that Sonny was taking Lucy to the church as an insurance policy. _Smart move_ , The Count thought; he had to be smart about his counter move. Adrian looked through his notes from the conversation he had with Lucy after she left Sonny's father's house and came across the name of the detective in charge of investigating Mia's disappearance. The detective had given Lucy his card, and she had snapped a picture of it earlier and sent it to Adrian. Time to give Rodney Peters a call.

By the third ring Adrian was fearful he would get Peters' voicemail but was relieved to hear a scratchy voice on the other end of the line.

"This is Peters," the detective said in a tone suggesting he had just been awakened from a deep sleep.

"Detective Peters, my name is Adrian Tepes, and I understand you are investigating the disappearance of Mia Michaels. Is that correct?"

"It's after two a.m. If you have a tip, please call our tip line."

"I have more than a tip—I have the proof you need to put her husband, Sonny, away."

This piqued the detective's interest. Peters assumed that Sonny had something to do with his wife's disappearance, but he lacked evidence as well as a way of getting in touch with Sonny himself. "I'm listening," he said.

"Lucy, whom you met earlier, and Sonny both work for my company. Lucy texted me about ten minutes ago and told me that Sonny was at her house. I can forward you that text if you like."

"That doesn't prove that he had anything to do with his wife's disappearance," Peters objected. "I need something more."

"I am about to send you an email, Detective Peters. Let me know when you get it."

Peters got out of bed and walked over to the FLPD laptop that was sitting on his desk. When the email came through, Peters watched the video clip of Sonny lunging at Lucy twice to make sure what he saw was real.

"How did you get this?" Peters asked.

"I have access to all of my senior manager's security systems," Adrian admitted.

"Why would Sonny take Lucy?"

"Why would he abduct his own wife? I've only recently learned that Sonny suffered from some psychological problems, and there's no telling what is going through his head."

"You wouldn't happen to keep tabs on the make, model, and plate numbers of your employees' cars, would you?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. Sonny Michaels drives a 2011 Audi Q5 with license plate 581-415."

"I'll put an APB out on this car right away. Any idea where he might be going?"

Adrian had to think of a way to direct Peters to Pompano Beach without giving him the address of the safe house. "I know he and Mia owned an investment property on Pompano Beach near the old Catholic church. It's been vacant for some time . . . maybe he's there?"

"This is very helpful, Mr. Tepes," Detective Peters said.

"Please, call me Adrian."

"Thank you, Adrian. I do have one more question for you."

"Of course, Detective."

"Why was Lucy texting you so late at night? Is that customary?"

"My employees know me to be nocturnal, Detective. They are used to getting emails from me late into the night and early morning."

"Yes, but you said that she initiated contact with you. That seems odd to me."

For a smaller-town detective, this guy was a good thinker. "Our company is set to go public tomorrow, and Lucy is my head of corporate affairs. She knows that any threats to our corporate reputation must be brought to my attention immediately."

"And you consider Sonny a threat to your corporate reputation?"

This guy didn't let up. "Having a senior research scientist who storms out of the office in the middle of the morning the day before we go public can be seen as a threat to our reputation."

"I see. Any idea what set Sonny off?"

Adrian was always cool under pressure, but a combination of the stress he was feeling about his company's IPO and the events of the day caused him to wear a bit thin. "How am I supposed to know what sets a crazy person off?"

"His father told me that Sonny was considered to be the most talented researcher on your staff—that some of his breakthroughs are what helped differentiate your company from the competition. Is that right?"

"Sonny is a good scientist, but breakthroughs are a team effort."

"His father also told me that either stress or a blow to the head could set him off."

"Well, everyone in the company has been feeling their fair share of stress given tomorrow's IPO," Adrian countered.

"Since you have footage from your employee's home security systems, I assume that a man as careful as you would have security cameras throughout your office as well."

Adrian didn't like where this was going. "That's right, Detective."

"And, Adrian, since you were so helpful in calling me about Sonny's abduction of Lucy, I'm sure I can trust you to provide security camera footage from your office yesterday, including the entire time that Sonny was in your building yesterday morning."

"I have nothing to hide, Detective. I'll make sure my head of security gets you that footage in the morning. Now if you don't mind, I have a very early morning tomorrow and need to get some sleep."

"Thank you for your time, Adrian."

The line went dead, but Adrian couldn't go to sleep just yet. He had another call to make, this one to Gerry at the safe house. Adrian instructed him to kill the girl, prop her up in the confessional, and then head back to the office where he would need to download all yesterday's security footage onto a hard drive for the FLPD. He also instructed Gerry to scrub out anything that looked bad.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

GERRY HUNG UP the phone and walked into the room where Mia was being kept; he hadn't heard any movement for a while and assumed that she had dozed off. He took a surgical scalpel out of his jacket pocket and took a few deep breaths to steady his nerves. While he had killed many people in his life, it was always for the cause in which he so vehemently believed. Killing a civilian was different; this woman had done nothing wrong except stumble across the wrong information at the wrong time. He wanted to make sure she didn't feel anything, so he planned to quickly cut the carotid artery in her neck and have her bleed out. She would feel a slight pinch and then would become dizzy until blackness covered her; he reasoned it was the most humane thing to do.

"Mia, I brought you something."

No reply.

"Mia," Gerry repeated, this time touching her shoulders to try and awaken her.

No response.

He put the knife back in his jacket pocket and touched her forehead; it was cool. He put his ear near her mouth and nose, but didn't hear or feel any breath coming out. Lastly he reached around to take her pulse and didn't feel anything. She was already dead.

Gerry was relieved for two reasons: he didn't have to kill her, and her death was not on his conscience. He reasoned that when he hit her with the frying pan, he did so without intending to kill her. Thus her death wasn't really his fault. He lifted her up and carried her to the confessional located on the right side of the church, about halfway down the nave. He sat her in the chair the priest sat in to hear confessions. A wooden divider with a screen was in place between the priest and the penitent.

Gerry then retraced all of his steps to make sure he didn't leave anything behind and left the church through an exit door in the north transept.

As he drove south on AIA back toward Fort Lauderdale, he passed a black Audi SUV going in the other direction.

## CHAPTER THIRTY

SONNY WAS A half a mile from the church when he saw an old car drive past him going south. AIA was deserted at this time of the morning so he paid more attention to the passing driver than he normally would. He immediately recognized Gerry, the Irish brute who ran security for T2. This couldn't be a coincidence. At the same time, Lucy started screaming from the trunk.

"Where the fuck are you taking me?" Lucy screamed.

"We're going to get my wife back," Sonny countered.

"You are wasting your time; I don't know where she is."

"That may be true," Sonny replied, "but I have a good idea of where she might be."

Sonny made a left into the parking lot of the church and parked out front; it was a mistake he would later regret. He walked around the back of his car, opened the trunk, and pulled Lucy out. He warned her, "If you scream, it will only be worse."

"If you knew where she was," Lucy asked, "why do you need me?"

"I assume Mia was taken because she found out about my research. In which case, I am not the only liability for you and your greedy boss; you are my bargaining chip."

The two tried to enter the church through the main door but found it to be locked.

"What are you going to do now?"

"Plan B," Sonny said. Pulling her with him, he walked around the side of the church. The door on the south side was locked, too, so he went around the door on the north side. He pressed down on the handle, and the door opened. "Third time's a charm."

The church was classically designed in the shape of a cross; the shorter crossing ran north to south, while the longer nave ran east to west. It was dark in the church, so Sonny took out the flashlight he had brought with him in order to see where he was going. As he walked across the church, his beam found the confessional; it was on the south side of the church. He took a deep breath and entered the confessional...a moment later he screamed.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

DETECTIVE RODNEY PETERS was a mile away from where Sonny and Lucy were when a call came across his radio.

"This is Officer Cristopher Roberts. I am in the parking lot of St. Gabriel's Church in Pompano Beach, where I'm looking at an Audi Q5 that matches the description of Sonny Michaels' vehicle. What would you like me to do?"

"This is dispatch, Officer Roberts; please standby."

"This is Detective Rodney Peters, the lead detective in charge of the investigation. I am one mile away from your location, Officer Roberts. Hold tight until I get there. Dispatch, please send backup to Officer Roberts' location. I don't know what we are dealing with."

Peters passed the Pompano Beach fishing pier on his way to the abandoned church. He recalled that Adrian had used the church as a landmark and made a mental note to look into that in more detail tomorrow. The more he thought about this case, the more complex it seemed. Deep down inside he didn't think it was just about a man who abducted his wife; his instincts told him there was something more going on.

He arrived at the church a minute later where Officer Roberts was waiting in his patrol car. They both heard the scream come from inside the church; it sounded like it came from a man and not a woman.

"We can't wait for backup," Peters said. "We have to go in."

The two first tried the main entrance and found it to be locked and then the south entrance, which was also locked. As they walked along the south wall, Peters could have sworn he heard the sound of someone weeping violently inside, and then they heard another person scream—this time sounding more like a woman than a man. The two ran around to the other side of the church and found the north entrance to be unlocked. They entered the church and saw a commotion on the opposite side by the confessional.

"Fort Lauderdale police," Detective Peters said. "Don't make any sudden movements, and keep your hands out where we can see them."

Lucy ran toward the detective, as white as a ghost.

"Ms. Hendricks?" Peters said in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Sonny came to my house earlier, abducted me, and brought me here. Mia is in the confessional; she's dead."

"Where is Sonny now?"

"In the confessional with Mia."

"Is he armed?"

"No, I don't think so."

Detective Peters ordered Officer Roberts to call for a crime scene team and then headed toward the confessional with his gun drawn. Upon entering, he saw Sonny holding onto Mia's body in a loving rather than menacing manner. The loud weeping he heard before was replaced with gentle sobbing; Sonny looked like a man who genuinely was upset over the death of his wife. Peters holstered his gun.

"I am Detective Rodney Peters of the Fort Lauderdale Police Department. What is your name?"

"Anthony Michaels, but my friends call me Sonny," he replied woodenly.

"I need you to step away from the body, Mr. Michaels."

"I can't leave her," Sonny said. "You have to catch the bastards who did this to her."

Earlier in the day Peters had been convinced that Sonny was behind his wife's disappearance, and he still believed he had something to do with it, but his police instincts told him this wasn't cut and dry. His gut told him there were bigger forces at play than Sonny's mental health issues.

"I am going to do all I can to make sure the people who did this are brought to justice," Peters said, thinking to himself, _Even if you're one of them_.

Peters heard the sirens approaching just minutes later. It was department protocol to also send paramedics to confirm that a victim was dead. Fortunately, Pompano Fire and Rescue was located under a mile away; their station was adjacent to the fishing pier.

"Mr. Michaels," Peters began to say.

"Sonny. Please call me Sonny."

"Sonny, in a minute the paramedics will be here followed by our crime scene team. They will comb the scene for evidence. I'm going to need you to come down to the station with me to answer a few questions."

Sonny stared blankly at Detective Peters.

"Sonny?"

" _She's_ the one behind all of this," Sonny said, pointing to Lucy. "Lucy Hendricks, Adrian Tepes, and that goon Gerry from security. They did this to my wife."

"Save it for your statement," Peters advised.

A minute passed between the two in silence, which was broken when the paramedics came in with their gear.

"Don't move the body or disturb the crime scene in any way," Peters ordered. "Just confirm that the victim is dead; our crime scene team will do the rest."

"We know the drill, Detective."

A few seconds later they confirmed what everyone in that abandoned church already knew: Mia Michaels was dead. It was now Peters' job to answer the two big questions— _who did it_ and _why_?

## CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

DETECTIVE PETERS WOULD never get the chance to do the full-scale investigation into the death of Mia Michaels. Stuart Barker, the district attorney who had been unpopular with the citizens of Fort Lauderdale due to rumors about his ties to organized crime, was hungry for blood and saw swift justice in the Mia Michaels murder as his ticket to reelection.

The media billed the high-profile case against Sonny Michaels as The People vs. Captain Krunch, thereby sensationalizing the fact that Sonny Michaels suffered from mental illness. The story was an easy one to sell: a mentally disturbed man with multiple personalities kidnaps his wife while he was in an altered mental state, then abducts a coworker and brings her to the crime scene. The DA felt it was an open-and-shut case and therefore stonewalled any attempts on the part of Detective Rodney Peters to dig any deeper into the facts surrounding it.

Sonny's attorneys advised him to plead insanity in order to obtain a reduced sentence, but he refused to admit to having anything to do with his wife's disappearance and murder. At the end of the trial, which lasted only a few days, the jury wound up convicting Sonny Michaels for the death of his wife and for the assault and attempted kidnapping of Lucy Hendricks. After the trial ended, members of the jury would point to four pieces of evidence that convinced them of Sonny's guilt: testimony from the bartender at Clippers suggesting that Sonny caught his wife cheating on him and therefore provided motive, one past documented account of violence against Mia when Sonny was experiencing a psychotic episode, the videotape of Sonny lunging at Lucy and then placing her unconscious body in his car on the night of the murder, and the fact that Sonny was found at the crime scene.Although Florida was a death penalty state, Sonny was sentenced to life in prison versus death by lethal injection largely because the judge took pity on Sonny due to his psychological condition. After the sentencing newspapers stopped covering anything about the Michaels' case, and nobody gave it much more thought for five years—but after that, everything erupted again.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

**Present Day**

## CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

THE _UNCORKING A Murder_ podcast took the nation by storm. Farrah Graham, the creator and host, struck a nerve with the U.S. public with the ten-episode serial that combined investigative journalism, old-fashioned radio drama, and exciting storytelling. Young people loved it because it was distributed through a medium that their generation helped popularize, and older people loved it because it was nostalgic, reminding them of a simpler time.

The first season focused on the trial and conviction of a famous American football player and actor named Brandon Nash who was serving two life sentences for the murders of his ex-wife and her boyfriend. In the ten-episode exposé, Farrah interviewed witnesses, friends of Brandon, investigators on the case, and even the attorneys who tried it. Each episode was carefully sculpted to answer some questions but unearth even more, leaving the listener with a cliff-hanger each week. While the series didn't come to any firm conclusion on whether or not Nash committed the crimes, the popularity of the show was responsible for a renewed interest in the case from a legal perspective, and it appeared as if an appeal would be granted.

Farrah herself wasn't prepared for the instant success of the show; if anything, she thought it would be her ticket to a more normal life. Up until a little over a year ago, she was a practicing attorney working eighty hours a week in a prestigious Manhattan law firm. One night she came home to find a written ultimatum from Melody, her partner of ten years, on their dining room table: _It's_ _your job or me. You choose._ The next day she tendered her resignation, and the two sold their SoHo loft and moved to Stamford, Connecticut.

The first month after leaving her job, Farrah read a book written by Nash's defense attorney on the behind the scenes of the Nash case; she immediately spotted all the things she would have done differently in his defense. She discussed this with Melody, who had a background in audio production, and the two decided to work on an investigative piece that would be documented through audio recordings and archived footage of the case. A year later, they had whittled hundreds of hours of footage down to ten, enough for ten one-hour podcasts, but they needed a catchy title. The answer came late at night when Farrah decided to open up a bottle of wine; Melody saw Farrah struggling with the cork and suggested they name the show _Uncorking a Murder_.

The show's instant success thrust Farrah immediately into the spotlight. Listeners enjoyed the unique cadence of her voice and the way she told a story, but it wasn't as if Farrah had a "face made for radio." She was drop-dead gorgeous with long blonde hair and the lithe body of an athlete. Her hair had been a focal point ever since she was a kid; when she was younger her father gave her the nickname "Golden" as a reference to both her hair and her personality and enjoyed introducing her as his little Golden Graham. She had used that nickname when working for her college radio station, but these days the only person who referred to her that way was her father.

Farrah quickly became a media darling. First came the newspaper interviews and then, not to be outdone, the twenty-four-hour news channels came calling. She appeared regularly on all the major networks as an expert on the legal system whenever there was a big murder case in the news. She received all sorts of offers to join various networks as the host of her own show, but she turned them down, vowing not to get sucked into another life of eighty-hour work weeks. Plus, she didn't want some Ivy League-educated news director telling her what to focus on; she wanted to keep her own objectivity. In her experience, all the news channels had agendas of their own, and she wanted nothing to do with any of them. With over twenty million downloads for the first season of _Uncorking a Murder_ , the advertising revenue she and Melody were able to pocket allowed them to live a very comfortable lifestyle, so they agreed to maintain their independence.

Wanting to separate work from home, Farrah and Melody rented office space in downtown Stamford and turned it into a recording studio. They also hired an intern from nearby Fairfield University to help schedule interviews for season two of _Uncorking a Murder_. Jimmy Rella was a communications major who thought he'd found the internship of a lifetime given the success of the show, even though he didn't do much more than answer telephones and run personal errands for his two bosses. Three weeks into his internship Jimmy expressed his concerns, leading Melody to nickname him "Jimmy Doubts"; from then on, whenever she saw him she always referred to him as "Doubts."

Farrah and Melody realized they did have a problem—they couldn't agree on a case to focus on for season two. Melody wanted to find another sensational case featuring a celebrity because she thought that was the key to season one's success. Farrah, however, disagreed that the case needed to feature a well-known figure. In her heart she knew it was powerful storytelling that earned them downloads; she argued that the case could feature a relative nobody and still capture the attention of the American populace. As partners in the podcast, they were at a stalemate, and Jimmy Doubts found himself caught in the middle. One day while his bosses were engaging in yet another circular argument over season two, he took the call that would change their lives forever.

The phone had been ringing for what appeared to be an eternity when Melody threw a stuffed animal at Jimmy to get his attention. "Doubts, are you going to answer that phone?"

Removing the earbuds that were firmly planted in his ears, Jimmy replied, "Sorry, I was listening to the third episode of season one." They had encouraged him to go back and listen to the first season of _Uncorking a Murder_ in order to provide a point of view on what improvements could be made for the second season.

"Uncorking a Murder, this is Jimmy speaking. How can I help you?"

A gravelly voice on the other end of the phone said, "I'd like to speak to Farrah Graham, please." Most people who called the office wanted to speak directly to Farrah, and if Jimmy patched everyone through to her, she would never be able to breathe. Because of this, one of Jimmy's roles was screening every caller. "Ms. Graham is out at the moment; is there something I can help you with?"

"My name is Rodney Peters," said the voice on the other end of the line, "and I'm a retired detective with the Fort Lauderdale Police Department. I want to see if she would be interested in chatting with me about an old case I worked on."

"As you might understand, Detective Peters, we get a lot of calls like this, and I can't promise that she will return your call, but if you leave me your contact number I will pass it along to Ms. Graham."

"I would appreciate that, but before I give it to you, can I ask you a question?"

"Fire away."

"Are you an intern?"

Jimmy was taken aback by this question. He wasn't used to being engaged in conversation with callers looking for Farrah.

"Yes, why do you ask?"

"I bet you are looking to this internship as an opportunity to help launch you into a career in the podcasting business, aren't you? I don't imagine that Fairfield University has a degree program in that field yet."

Jimmy thought to himself that this guy had done his homework before calling. "No, they do not."

"And I bet you are sick and tired of doing nothing but answering the phone all day while your two bosses argue over what case they should focus on next, aren't you?"

_This guy must be psychic,_ Jimmy thought. "That's putting it lightly."

"How would you like to be part of helping to bring justice to a man who I believe was convicted of a crime he did not commit? Instead of answering phones and hearing pitches, you could be setting up calls with the prosecutors and defense attorneys on the case, the detectives who investigated it—all the key players."

Jimmy's pulse started to quicken; this was the opportunity he had been looking for.

"It all starts with you, Jimmy. Just convince Farrah Graham to call me back, and your life will become much more interesting."

"She's going to want to know something about the case before she decides to call you back. What can I tell her about it?"

"Simply pray to our lady of Google using the search term "the people vs. Captain Krunch." Print out the first few hits for her and leave my phone number at the top." Jimmy wrote down Peters' phone number and ended the call. He quickly turned his attention to his computer and did what Peters had asked.

"Ms. Graham," Jimmy shouted. "I think you should take a look at this."

"What's this all about, Doubts?" Melody said. "Please tell me you have something good."

"Let the kid speak, Melody," Farrah said.

"I just got off the phone with a former police detective in Fort Lauderdale," Jimmy began.

"Stop right there," Melody interrupted. "There is no way we are going to take on a case from Florida. That state has nothing but weirdos." For some reason that Farrah never fully understood, Melody had a problem with the entire state of Florida and refused to even go on vacation down there.

"Jimmy," Farrah said, "Don't pay any attention to her. What have you got?"

"The people vs. Captain Krunch."

Melody and Farrah looked at each other and then back at their intern, confused looks on their faces.

"What you talking about, Doubts?" Farrah said, imitating Gary Coleman's character Arnold from the '80s sitcom _Diff'rent Strokes_. Farrah was a child of the '80's and a TV nut who often referenced eighties pop culture in everyday conversation.

"Five years ago a guy by the name of Sonny Michaels was convicted of murdering his wife. I just got off the phone with the detective who worked on the case, and he wants you to consider examining it for season two of _Uncorking a Murder_."

"Interesting," Farrah responded.

"With all the high-profile cases we could choose, why would we even consider this one?" Melody challenged. "We could take a second look at the Robert Blake case, the Phil Spector case, or even the case against Charlie Manson; why bother with a nobody in Florida?"

Farrah looked through some of the things that Jimmy printed out for her and then looked her partner in the eye. "Because an innocent man may have gone to prison."

"Farrah, who cares about innocence? People want sensationalism."

"The fact that one of the detectives on the case was the one who reached out to us intrigues me. Why would he want us to take a second look? My sense tells me there is more to this case."

"I can't believe you want to go through with this," Melody protested.

"For what it's worth," Jimmy spoke up, "he sounded really sincere on the phone."

"Oh, I bet he did," Melody said sarcastically. "He's probably hoping to see his name in lights."

"It couldn't hurt to just talk to him," Jimmy argued back. "I mean, it will only cost you a phone call."

"I'll call him back," Farrah said. "And I'll make up my own mind whether this is a case I want to pursue for season two." Farrah was no pushover; while she respected Melody's opinion, she had made it clear that she would retain full creative control of the show, while Melody would assist with pulling the pieces together when it came time to carve their research into episodes.

"Give me his number, Jimmy. I'll call him right now."

## CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

RODNEY PETERS RETIRED shortly after the Sonny Michaels trial; while he was only fifty-seven years old, his time on the job allowed him a full pension and, living as a widower, that was more than enough to pay the bills. The outcome of Sonny's case led him to see his profession in a whole new light. He became a cop out of a moral duty to bring justice to the world and maintain peace in his community, but what he experienced during the Sonny Michaels case made him sick to his stomach.

Even though he had been one of the first on the scene at the Michaels' house and had his suspicions about Sonny's involvement in his wife's abduction, unlike Stuart Barker, now a junior US Senator representing the state of Florida, Peters didn't see the case as a black-and-white slam dunk. There were key pieces of evidence the jury was never able to hear, including the presence of an unknown person's blood at the crime scene and trace evidence of dead skin under Mia Michaels' fingernails that, according to DNA tests, did not match that of Sonny Michaels. This led Rodney to suspect that Mia's abductor—and eventual murderer—was someone other than her husband.

The prosecution didn't want to hear any of that, and they successfully blocked any evidence from being shown to the jury. They had a video of Sonny lunging toward and eventually kidnapping Lucy Hendricks as well as an old police report of Sonny attacking his wife while in an altered state. The fact that Sonny led police to his wife's body didn't help, either. Still, Rodney Peters had his suspicions about Adrian Tepes and Lucy Hendricks, suspicions that were based largely on his detective's instinct—which, of course, was not enough to create reasonable doubt in the mind of a jury of one's peers.

Like millions of other Americans, Rodney Peters got caught up in Farrah Graham's _Uncorking a Murder_ podcast. He thought if there was any chance of getting a judge to take another look at the Sonny Michaels case, it would be if Farrah agreed to cover it on the second season of her show. While he could easily try to forget about the case—it was, after all, one of hundreds he had investigated when he was on the job—he wanted to fulfill a promise he made to Sonny's late father, Tony, who suffered a heart attack and died a year after his son went to prison. Before Tony died, Peters became friendly with him and vowed to do what he could in order to get Sonny's case reexamined. Over the years, he lost faith in the court system but now was eager to try a new tactic: having the case reexamined in the court of public opinion.

At the moment he was sitting in the small home office he built for himself at his house on Mt. Pleasant Street in Fort Lauderdale. He was only a hundred yards from the water and spent his time either walking on the beach or working on his golf game at the Country Club of Plantation, located ten miles away. On days he didn't play golf, he often spent some time pursuing his other passion—the Sonny Michaels case.

He was typing some notes into his computer when his train of thought was interrupted by his cell phone's buzzing in his right pocket. The caller ID displayed a number from the 203 area code. While he tended to let calls from numbers he didn't recognize go to voicemail, he decided to answer this one knowing that the _Uncorking a Murder_ office was based in Connecticut and 203 was one of the Nutmeg State's area codes.

"This is Rodney Peters; how can I help you?"

"Mr. Peters, this is Farrah Graham with _Uncorking a Murder_ ; I believe you spoke to my intern earlier today. How are you doing?"

Peters took a minute to respond because he was surprised a burgeoning celebrity like Farrah would actually call him back.

"Mr. Peters, are you there?"

"Please, call me Rodney, Ms. Graham."

"And you can call me Farrah," she replied.

"Deal, Farrah. First, I want to let you know how much I enjoy your podcast. I've never felt so compelled by anything coming through my headphones."

"That's kind of you to say."

"It's not every day a lawyer can grab my attention the way you did."

"Well, when I was in college I studied communications because I wanted to become a radio DJ, but then two things happened: _video killed the radio star_ , and after working an internship at a local radio station during the summer before my senior year of college, I learned just how poorly radio personalities were paid."

"Let me guess—you did the math and figured out that it would take two lifetimes to pay back your student loans?"

"Something like that," Farrah said, laughing. "So with my father's encouragement, I went to law school and spent a good fifteen years of my life burning the midnight oil. I thought my life would change after making partner, but it only got crazier. I left the law behind to focus on my personal relationships, but that didn't last too long. And there I go, rambling on about myself. Sorry about that. Why do you want me to focus on the Sonny Michaels case?"

Peters explained his interest in the case and his early involvement with it. After taking a few minutes to do that, he made his impassioned plea: "After saying all that, there's one reason I believe you should take on this case."

"And what is that, Rodney?"

"Because a good man has gone to jail, and there is an incredible story behind why I think that happened."

"More than you already shared with me?"

"Ms. Graham, I have yet to even scratch the surface."

"Listen, I have to run to a meeting now, but when can we speak again? How can I get my hands on your research?"

"I don't feel comfortable sharing it with you by email, and there is too much to go through on the phone. How would you feel about coming down here for a few days and talking in person?"

It was a cold January in Connecticut, and Farrah was itching to go south to warmer climates. She would need some help going through the research, but she knew that Melody would say a flat-out no, given her aversion to the state of Florida. However, Jimmy's winter break from Fairfield University was coming up, and she knew he didn't have any plans. Impulsively she said, "My intern and I can fly down next week to meet with you, but there are no guarantees that we will take this on."

"I understand, Ms. Graham," Peters said. "See you next week."

"Good-bye, Rodney—I'll be in touch about our travel details. I'm looking forward to meeting with you."

"Likewise," Peters replied.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

ADRIAN TEPES WAS hanging upside down on his inversion table talking on the phone when Lucy Hendricks came into his office. The inversion table was a new addition to his workspace; while the trend in corporate America was now standing desks, Adrian claimed that he thought better when hanging upside down with the blood going directly to his head instead of downward to his toes. Since becoming a billionaire, The Count had grown more and more eccentric.

Adrian motioned Lucy to sit while he finished up his conversation, "Of course you can count on my support, Senator Barker—and speaking of support, can I count on yours to remove any roadblocks the merger between Tepes Therapies and Diabetica faces with the Federal Trade Commission?" In the past five years, former District Attorney Stuart Barker had been elected as governor of Florida and now served as the state's junior U.S. senator and sat on the Subcommittee on Antitrust, Competition Policy and Consumer Rights. In an effort to expand his empire and eliminate another competitor, Adrian was pushing for a merger between his company and the second leading supplier of diabetes-testing equipment in the country, Diabetica. Given the size of the two firms, there were some in the government who raised antitrust allegations, but Adrian hated losing and Barker owed him a big favor.

While Lucy couldn't hear what the senator was saying, her boss seemed pleased with the response. "Yes, that's what friends are for, Senator. See you in a few months in Cannes."

Adrian turned his inversion table right side up in order to address Lucy. "Ms. Hendricks, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" His hair, now pin straight and falling to his shoulders, was disheveled, although he didn't seem to mind.

"We've been sleeping with each other for five years, Adrian—I think you can dispel with the formality of referring to me as Ms. Hendricks."

"Well, I'd like to refer to you as Mrs. Tepes, but you refuse to marry me."

"How many times do I have to tell you, Count, I'm not the marrying kind!"

Adrian sat next to her on the couch, put his mouth close to her ear, and whispered, "You know you're the only one in this building who can refer to me by that name."

She put her hand on his knee and said, "Is there something else you would like me to call you?"

He swatted her hand away. "I can't do this now. I have to attend a dinner with the board tonight."

"You have a shower in the office; I can make it quick."

"Not tonight. I don't think as well after sex."

Adrian was very quirky about sex; he had the idea that a bit of his life force was lost every time he had intercourse. This was a major point of contention early on in their relationship, but Lucy came to understand it was just another one of his idiosyncrasies. She'd have to settle for a hot bath and her own imagination this evening. Disappointed, she walked over to the bar Adrian kept in his office and poured herself a glass of Belvedere vodka over ice.

"Keep that under control, dearest Lucy. We don't need another repeat of what happened last month."

Over the several years, Lucy had developed the habit of drinking every night. It started with a glass of wine after work; one glass became two, and two became a bottle. When wine ceased to get the trick done, she turned to the hard stuff. Vodka was now her regular companion. She didn't drink during the day, and to Adrian's knowledge she had never missed a day of work because of her habit, but discussing it with him made her agitated.

Last month, Adrian had thrown a company party to announce the merger between T2 and Diabetica. Technically it was more of a takeover than a merger, but they positioned it as a merger to the employees in order to prevent a mass exodus of talent from Diabetica. Lucy had more to drink than usual and slurred her way through some comments she had been asked to give to the staff. Since then, Adrian kept a closer watch on her drinking at corporate functions.

"Don't worry your pretty little fangs, my dear Count—I'll be a good girl tonight."

"Will I see you later?"

"I'm going to stay at my place tonight, so I wouldn't count on it...unless you surprise me." Another bone of contention in their relationship was that Adrian refused to sleep anywhere other than his own house; he claimed it was the only place he truly felt safe.

"I was hoping you would stay at Poenari tonight," he said. Poenari was the name of the estate Adrian built on a canal in Fort Lauderdale. His neighbors included celebrities, captains of industry, and the owner of the Miami Dolphins. The fact that he built the home to look like a castle turned it into somewhat of a tourist attraction for people who liked to boat up and down the surrounding canals and waterways. "I get lonely in that big house all alone."

"I don't know why you built such a large place. You made it clear that you don't want kids, and you loathe entertaining."

"I am a man who likes his space," he replied, fixing his tie in the mirror.

"Well, I haven't spent a night at L'Heritage in over a week, and I'm going home." After the IPO, Lucy purchased a 3000-square-foot condominium at the corner of Oakland Park Boulevard and A1A. Her building was on a strip of A1A known as the Galt Ocean Mile and was home to some of the wealthiest people in Fort Lauderdale.

"Have it your way, luv," Adrian replied. "Remember, I'm going to Romania for the weekend to visit my brother. Renfield has been admitted to the hospital again and I need to spend some time with him. I plan on being back in the States midweek."

"Let me guess—you need me to feed Alice." Alice was Adrian's boa constrictor, and he fed her a live mouse once a week, typically on Saturdays. He didn't let anyone else into his home besides Lucy, and while she detested feeding Alice, she would do it for Adrian.

"If it's not too much trouble."

"Whatever. I'm leaving; have a good time tonight."

After a peck on the cheek, Lucy left Adrian's office and took the elevator down to the parking garage level reserved for the company's senior executives. While the garage was well lit, she always felt nervous walking to her car in the evening. That particular night, she had the feeling that someone was watching her. When she arrived at her car, a brand-new white Mercedes SLK 300 convertible, she saw a flyer under the driver's side windshield wiper.

_There's not supposed to be any soliciting down here_ , she thought, looking around. She noticed that hers was the only car in the garage with anything on it. When she lifted up the windshield wiper to remove the flyer, she realized that it wasn't a flyer; it was an envelope. Curious to know what was inside, she opened the envelope, only to find a picture of her old friend Mia Michaels inside. Across the picture of Mia were scribbled the words "Karma is a bitch."

Startled, Lucy crumpled the note and tossed it into her bag, jumped in her car, and tore out of the garage, leaving skid marks on the floor. She needed to get home and have another drink.

A moment later, Rodney Peters pulled out of a spot on the other side of the garage. _Mission accomplished_ , he thought.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

"WHY DO YOU hate Florida so much?" Farrah asked Melody as she packed her suitcase. Melody's issues with Florida were an ongoing issue between the two ever since they started dating. Farrah grew up vacationing every winter on Florida's west coast, and her father still owned a place on Sanibel Island.

"Where do I even begin? The southern part has mostly old people waiting to die, and anywhere outside of that is filled with redneck racists. And Orlando? Come on, the commercialism of Orlando and its amusement parks are ruining American culture. Have you seen the type of people who vacation at Disney World, munching on giant turkey legs and rolling around the park in their Lark scooters equipped with oxygen tanks? Not to mention the fact that 90 percent of the weird news I read or see on TV comes out of Florida."

"I'll concede to your point about weird news," Farrah said, zipping up her suitcase, "but I'm not buying that Florida is any more racist than anywhere else."

Melody Note was the child of a biracial couple: her African-American father was a Yale-educated lawyer, and her Irish mother was a professional singer who trained at the Berkeley College of Music in Boston. Melody inherited her mother's love of music, but not her singing talent, and she ended up training for a career as an audio engineer. Before helping to start _Uncorking a Murder_ , she worked as a freelance engineer for radio stations and recording studios.

"Easy for you to say, Golden Graham—you've never had to sit in the back of a bus before."

"Neither have you!" Farrah protested.

"True," Melody said, laughing, "but if I did, it would be in the state of Florida."

"I am going to miss you over the next few days. Are you sure you can't make an exception this time?"

"Oh, hell no," Melody said in an overly dramatic fashion. "Besides, who will take care of Mulder and Scully while you are gone?"

Since moving to the suburbs last year, Farrah rescued a dog and cat—named Mulder and Scully respectively. One would have to look hard to find a bigger fan of _The X-Files_ than Farrah Graham. Farrah made adopting the pets a condition of their move out of Manhattan.

"Good point." Farrah moved in to kiss Melody, but the moment was broken by the sound of the doorbell, followed immediately by Mulder's barking.

"Shit, Doubts is here!" Melody said.

"You'll just have to wait for that kiss until I get back," Farrah said.

"I'll be counting the minutes."

The two walked down the stairs; Farrah came close to knocking down the pictures that hung above the banister with her bag while she descended.

"You will always be a klutz, won't you?"

"It's in my blood, babe."

Farrah opened the door to find Jimmy waiting for her.

"Keep her out of trouble, Doubts."

"I'll call you as soon as I land," Farrah said.

Melody stood in the doorway, watching as Farrah and Jimmy walked toward his 1996 Volkswagen Passat. _With any luck, his car will break down and they will miss their flight_ , Melody thought. The car took a little longer than usual to turn over, but the engine finally caught and Jimmy backed out of the driveway. He must have said something funny, because Farrah was laughing as they passed the house and drove down the street. At that moment Melody felt a pang of jealously deep in her gut; she considered boarding Mulder and Scully and flying down to Florida, but the feeling passed. She just couldn't bear the thought of voluntarily spending any time down in God's waiting room.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

HALF A MILE from Lucy Hendricks' condominium was a Destiny Donuts, and that was precisely where Rodney Peters parked himself Saturday morning at 11 a.m. While there were many Destiny Donuts locations sprinkled throughout Fort Lauderdale, Peters felt that this one had the best-tasting coffee—a sentiment apparently shared by many other people considering the length of the line Rodney found himself in. Additionally, they had outdoor seating where people-watchers could observe some of South Florida's wealthiest residents walk, jog, bike, or sometimes even rollerblade on "the mile."

"I can take you down here, Mr. Peters," came a voice from across the counter. It belonged to Topher, a nineteen-year-old skinny white kid with dreadlocks and enough metal in his face to set an airport metal detector off. Topher's mother, Mellinda, a retired investment banker originally from Darien, Connecticut, opened this Destiny Donuts franchise one year ago to remove her son from what she considered a toxic environment filled with greed, lust, and designer drugs. Rodney had become friends with Mellinda through a church group and served as a positive role model to Topher.

"Topher, I'll have a black coffee, a buttered roll, and a pair of scissors to cut your hair."

"I can give you two out of the three, Mr. Peters, but the hair is staying."

"I believe it was the poet Meatloaf who said, 'Two out of three ain't bad.'"

"Huh?" replied Topher.

Rodney noticed Topher was wearing a pin saying, "To love and serve" on it. "Are you into tennis now?" Rodney asked.

"What? Oh, the pin. No, I'm a Buddhist now. It's my new mantra. Say, where did you get that dope hat?" Rodney was wearing a hat promoting _Uncorking a Murder_. "That podcast is off the hizzy."

"I didn't realize Buddhists were now using ghetto terms."

"It's a new age of Buddhism. Hey, your buddy Darryl is at his usual spot on the bench today, would you like me to double your order?"

Darryl was a local fixture on the Galt Ocean Mile. He was a homeless man who periodically took up residence at a park bench close to the Destiny Donuts shop; he never openly asked anyone for a handout and pretty much lived off the kindness of others. He would disappear for a week at a time or more, leaving the residents to wonder whether or not he was still on the top side of the grass. Peters would often buy him a coffee and a buttered roll and sit with him in silence on the bench while they ate together; Darryl was not much of a talker. Rodney was able to piece together that he was a Vietnam veteran who suffered from some psychological problems, most likely PTSD.

"Good idea. I haven't seen him in a while—I'm glad to hear he is back."

"That will be $3.50 please, Mr. Peters; no charge for your friend today."

"Thank you, Topher," Peters said, slipping five dollars into the tip jar. "Peace and love, peace and love," he said in a British accent as he flashed Topher a peace sign.

Rodney walked out of the donut shop and across the street after spotting Darryl on his favorite park bench. Taking a seat next to him, he handed him his coffee and roll and said, "This is for you, Darryl. Haven't seen you in a while. How have you been?"

"Win some, lose some, I guess." Darryl was never one for words and always responded to questions with answers that required more probing in order for them to make sense. Some days he was more lucid than others, today was not one of those days.

"Where you been?" Rodney asked, sipping his coffee.

"Here and there," he replied. "Thanks for the cup of joe, bro." At times he would speak in beatnik fashion; most people found it endearing. "Nice hat. I left mine in San Francisco; been meaning to pick up a new one."

Peters didn't know whether or not Darryl was serious about leaving his hat in San Francisco or if he was referencing the old song "I Left My Heart in San Francisco"; regardless, Rodney offered Darryl his own hat, knowing he had a closetful of baseball caps he had collected over the years.

The two finished their coffee and rolls in silence until Darryl said, "You ever talk to that Michaels kid no more?"

After Sonny's father died, Rodney found himself talking to Darryl about the Michaels case; he never had any idea whether or not Darryl followed any of it, and he viewed those chats as free therapy of sorts.

"I haven't been to visit him in over a year," Peters admitted. He felt guilty about it, but it was heartbreaking for him to see how badly Sonny had deteriorated. To know there was nothing he could do to get Sonny a fair trial was unbearable.

As Peters got up to leave, Darryl offered some reassuring words. "And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free."

At that moment a woman jogged past them, and Rodney recognized her immediately as Lucy Hendricks. Her eyes met his, and she immediately averted them as she recognized him.

"The truth will set you free," Rodney yelled after her.

"A wise man said that to me once," Darryl commented. "And he was usually right."

## CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

"JIMMY, IF YOU drive any faster, we'll get pulled over for speeding," Farrah cautioned as they sped south on the Merritt Parkway on their way to the Westchester County airport. It was 11:30 in the morning, and their flight left in an hour.

"I don't want to miss the flight, Ms. Graham," Jimmy explained.

"We are ten minutes from the airport, and it will only take us five minutes to get through security. We have plenty of time." Westchester County Airport was a tiny, one-terminal airport on the boarder of Harrison, New York, and Greenwich, Connecticut. This time of year there were three direct flights to Fort Lauderdale every day, and since moving to Connecticut, Farrah preferred to fly out of that airport even though the flights were considerably more expensive than those out of JFK or La Guardia.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Graham, but my mother always makes me nervous about being late for something; she always reminds me that I was born late and tells me I'm the kind of guy who will be late to his own funeral. Plus, whenever I travel, the TSA always gives me a hard time."

"You really live up to your nickname, Doubts, don't you?"

"Yes I do, Ms. Graham."

"And that's another thing—this isn't the 1950s; it's okay to call me by my first name. You're twenty-one years old, for cryin' out loud."

"OK, Ms. G., I mean Farrah."

"That's better."

Jimmy moved into the right lane as they approached the exit for Westchester County Airport. "I hope we get a spot in the garage, I don't want to have to park off-site and have to take the shuttle bus."

"Doubts, we'll get a spot, trust me."

They were just a few miles from the airport when Farrah spotted the unique round structure of St. Paul's Catholic Church, the church she had attended as a child. She saw the new pastor walking across the grounds.

"Pull in here for a second," she instructed Jimmy.

"I don't think we have time. We're cutting it close as it is."

"Live a little, Jimmy Doubts."

Jimmy did as he was told. _What's the worst that can happen?_ he thought to himself. If they missed the flight because his boss wanted to pull over, then it would be her fault, not his.

He pulled up next to the priest, who was wearing his formal clerical garb under a winter coat. "Why is he wearing a skirt?" he asked Farrah.

"It's not a skirt, Doubts; it's a cassock. Fr. Michael always wears his formal clerical garb." She rolled down her window to get his attention. "Can you tell me the best way to get to salvation?" Farrah asked. It was a running joke between the two of them.

The priest's response surprised Jimmy. "I could tell you, Farrah, but then I'd have to kill you."

"If you killed me," Farrah replied, "Dad would kill you."

_This conversation is taking an odd turn_ , Jimmy thought.

"Where are you going, sis?" the priest asked. "And who is this, a new flame?"

"I'm still a lesbian, and this is Jimmy Doubts. Jimmy, this is my big brother Michael Graham."

"With a last name like Doubts, your first name should be Thomas."

"My last name isn't really Doubts," Jimmy said, "It's actually Rella. Your sister and her, um, partner christened me Jimmy Doubts."

"That's actually a great gangster name," Fr. Michael commented. He looked into the backseat and noticed the suitcases. "I'm guessing you two are heading to the airport. Are you working on a second season of _Uncorking a Murderer_?"

"As a matter of fact, we are," Farrah replied.

"Can you tell me anything about the case?" Fr. Michael asked.

"As a matter of fact, I can't."

"You can tell me anything—I'm a priest and sworn to secrecy."

"You know I know that only holds true in the confessional. How's Dad doing?" Over the years, Farrah and her father became estranged; she sensed it had something to do with his not supporting her lifestyle, although he never admitted to as much.

"He's actually doing well—he's even dating again." Farrah and Michael's mother died ten years ago, and their father, who had only been with one woman his entire life, had gone into a deep depression. Farrah was happy to hear that he found someone.

"Don't tell me he's coming to you for confession; I'm not sure I could handle knowing that Dad is spilling his sexual secrets to you." Farrah and Michael were raised in a traditional Catholic home, and their parents drilled into them that while sex outside of marriage was a mortal sin, all one had to do was confess one's sins to a priest and, voila, absolution.

Farrah often wondered if Catholics got married so young because they were sick and tired of confessing the same old sins over and over. She personally had a hard time confessing anything about her sexual proclivities to a celibate man and eventually joined the growing ranks of lapsed Catholics. Michael, however, went the opposite route and became a priest.

"We should probably get going," Doubts said to Farrah, tapping his fingers nervously on the steering wheel.

"One more thing before you go, sis," Father Michael said. "I spoke with Dad last week. He said if I talked to you to let you know how much he enjoyed _Uncorking a Murder_."

This took Farrah by surprise. Her father wasn't particularly tech-savvy, and she wondered how he was able to listen to her podcast. She suspected her brother had something to do with it.

"He would love it if you would call him."

"That works both ways, you know," Farrah protested.

"Easter is early this year, and Dad and Carolyn, his new friend, want to host Easter dinner. Why don't you and Melody come? It will be like old times."

Farrah let out a big sigh and then said, "I have to go. We're going to miss our flight."

"At least promise me you'll consider it," her brother said.

Farrah started rolling up her window. Waving good-bye, she said, "OK—I'll think about it."

## CHAPTER FORTY

LUCY HENDRICKS HAD only run a half a mile of her six-mile run when she passed Rodney Peters sitting on a park bench next to crazy Darryl. The homeless guy's presence always made her uncomfortable, and she wondered why the local cops didn't do anything about him. She made a mental note to call a friend in the police department to see if he could help take care of the Darryl situation; by doing so, she thought, she would be heralded as a neighborhood hero.

Lucy tried unsuccessfully to avoid making eye contact with Peters; she never forgot how he came to question her after Mia Michaels' murder as if she herself was a suspect. It was just days after the T2 IPO, and Lucy was waiting for her real estate agent, Pepper Nichols, to arrive to do a walk-through on the small house Lucy had called home for a decade.

_When the doorbell rang, Lucy was surprised to see Detective Rodney Peters standing_ _outside her door; she was holding a bag of her recycling, consisting primarily of empty wine bottles that clinked together as she looked over the detective at her door._

_"You look disappointed to see me, Ms. Hendricks; may I come in?"_

_"Sorry—it's just that I was expecting my real estate agent; I'm planning to put this place on the market. Come on in."_

_Rodney Peters walked through the door and entered Lucy's home. "This is a lovely place you have here, and not too far from your office—why would you want to sell it?"_

_Lucy set her bag of recyclables down; one of the bottles inside broke when the bag hit the ground. "I'm looking for a bigger place by the water. If you like this place, I haven't put it on the market yet—make me an offer, and we can keep the realtors out of it." Lucy's attempt to be cute and friendly failed; she came across instead as snobby and condescending._

_"I'm happy where I am, Ms. Hendricks. As you can imagine, I didn't come all the way here to talk about real estate. I have a few questions for you as we wrap up the Mia Michaels murder investigation." Rodney looked down at the bag by Lucy's feet and asked, "Did you have a party here last night?"_

_Lucy had been struggling to put the events surrounding Mia and Sonny out of her mind. After ten years of sobriety, she had started drinking again, thinking that this time she could keep it under control. Not wanting to admit to drinking alone in her apartment, Lucy said, "Yes I had a few friends over last night."_

_"Kind of an odd time to be celebrating. Your best friend's funeral was what, on Wednesday?"_

_"Just a few neighbors who came by to try and help get my mind off of last week. I was kidnapped you know."_

_"Yes, I was going to ask you how you were holding up."_

_"I am doing okay. Still in shock over Mia's death, but it's a good thing you showed up when you did; I could have been next."_

_"Right," Peters said while biting the cap of his pen. "Can you run me through the events of that morning just one more time, Ms. Hendricks?"_

_Lucy was becoming increasingly nervous. She had given her account of the story from her hospital room the night Mia died, where she had been admitted for some minor injuries after Sonny had tackled her. She was both physically and mentally exhausted that night and couldn't remember exactly what she had said, so she had to be careful. Peters was a good detective and she knew not much would get by him._

_"That morning..."_

_"The day before your company went public?" Peters interrupted._

_"Yes. That morning, Adrian held his senior management meeting, and Sonny was invited to speak. We knew he had a breakthrough that he wanted to talk about, so Adrian gave him time during our meeting; Adrian always wants to know anything significant in the company the moment it happens, so it wasn't abnormal that Sonny would get a chance to present."_

_"And what did Sonny present at that meeting?"_

_"I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Detective," Lucy responded._

_"And why not, Ms. Hendricks?"_

_"For your own protection," she responded. "It's proprietary information and, if leaked outside the company, could materially impact our stock price. If I were to tell you, and you traded our stock based on that information, you would open yourself up to accusations of insider trading."_

_"I don't own any of your stock," Peters protested._

_"That's not exactly true. The policemans' pension fund is now heavily invested in pharma stocks, including T2." Lucy knew that Adrian had decided to gift a block of shares to the police department—not so much as a gesture of goodwill to the hardworking men and women who made up Fort Lauderdale's finest, but to ensure that he had some friends when he needed them. "The most I can tell you is that Sonny's research implied that we had the potential to develop a new drug; but please understand that I cannot tell you anything more specific than that. I do know that Sonny was unhappy that Adrian tabled the idea for the short term."_

_"And why wouldn't your boss want to act on Sonny's research? Was it flawed in some way?"_

_"I am not a scientist, so I can't tell you if it was flawed. I do know that Adrian is very careful when it comes to new product development. It could cost up to one billion dollars to bring a new drug to market, and there's no guarantee it will pass the FDA's requirements for a new drug."_

_"So Sonny was mad about the outcome of the meeting; I don't see why that would set him off."_

_"Excuse me, Detective, but I have known Sonny a lot longer than you have. Stress has a tendency to set off his condition. I'm sure that is what happened."_

_"Ms. Hendricks, I spoke with Sonny's father and doctor, and you're right, stress can aggravate Sonny's condition—but so can a blunt trauma to the head."_

_Lucy was momentarily speechless. She hit Sonny over the head in his office, but there was no way Peters could know that. "Are you suggesting that someone hit him in the head?"_

_"The bartender at Clippers said that when Sonny came into the bar earlier in the evening, he had some dried blood on his head. I also have a tape of you walking into Sonny's office after that morning meeting, but our technicians noticed a degradation in the tape after you walked in. Unfortunately, they weren't able to tell what was going on in Sonny's office."_

_"I'm not sure what you are getting at, Detective."_

_"Oh, it's probably nothing. It's just that when he was examined at the hospital the night of Mia's murder, the doctor found a bruise on the back of his head, as if someone hit him with a blunt object. My instinct tells me that Sonny's state was the result of a blunt force trauma and not stress as you suggest."_

_"He led you right to his wife's body; what more do you need to know?"_

_"There's something funny about that. Your boss, Adrian, was the one who suggested that Sonny could be hiding out near the old church because he owns some property nearby, but town records do not show Sonny owning any property in that vicinity. His investment properties were up the road in Deerfield Beach. Why would Adrian point us in that direction?"_

_"That is a question for Adrian, not me," Lucy answered._

_A moment of silence was broken by the chiming of Lucy's doorbell. "Excuse me, Detective, my realtor is here to do a walk-through of my home. If you have no other questions, I'll see you out."_

_"No other questions at this time, Ms. Hendricks."_

_Lucy opened the door for her realtor, Pepper Nichols, and then shook Peters' hand. She was about to close the door behind her when he interrupted. "Ms. Hendricks, I did think of one more question."_

_"What's that, Detective?"_

_"You own a lot of stock in T2, don't you?"_

_"Yes, all the employees were given shares prior to the offering."_

_"But your gift was 25,000 shares of preferred stock, wasn't it? That means that your net worth, just from T2 stock, is hovering around five million dollars."_

_Pepper's ears perked up when she heard her client's net worth._

_"I don't see what relevance my personal affairs have to your investigation," Lucy responded._

_"It's just that if this company didn't go public or if the stock tanked, you would be in a completely different financial situation, wouldn't you?"_

_"I think that goes without saying."_

_"Right. What I am wondering is whether or not this mysterious research of Sonny's could have negatively impacted the stock price."_

_"Detective, we are done here."_

_"Maybe in your mind, Ms. Hendricks, but I am just getting started."_

By the time this memory played out in Lucy's mind, she was finishing up the fifth mile of her run. She made a left onto Oakland Park Boulevard from Bayview, which paralleled A1A on the other side of the Intracoastal Waterway, and prepared to cross the bridge that went over the Intracoastal. As she approached, she heard the familiar warning bells signaling to drivers and pedestrians that the bridge would be raised to let tall sailboats pass underneath. Not heeding the warning, Lucy pressed on and sprinted over the bridge, which began to separate before the bridge operator spotted Lucy. She had to leap from one side to the other and landed safely.

Her heart pumping fast and her body flooded with adrenaline, she ran the quarter mile between the bridge and her condo at a personal best pace. Once inside her building, she took the elevator up to her penthouse apartment, skipped a much-needed shower, and poured herself a stiff drink. Feeding Adrian's snake Alice would have to wait until tomorrow.

## CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

AS FARRAH AND Jimmy waited in the security line at Westchester County Airport, Jimmy started to get antsy.

"You're making me nervous, Doubts; why are you so fidgety? You're not trying to smuggle any pot on the plane, are you?"

"No!" Jimmy said indignantly. Although many of his friends were "ganjapreneurs," Jimmy didn't touch anything illicit. He hated being out of control. "I'm just angry. Look how long this line is. They have two separate body wave scanners but are only operating one of them. And look how many TSA agents are milling around on the other side."

"Relax, Doubts; the gate is right on the other side of security. We have plenty of time."

Just then, they heard an announcement coming from the loudspeaker: "Jet Blue Airlines is announcing the boarding of Flight 841 to Fort Lauderdale. At this time, we invite all of our Mosaic customers, families with small children who need extra time boarding, and all active military personnel to board now."

"You hear that? We are going to be the last on the plane because this line is moving too slowly."

"We are working as fast as we can, sir," one of the blue-shirted TSA agents said. "We appreciate your patience."

Jimmy watched Farrah place her items on the conveyer belt and go through the body wave scanner without incident. Jimmy wouldn't be so lucky. He did as he was instructed and put his arms over his head, but the agent informed him that he had been randomly selected for more screening.

He was treated to a pat down so thorough that he silently accused the TSA agent of wanting to get to second base with him. But his problems didn't end there.

"Whose bag is this?" the baggage scanning operator asked.

"Mine," Jimmy replied.

"OK, sir, we need to look through this bag. Wait here until someone becomes available to search it."

"Available?" Jimmy asked. "There are no fewer than five people standing around here doing nothing!"

"Sir, I am going to need you to calm down. Someone will be available shortly."

One minute became five, and five became ten. Finally an elderly TSA agent came to inspect his bag. Breathing heavily, Jimmy watched as the white-haired agent looked through it.

"What is this?" she said, holding up his Zoom H4N audio recorder.

"It's an audio recorder."

In a polite tone, the elderly TSA agent asked, "What do you use it for?"

"Recording audio."

"Oh, fancy. Let me just swipe your hands and bag with this wand and then you'll be on your way."

Farrah watched as Jimmy's hands and bag were swiped to test for explosive residue. As Jimmy was given the all-clear, another announcement came over the loudspeaker. "Final boarding call for Jet Blue Flight 841 to Fort Lauderdale. If there are any passengers in the boarding area, it's now or never."

Jimmy and Farrah handed their boarding passes to the gate agent, who informed them that all the overhead bins were full and they would have to check their carry-on bags.

"This just keeps getting better," Jimmy said.

Farrah and Jimmy were the last two people to board the plane and quickly made their way to their seats in the last row of the plane. Farrah had the window seat, and Jimmy had the middle. Much to his chagrin, the aisle seat was occupied by a woman who could have easily qualified for profiling on the reality TV show _My 600-Pound Life_. She was not happy about having to get up for her seatmates.

Farrah buckled her seatbelt, leaned her head against the window, and immediately fell asleep. Jimmy sat down and tried to avoid making skin contact with the woman to his left, but there was just too much of her. He prayed silently that she wouldn't want to talk and fished his headphones out of his bag. Just as he was about to insert them, she asked, "So are you going on winter break?"

_Ugh_ , he thought to himself. It was not in his nature to be rude, so he obliged her with some small talk. He told her that he was traveling on business and learned that she was on her way to visit her mother who lived in Boca Raton. Every so often Jimmy could feel his seat vibrate followed by a whiff of an ungodly scent which, no doubt, emanated from his seatmate's rear end. _Could things get any worse_? he wondered.

On the descent into Fort Lauderdale, the plane experienced turbulence, and Jimmy's seatmate, whose name was Missy, reached around his neck and pulled his head to her chest, screaming, "I don't want to die!" She held him in this position until the plane was on the ground. Farrah was oblivious to her intern's situation, as she did not wake up until the plane landed. She looked over to see Jimmy's head buried in his seatmate's breasts.

"You need any help there, Doubts?" she said, giggling.

"Missy, you can let me go now—we're on the ground."

The only response was Missy's snoring; she had fallen asleep and was using Jimmy as a human teddy bear.

Farrah tapped her gently on the arms a few times until she woke up. When she finally came to and realized what she had done she admitted, "Sorry, young man—I'm a nervous flyer."

"Clearly," Jimmy said.

Jimmy and Farrah made their way to baggage claim; fortunately, theirs were the first two bags off the plane—no doubt the result of being the last two bags _on_ the plane.

"Where to now?" Jimmy asked Farrah.

"I rented a car through Hertz; we need to make our way to the rental car center."

The two boarded the bus that drives passengers from the terminals to the nearby rental car center and picked up Farrah's rental, a Nissan Altima, without incident. They followed signs toward the airport's exit.

"Where are we meeting Mr. Peters?" Jimmy asked.

"Thanks for reminding me," Farrah said. "I have to call him to let him know we landed. He wants to meet at a place called Piranha Pat's."

"Sounds glorious."

"Loosen up a bit, Doubts! You have the week off from school and we're in Florida. Live a little."

Jimmy would be the first one to admit that he took life a bit too seriously and had a hard time unwinding. He chalked it up to his competitive nature and always trying to exceed the high expectations of his parents, who constantly reminded him that he had it much better than they did.

"Doubts, I don't want to call Mr. Peters while I'm driving. I understand the cops are pretty tough on that kind of thing down here and really enforce hands-free calling. Do me a favor and call him for me; I have his name stored in my address book under Rockin' Rodney."

"Do you and Melody have nicknames for everyone?"

"Listen, Doubts, I spent a decade of my life working in a stuffy law firm, and I didn't have one bit of fun along the way. This show is my gig and I'm doing it my way; life is too short not to have any fun."

Jimmy dialed the number and Peters answered.

"Hello, Ms. Graham, how was your flight?"

"Mr. Peters, it is me, Jimmy..."

"Oh hey, Doubts. How was the flight?"

"Cramped, but we made it down okay. We're on our way to Piranha Pat's. Wait—how did you know my—"

Rodney cut him off before he could finish the question. "Excellent! Be sure to go to the one on Atlantic Boulevard in Pompano Beach; I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"See you then."

Jimmy hung up the phone and turned his attention to Farrah.

"Why did you tell Mr. Peters my nickname?" Jimmy asked her.

"Life's too short, Doubts. Embrace your nature. Live a little!"

## CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

PIRANHA PAT'S WAS the epitome of a dive restaurant. It was attached to a discount liquor store called Big Mamma's. While the restaurant was far from fancy, it served the best barbeque chicken and ribs in all of South Florida and, more importantly, the beer was ice cold. Rodney Peters entered the darkened bar and spotted Farrah Graham and Jimmy Doubts almost immediately. Instinctively he did a quick visual sweep of the bar to make sure everyone looked okay and none of his internal sensors went off. He approached Farrah and Jimmy, who were seated in a booth in the back of the dining room.

"Ms. Graham, I'm retired detective Rodney Peters. Thank you for flying down to meet me."

"Nice to put a face with a voice, Rodney. I believe you know my intern, Jimmy." Farrah was amazed at how closely Rodney resembled Melody's father; they both looked like Carl Weathers and sported similar mustaches.

"Nice to meet you, too, Doubts. I know that if it wasn't for you, this meeting wouldn't have happened, so I owe you a debt of gratitude."

"Happy to have helped, but please call me Jimmy, Mr. Peters."

"And, Doubts, you can call me Mr. Peters."

_Great_ , Jimmy thought. _A jokester_.

"Don't bother looking at the menu; the only thing people come here for are the baby back ribs and barbeque chicken. If it's okay with you, let's just order that for the table. Any objections?"

"Works for me," Farrah said. "How about you, Doubts?"

"Fine," Jimmy said, crossing his arms across his chest and letting out a sigh.

"He needs to loosen up a bit," Peters said.

"You're telling me," Farrah agreed.

"Well, maybe I can help with that," said an attractive waitress who overheard the conversation. "I'm Amber and I'll be serving you today. It's happy hour, so we have dollar domestic drafts and two-dollar import bottles for the next hour, as well as buy one, get one well drinks."

"I'll take a Miller Lite," Farrah said.

"I like a woman who isn't afraid to drink beer. I'll have the same," said Peters.

Jimmy was mesmerized by the waitress; she was a classic beauty in the South Florida sense—tall, blonde, with surgically enhanced boobs. He was tongue-tied.

"And for you, sir?"

No response from Jimmy.

"Hey, Doubts, what do you want to drink?" Farrah kicked him under the table.

"Oh, sorry. Umm, Amstel Light?"

"That wasn't so hard, was it, sugar?" Amber said.

"Good thing I'm ordering dinner for the table," Peters said, and Farrah laughed.

"So what have you got for us?" Farrah asked.

"How much reading were you able to do on the case?" Peters asked.

"This is what I was able to piece together so far: Sonny Michaels was a loving husband with a psychological affliction that sometimes caused him to experience a dissociation with reality. When he was in such a state, he would experience a different reality than the rest of us and even take on different personas. I know that on the day of his wife's murder, he was in such a state, and that he was eventually found holding his dead wife in his arms."

"Yes, those are the broad strokes, but you don't have the full picture, Ms. Graham. There is much more to the story than that."

"Why wasn't the rest of it ever brought up at trial?"

"I have a hunch, but that's something I was hoping you could confirm for me."

"Listen, if I am going to invest my time in this, I'm going to need you to give me something more to go on. Give me some kind of carrot, Rodney."

Amber returned with their beers, and Peters proceeded to order a family-style portion of chicken and ribs, along with sides, for the table. Once she left, Rodney continued. "The story you just told is the story that the prosecution wanted you to believe, but that's not the full story. Dig a little deeper and you discover that there was evidence of blood found at the Michaels home the day of Mia's abduction and murder that didn't match either Sonny's or Mia's."

"Why didn't the defense submit that as evidence?"

"They didn't know about it during the trial; it was suppressed."

"Who authorized that?"

"I'm getting to that. Also, forensics established that Mia must have died no later than 12:00 a.m. the following morning. Cell phone records indicate that Sonny was nowhere near the crime scene at that time."

"Where do they suggest he was?"

"That he was at a number of different places—one of them being a strip club, and he had a receipt from an ATM machine inside the club time-stamped at just before midnight to prove it."

Jimmy chimed in. "Wait—the guy's wife goes missing, and he goes to a strip club?"

"He wasn't himself at the time; he was in one of his dissociative states, acting as a different persona."

"Oh, right—Captain Krunch," Jimmy said. "I read that he used the identity Derek Krunch as an alias...and that was confirmed by some witnesses who testified at his trial."

"True," Peters confirmed. "However, the cell phone evidence was disregarded by the jury; an expert for the prosecution argued that tracking a person's whereabouts by using data from a cell phone tower was unreliable. But that isn't the most incredible bit of evidence that was disregarded. During Mia's autopsy, the medical examiner found DNA underneath her fingernails that didn't match that of her husband. I believe she struggled with whoever forcibly took her from her home, and that DNA underneath her fingernails belongs to that person."

"But why wasn't this brought up during trial?" Farrah asked.

"Because the defense didn't know about it."

"Let me guess, you have a hunch why, but you want me to confirm it," she said.

"You are a quick learner, Ms. Graham."

"Always have been," Farrah said, sipping her beer. "What you are outlining here amounts to a total miscarriage of justice surrounded by an air of conspiracy."

"And what a conspiracy it is—you have no idea. Tell me, Ms. Graham, have I whetted your appetite enough to consider taking this on?"

"I'll admit that I'm intrigued," Farrah said. She removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. "But if I'm going to take this on, I want to look into the eyes of the subject of this case and see for myself who we are dealing with here. Only after I get a chance to see Sonny Michaels in person and have a discussion with him will I agree to make his case the focus of our second season."

"I thought you might say that, Ms. Graham, so I had to get creative about this. Sonny is being held at the Florida State Prison in Raiford, Florida. In the state of Florida, the process of visiting an inmate goes like this: the inmate sends you an application, you fill it out, and then wait no fewer than thirty days for the prison to make a decision on whether or not you will be allowed to visit."

"Thirty days? I can't wait thirty days!" Farrah said.

"I figured as much—that's why I worked some of my contacts and got you on the approved visitors list as his new counsel."

"Excuse me?"

"I did a little digging and saw that you were admitted into the Florida Bar, so I took the liberty of registering you as one of his lawyers. Jimmy, would you please pass the pickles?"

"Jimmy, don't pass the pickles," Farrah said to her intern. "Mr. Peters, that was a very presumptuous move on your part, and I'm not sure how I feel about it."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Ms. Graham, but it was the only way I could get you in to see Sonny without waiting at least a month." Looking at Jimmy, Peters asked, "Jimmy, can you please pass the pickles _and_ the coleslaw?"

Jimmy looked at Farrah, who just rolled her eyes and took a long drag on her beer. "Let me get one thing out in the open right now, Mr. Peters. I am not the kind of woman who likes to have her decisions made for her. I also have a three-strike policy, and you just swung and had a big miss."

"I appreciate how you feel, but this matter is very important to me, and I'm committed to do whatever I can to bring justice to Sonny Michaels," Rodney replied, followed by a serious coughing fit. He covered his cough with a napkin, looked at it instinctively when his coughing fit was over, and noticed some blood. "Ms. Graham, I am an aging man with nothing to leave this world; I don't have a wife, and I don't have any kids. I simply want to leave this world with a little justice for Sonny Michaels.

Amber arrived with their food, and the three of them ate in silence.

## CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

AFTER WARMING THEM up with some push-ups, sit-ups, and squats, Shihan Emmanuel "Manny" Escriva studied the students in his adult class. Since relocating to his Stamford-based school from the one in Manhattan, red belt Melody Note was a standout student. She attended class three days a week, stayed after class to fine-tune her form, and kept the other students motivated by forming a closed Facebook group where she posted a summary of each class and provided words of encouragement for her classmates. She was the kind of student who came through the doors of Manny's dojo once every five years or so; on top of her dedication, she was fierce and brought focus and grace to everything she did on the mat.

Shihan Manny always addressed the class after the warm-up and before diving into the curriculum for the night; it was his way of foreshadowing what the night's lesson was about, and he also saw it as a way to motivate his students. The master instructor considered his dojo a trinity of motivational speaking, spirituality, and physical conditioning.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I want to share with you a story I read in the newspaper this morning. Last night someone broke into a home in town, and according to the article, the owner froze when he confronted the intruder. He didn't know what to do. He didn't have any instincts. He is now in ICU at Stamford Hospital and his wife is a rape victim. Ladies and gentlemen, I am telling you right now that I will never be in that position, and my goal is to make sure you are never in that position, either. So today I am going to give you what we in the martial arts business call a "jellybean"; we are going to take a break from our standard curriculum, and I will show you how to disarm someone who is pointing a gun at you."

Melody was excited by this turn of events; she began training at Kempo Karate five years ago and was close to earning the rank of Shodan, or first-degree black belt. While she didn't anticipate ever having to take down an armed man, Melody was always eager to learn something new and listened intently to Shihan Manny.

"Everyone form a circle around me," Shihan instructed, and then produced a rubber gun from inside his uniform. "Ms. Note, would you join me in the center of the mat, please?"

Melody knew this wasn't a question; it was more of a polite demand, and she responded the way all students had been taught to respond to Shihan Manny's request. "Osu," she said and moved to the center of the mat.

"Ms. Note, please hold the gun and point it at my head."

Melody took the gun, which was surprisingly heavy, and did as she was instructed to do.

"Now this is a position that no one, and I mean no one, wants to be in. As the person with a gun pointed at me, I certainly don't want to be in this position, and chances are that the guy with the gun doesn't want to be in this situation either. But if you do find yourself with a gun pointed at you, chances are it's because someone is trying to rob you in your own home."

Manny was right—the class was filled with what could be summarized as a bunch of "one percenters" who weren't likely to be trolling for drugs on the wrong side of the tracks. "Someone who breaks into your house is probably strung out on something and looking to get money for a fix," he continued. "If he or she is pointing a gun at you, chances are the intent isn't actually to shoot you, but you can't take that for granted."

"Shihan," one of the students asked, "wouldn't you want to simply run away in that situation?"

"That is an excellent question," Shihan Manny replied. "The answer is both yes and no. Yes, if you have a place to run and no one else is in the house, but a big fat no if there is no clear path to run to or if your family is in the home. Your job at that moment is to make sure that they do not get hurt." Manny looked around the dojo to see if anyone had any more questions and then went on. "Now I am going to show you how you can get out of this situation. Ms. Note, please point the gun at me again."

Melody did as she was told, and before she knew it, the gun was in Manny's hands and was now pointed at her. He had disarmed her in a split second, and the entire class applauded.

Shihan Manny then explained the principal components of the disarmament process. Next the class took turns practicing it on each other until everyone had the basic disarm down.

Kenny Trell, the student who spoke up earlier, had another question. "Now that we have the gun, what do we do with it?"

"Another excellent question, Mr. Trell. The last thing you want to do is shoot the intruder; it sounds crazy, but this world is so screwed up that you as the homeowner can actually open yourself up to significant liability should you harm or kill an intruder. I don't care what you see on TV—the fact that you are acting in self-defense will be questioned by scumbag defense attorneys and you may very well wind up in jail."

"So what do we do?"

"If there is someone else in the house, you want them to call the police, but you know the intruder is going to make an exit as quickly as possible. Obviously, you don't want that to happen; at this point you are out for justice. So let me show you part two of the disarm. Ms. Note, I require your services again."

Melody joined Shihan Manny in the center of the mat once again.

"Point the gun at me again, and this time, after I disarm you, I am going to perform the eleven swords technique on you."

Eleven swords, a defensive combination technique the class had been working on for the past three weeks, involves a series of moves involving blocks, punches, and kicks. When performed correctly, it leaves would-be attackers either lying unconscious on the floor, or wishing they were.

This time Shihan Manny performed the gun disarm on Melody and followed it up by running through the eleven swords technique. The class understood that the two techniques together would provide the best way to deal with an armed intruder.

Melody got back to her feet and bowed to Shihan Manny. By that time, the students for the next class were starting to make their way into the dojo. Manny had all the students bow to the American flag hanging on the wall and then to him as the instructor. He dismissed the class by saying, "I hope none of you ever have to use what we learned today."

_I hope so, too_ , Melody thought.

## CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

ADRIAN TEPES SAT in the dentist chair, waiting for the Novocain to take effect and reflecting on how drastically his life had changed over the past two decades. He went from being very poor to very rich and now was in a position to have everything he ever wanted—including cosmetic dental surgery to have his eye teeth filed in the shape of fangs.

While Adrian told Lucy and the rest of his senior staff that he was returning to Romania to visit his sick brother, the real reason he was there was to see a dentist renowned for something called "vampiric dentistry." It was all part of an overall transformation Adrian began years ago; his goal was to maintain a proper and polite exterior but be as cunning and ruthless as the vampires who were popularized by his country's folklore.

While sitting in the chair, his smartphone vibrated in his pocket. Anyone trying to reach him through his business phone on a Sunday must need something urgently, so Adrian decided it was in his best interests to check the text. It was from Senator Barker.

Senator Barker: I have some good news for you.

Adrian: Enlighten me, dear Senator.

Senator Barker: I've paved a way for the merger to go through without resistance.

Adrian: How much did it cost me?

Senator Barker: Call us even.

Adrian: If there's one thing I have learned from politicians, there's always a catch.

Senator Barker: No catch, although there is something we need to discuss. It involves Project Quaker.

Project Quaker was the code name the two men used when referring to the investigation and eventual case around Mia Michaels' murder. Quaker was short for Quaker Oats, the company who makes Cap'n Crunch. Any humor Adrian let into his life was exceptionally dark; he came up with the name Project Quaker as a nod to Sonny's Captain Derek Krunch persona.

Adrian: That project was terminated years ago.

Senator Barker: I thought so, too. But I received a disturbing package in the mail recently from someone who appears to be unsatisfied with the results of the project.

Adrian: Any idea whom?

Senator Barker: I have some people looking into it.

Adrian: Let me put you in touch with Gerry, the manager of that old project.

Senator Barker: I appreciate that. If, for some reason, Project Quaker comes back in the news, it could be disastrous for all of us.

Adrian: Then let's make sure it doesn't.

Adrian then sent an encrypted message to Gerry Fein with instructions on how to get in touch with Senator Barker's office. He needed to nip this new development in the bud; with the merger of T2 and Diabetica, his net worth was about to double, and he was set to become one of the richest men in the world. He wasn't about to let anything get in the way of that.

## CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

RODNEY PETERS WAS searching for his keys when his phone vibrated, alerting him that he had received an email. It was from FedEx, confirming that the package he sent to Senator Barker's home had been delivered. Peters had long suspected that the former district attorney now turned senator had a role in the farce of a trial that sent Sonny Michaels to prison, and he wanted to unnerve him a little. He sent the senator some clippings from the trial, including a picture of the senator with the phrase John 8:32 written in woman's lipstick over his head, almost like a halo.

Peters figured that Senator Barker, a self-proclaimed evangelical Christian, would immediately recognize the passage in his Bible that read, "Then you will know the truth, and the truth shall set you free." In Peters' mind, a little psychological warfare was fair game.

Peters found his keys in the pocket of the pants he wore yesterday and then made his way to the garage after making sure all other doors in the house were locked. He was meeting Farrah and Jimmy at the airfield in Pompano Beach; since the prison in Raiford was at least a five-hour drive from Fort Lauderdale, Rodney decided it made more sense to fly up there instead of drive.

He arrived at the small airstrip, just adjacent to the public golf course, and saw Jimmy pacing back and forth nervously while Farrah focused on her mobile phone, oblivious to Jimmy's behavior. As he got closer to the two, he could hear Jimmy talking to himself.

"It's going to be okay; you can do this, Jimmy. You've got this."

Rodney asked Farrah what was going on.

"In general, Jimmy is a nervous person—it's kind of why we call him Jimmy Doubts. However, I didn't realize until this morning that he has a fear of small airplanes."

"Breathe, Jimmy. Breathe. It's okay. You can do this," Jimmy said, lost in his own world.

"Is he going to be like this the whole trip?" Rodney asked.

"He's been in a trance since I met him in the lobby of our hotel. He keeps referring to himself in the third person and won't make eye contact."

"Jimmy, I've logged thousands of hours in this plane. The weather is nice, and there's almost no wind; we'll be up and down in no time. There's nothing to worry about, son."

"Wait, what? _You_ are the pilot?" Jimmy asked anxiously.

"Been flying for twenty years," Rodney said, and then added, "Time's a-wasting; let's do this while we're still young."

The trio walked over to a single-engine Cessna. Rodney unlocked the doors and told Farrah and Jimmy to get inside and buckle up. While they did so, he performed a visual inspection of the aircraft and checked the fuel level. Satisfied with his pre-check, he removed the wheel blocks, got into the cockpit, and started the engine. Farrah tried to speak, but Rodney couldn't hear her; he pointed to some headsets on the floor, and each of them put on a pair.

"How old is this plane?" Farrah asked.

"It's a 1965, but you would never know it by the way she flies."

_"Sixty-five!"_ Jimmy yelled. "People don't even drive cars from '65 any longer and we're gonna fly in this thing?"

"Listen, Doubts, flying is still the safest way to travel," Farrah said, trying to reassure him.

"Yes, especially in Florida," Rodney added with a laugh. "You should see the club members who drive up and down I-95 in this state."

"Club members?" Farrah asked as they taxied to the runway.

"Oh, sorry," Rodney said. "When I was a kid, my father would call idiot drivers 'club members.' _Club_ was short for the Asshole Club. Since my mother didn't like my father using that term in front of me, he abbreviated it."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Jimmy said from the back.

"Good grief," Rodney said, as he let out the throttle. They started their takeoff, and a short thirty seconds later they were in the air, climbing to 10,000 feet. Peters banked to the left and they were on their way toward Raiford. Farrah looked back and saw Jimmy sitting white-knuckled with his eyes squeezed shut.

"Relax, Doubts," Farrah said. "It's beautiful up here."

Jimmy slowly opened one eye and then the other. His breathing started to slow down and he loosened his grasp on the handrail. Suddenly they flew into some rough air, and Jimmy pulled out a rosary from his knapsack and began saying the Hail Mary. This was broadcast to Farrah and Rodney's headsets, so Rodney turned down the gain to Jimmy's microphone.

"I want to prepare you for what you are about to see, Ms. Graham. Sonny doesn't look anything like he did five years ago; they say doing hard time changes a man, and that is very true in the case of Sonny Michaels. He's lost approximately thirty pounds and is a mere shell of his former self."

"How about his safety? I hear inmates often target other prisoners who were put away for either abusing children or harming women."

"That is also true. Sonny suffered five broken bones, including his femur, during his first year in prison. He was such a target that he was moved out of the general population and into the psychiatric ward. He hasn't had an incident since."

"How is he holding up mentally? Any episodes?"

"He is heavily medicated with a cocktail of antipsychotic drugs. To my knowledge he hasn't slipped into any of his alternate personas and is generally a well-behaved inmate."

"If he is as innocent as you believe, I can't imagine what life must be like for him having lost his wife, his father, and his freedom."

"Neither can I, Ms. Graham, and that's why I'm doing everything I can to get him out of there."

"Let's say that somehow he's exonerated—what then? Would he be able to adjust to life in the free world again after having lost everything that was near and dear to him?"

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it," Rodney said. Suddenly he was overtaken by another coughing fit. "Take the yoke for a second, Ms. Graham. I need a tissue out of my bag."

Farrah grabbed the controls in front of her as Rodney took his hands off the controls in front of him; when he did so, the plane started to descend. "You've got to pull back on it a bit, or else we'll lose altitude," he managed to say between coughs.

Farrah pulled back a bit too hard and the plane ascended rapidly. From the back of the plane they could hear Jimmy screaming, "Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen."

"It's okay, Ms. Graham, I've got the controls again now." Rodney righted the airplane.

"I've always wanted to do that," Farrah said. "I suppose now I can cross flying a plane off my bucket list."

"Flying is the easy part, Ms. Graham. Landing is what really requires skill." Rodney pushed the controls down, and the plane started to descend. As it did, Jimmy screamed, "Hail Mary, full of grace..."

Peters asked for clearance to land at the Raiford Community Airstrip and was given permission to do so. He tuned his radio to the local weather to check wind speed, temperature, and general weather conditions. Five minutes later the airstrip came into sight, and five minutes after that they were safely on the ground. Farrah and Rodney looked in the back seat and saw Jimmy curled up in the fetal position, as white as a ghost.

"On the ground, safe and sound," Rodney proclaimed cheerily.

A ground traffic control employee directed them to a parking spot, and Rodney shut off the single engine. The cabin had gone from cool to hot in a matter of minutes, and Rodney, Farrah, and Jimmy were eager to get some fresh air. They jumped out of the plane and, when his feet hit the ground, Jimmy bent down and kissed the concrete.

Rodney went into the small office to pay for his parking spot and order a refuel of his plane. The three then walked over to the rental car counter where Peters arranged for the car they would take from the airfield to the prison.

"Your car is parked in E-9, Mr. Peters. Can we get you a map or a GPS today?" asked the agent behind the counter.

Rodney responded, "Unfortunately I could do this drive by the back of my hand." The trio headed to E-9, where they found a relatively new Chevy Malibu waiting for them.

"The prison is only fifteen miles from here. I'll call my contact and let her know we'll be there shortly."

Having a contact inside the prison was very helpful when arranging a meeting with an inmate, particularly one who was doing time for murder. Normally anyone visiting such an inmate would be subject to a high-pressure interrogation and often a full body scan. Thankfully, this would not be the case for former detective Rodney Peters. He ended the call on his phone, pulled out of the parking lot, and drove toward the prison.

## CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

EVEN THOUGH IT was almost noon, Lucy Hendricks was still in bed. She looked at her clock, let out a large groan, and mustered the strength to get out of bed and head to the bathroom. Her bedroom suite consisted of almost half of her 3,000-square-foot apartment and was complete with a king-size bed, two walk-in closets, and a marble bathroom with both a shower and Jacuzzi that took up more square footage than the entire house she grew up in. _Fuck the poor_ , she thought to herself as she stumbled to the bathroom.

Lucy still felt the effects of the bender she went on after her run yesterday; it took her a while to call to mind all she had done since coming home. She remembered pouring a drink when she got back to the apartment and then taking a quick shower and settling in on the couch with a second drink to watch some TV. After that everything was a blank; it was as though she had amnesia.

Lucy decided that she needed some food to help settle her stomach, so she headed for the kitchen. She stopped dead in her tracks as she approached the family room and saw someone asleep on her couch. It was a male, and she thought he looked vaguely familiar—but where did she know him from?

Lucy went to the foyer of her apartment to grab her wallet from her purse; in the past she had been able to piece together events from the prior night by looking through her receipts. At the very least, they could help her figure out where she went. She saw one receipt for the Sly Fox, a pub in walking distance from her apartment. The total on it was $120 and appeared to cover dinner and drinks for two. But who had she been with?

Lucy decided to look through her text messages to see if they could provide information regarding events from the prior evening. Scrolling through the most recent texts, she found one from Adrian ("Don't forget to feed Alice") and one from her friend Mark, the bartender at the Sly Fox. His text said, "Call me in the morning when you see this."

Eager to piece together anything about last night, Lucy called Mark.

"Are you just getting up now?" Mark asked.

"Apparently I had a long night," Lucy admitted. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Is there a guy sleeping on your couch?"

"Yes, how did you know that? Who the fuck is he? And why the fuck is he here?"

"You don't remember anything about last night, do you?"

Lucy paused for a minute. She was aware that she liked to drink, but she couldn't bring herself to admit that she had a problem. "I needed to blow off some steam yesterday," she replied.

"Honey, that must have been a lot of steam. You were the life of the party at the bar right up through last call. You fell twice on your way to the ladies' room, and I wasn't comfortable with you walking home by yourself, so I asked Marco to walk you home."

Lucy peeked out of her bedroom and looked at the man sleeping on the couch. She confirmed for herself that it was Marco, one of the waiters at the Sly Fox.

"Why the fuck is he still on my couch?"

"You'd better ask him that. Do me a favor and wake him up for me—I have him down for lunch shift and he's technically late for work."

Lucy terminated the call and then went over to the couch; she tapped Marco on the shoulder and said, "Marco, time to wake up."

Marco let out a sigh and asked, "What time is it?"

"Five minutes to twelve."

"Shit, I have the lunch shift," he said with a groan.

"Don't worry, I just got off the phone with Mark. He says just get there when you can."

"How are you feeling this morning?" Marco asked.

"I'm fine," Lucy lied. "Thank you for walking me home last night, but why did you stay on my couch?"

"I was worried about you," Marco said.

"Are you sure that's it? How do I know you didn't try to take advantage of me?"

Marco stood up. He was wearing a tight white T-shirt and boxer shorts. He pulled down the waist of his boxers to reveal a tattoo on his hip of Marilyn Monroe wearing a rainbow dress and said, "I think you are pretty, Lucy, but you are not exactly my type."

"Okay," she said. "But why were you worried about me?"

Marco started to get dressed. He said, "Because when we got back here, you immediately went looking for the keys to your car and were mumbling something about going to visit Mia. I didn't want to open today's newspaper and find an article about a Galt Ocean Mile resident who wrapped her car around a palm tree, so I decided to hide your keys and stay on the couch until you fell asleep. By that time, it was almost three in the morning, and I wound up falling asleep myself. Here are your keys, by the way."

Lucy was stunned; why would she have wanted to go see Mia? She had always tried to do whatever she could to distance herself from that part of her past.

"I suppose I owe you a thank-you, Marco." She walked over to her purse and fished out a hundred-dollar bill from her wallet. "Here, take this."

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Marco pocketed the money. "Since it's Sunday, we're starting happy hour early; two-for-one drinks starting at two p.m. Will we see you later?"

At that moment the thought of alcohol repulsed her. "Not today. I've got to see a man about a snake."

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"It's just an expression."

"Okay then. I've got to get to work. See you later, Lucy."

"Thanks again, Marco."

She walked him to the foyer and pushed the "call elevator" button for him. Her apartment was luxury at its best, and the elevator doors actually opened up right into her foyer. The elevator doors opened and Marco stepped inside; they nodded at each other and the doors closed.

Lucy went to the kitchen, made a cup of coffee from her Keurig, and then, for reasons she couldn't quite understand, began to sob loudly, her face buried in her hands.

## CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

FARRAH WAS AMAZED by the Florida State Prison at Raiford; the imposing cinderblock structure was surrounded by a twenty-foot-high electrified fence and included four guard towers, each manned by two sharpshooters who were authorized to take down anyone trying to escape. Rodney, Farrah, and Jimmy had to pass through two secure guard posts before getting to the visitors' parking lot, and they were asked the same questions at both stops. It was clear that the former communicated with the latter to make sure their stories held.

"I'm surprised this place doesn't have a moat surrounding it," Jimmy said.

"Don't tell me he's afraid of water, too," Peters joked.

"Not that I am aware of," Farrah replied. "Doubts, are you afraid of water?"

"I'm never going to live this down, am I?" Jimmy asked.

"Just remember, the day ain't over, son," Peters replied. "We've still got the return flight home."

"Thanks for reminding me."

Rodney, Farrah, and Jimmy exited their rental car and walked toward the visitors' door of the prison, where they waited to be buzzed in.

"This is worse than going to the emergency room with a broken arm," Farrah muttered almost inaudibly. Two years ago, she had to go to the ER in Manhattan after falling on some ice and breaking her arm. She remembered how the triage nurse, admitting nurse, physicians' assistant, and the physician himself all asked Farrah the same questions about how her arm was injured. At the time she questioned whether or not any of them actually conferred with each other, but then she realized they were likely repeating the same questions to make sure there weren't any inconsistencies in her story; it was one method healthcare practitioners used to spot domestic abuse.

The three finally were admitted into the lobby of the visitors' center. Rodney and Jimmy were instructed to join the general visitors line, while Farrah was directed to stand with the legal visitors.

When Farrah, Jimmy, and Rodney got to the front of the line, the woman behind the bulletproof glass didn't even look up as she said, "I need to see legal identification for everyone in your party." The voice belonged to Maria Montez, the corrections officer on duty that day. Farrah, Jimmy, and Rodney all handed over their IDs; Maria cross-referenced each ID with the face of the person standing before her.

"Oh hi, Rodney," Maria's voice picked up when she saw Rodney's license. She looked up and said, "It's been a while; I didn't realize you was here already."

"In the flesh, Maria. How's your mother doing?"

"Good days and bad days—you know how that goes. You're all here to see Captain...I mean Sonny Michaels, right?" Maria didn't want to upset Rodney by using the name every corrections officer used when referring to Sonny.

"Yes, we are," Rodney said, and then added, "I hope you haven't forgotten about that dinner you promised me." The last time Rodney came to visit Sonny, there was a mix-up and Rodney's name wasn't on the cleared list. Such an event was common because it was one way the corrections officers took retribution on an inmate who had given them trouble earlier in the week. That particular week, Sonny had come down with a stomach virus and his toilet overflowed, causing a problem for maintenance. The maintenance tech bribed the corrections officer in charge of clearing visitors to strike any visitors Sonny might have for a month, and Rodney had come in during that time. Maria heard what happened and, since she had a crush on Rodney, offered to make it up to him the next time he came in by promising to take him to dinner. While it was against the rules to fraternize with visitors, Rodney was an ex-cop and Maria was a model employee; the brass at Raiford had much bigger fish to fry when it came to employees abusing their power.

"I don't understand something, Rodney," Maria asked. "You was one of the cops involved in the case to begin with. Why are you helping him with a new legal defense?"

"Honestly, I don't think he deserves to be here."

"Oh, Rodney, if I had a dollar for everyone who told me that, I wouldn't have to work anymore. You guys have a seat over there; I'll tell the guys in the back that you're here to see Sonny Michaels; they'll have to secure him in the legal meeting room before you can go in, so it might be about twenty minutes."

The three sat down on some old wooden chairs in the saddest excuse for a waiting room any of them had ever seen.

Farrah looked at Jimmy, who was fidgeting in his chair. "What's the matter, Doubts?"

"I have to pee so bad I can taste it."

"There's a men's room down the hall to the right," Rodney said, "but I'll offer you one piece of advice: Don't make eye contact with anyone in there."

"Why not?"

"Son, for such a smart boy, you don't have much in the brain department. Prisons don't exactly attract the most prim and proper members of society. There are people in here serving multiple life sentences, and those who visit them aren't the most, shall I say, understanding of others. They see a nice white boy like you heading to the bathroom, and you become a target. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Got it—no eye contact. Any other advice?"

"Yeah, if you have to go number two, don't. Just don't."

"Thanks for putting that visual in my head," Farrah said.

Jimmy went in search of the men's room, and Rodney briefed Farrah some more on Sonny.

"Regardless of what you may have read, Sonny is not a violent guy. He only had one documented violent incident, and that was when he was in one of his states. Also he's kind of socially awkward; according to his father, he always has been. Tony seemed to think he could be on the spectrum for autism. Sonny's ability to memorize things and see patterns where no one else could combined with certain personality traits led Tony to believe that Sonny might be a highly functioning autistic."

"What kind of personality traits?" Farrah asked.

"Sonny rarely looks people in the eyes. He hates to be touched. He also has compulsive behavior he can't control: tapping his foot, clicking the top of his pen, and biting his nails, for example.

"Makes you wonder how he got as far as he did," Farrah commented.

"Well, he had a knack for math and science and was doing college-level calculus as a freshman in high school. Also, he was brilliant when it came to finding patterns in datasets that no one, even his professors at Harvard and Yale, could see. From what I understand, Tepes Therapies was hungry to hire the best and brightest researchers coming out of the top-tier medical schools, so Sonny's personality quirks were overlooked."

"I want to spend some time talking to his former coworkers—could you arrange that for me?" Farrah asked.

"That, Ms. Graham, is going to be challenging."

"Why?"

"Because I believe they have something to hide, and they aren't going to let you, a world-famous podcaster and champion for the wrongly imprisoned, walk through their doors and interview them about a former employee convicted of murdering his wife and kidnapping a coworker."

"You underestimate me, Detective Peters. If I want to meet with someone, it will happen."

Part of the reason Rodney was so happy to have Farrah interested in considering Sonny's story for her show was her ability to make the impossible happen. While preparing for the first season of _Uncorking a Murder_ , Farrah was able to meet with people deemed untouchable in the Brandon Nash case, and it was those interviews that created the most doubt that he was guilty of killing his wife.

"I have no doubt that you can accomplish whatever you put your mind to, Ms. Graham. Just be careful; if you decide to run with this, you'll be dealing with some dangerous people."

Jimmy returned from the bathroom, all the color drained from his face.

"What happened to you?" Farrah asked.

"I was standing in front of the urinal when a guy came out of the stall and stuck the knuckle of his index finger in the center of my back and told me he had a gun. The only positive thing about it was that it helped me pee quicker."

"Did you report it?"

"Report it?" Jimmy said. "How could I report it? I didn't even see the guy. He bolted out of the men's room, laughing hysterically. Didn't even wash his hands."

"Welcome to Raiford," Peters said.

Just then a corrections officer was buzzed into the waiting room and announced, "Ms. Graham, Sonny Michaels is ready for you. Your party can form a line over here and we will escort you to the meeting room."

Farrah, Rodney, and Jimmy got up and walked over to the corrections officer. Farrah felt a mixture of nerves and adrenaline; she was anxious to look into Sonny's eyes and determine for herself whether she thought he was guilty or innocent, but she was afraid of what she would find when she did.

## CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

LUCY TOOK A long, hot shower in order to help her wake up; as Marco left, her hangover settled in. After her shower she dressed and chased three Advil with some hot black coffee in hopes that a combination of pills and caffeine would help alleviate the pounding in her head.

She took the elevator down to the parking garage. On the way to her car she marveled at how far she had come in life; walking to her Mercedes she passed Bentleys, Jaguars, Ferraris, and a Lamborghini. She wondered if the value of all the cars in the parking lot might exceed the GNP of a small country.

As Lucy got in her car, she noticed another flyer on the windshield; this one had a handwritten note that read, "And the truth will set you free." Again, no other cars appeared to have a similar flyer on their windshield, but Lucy reasoned that some religious nut must have come into the parking lot to distribute propaganda. Although she suddenly remembered hearing that retired detective say the same thing yesterday . . . Lucy crumpled the note up and threw it on the ground.

Pulling out of the garage, she drove west on Oakland Park Boulevard and crossed the Intracoastal without having to wait for the bridge. _At least one thing is going my way today,_ Lucy thought to herself. She made a right turn at the corner of Federal Highway and Oakland and then another immediate right into the Oceanside Shopping Center. Lucy always thought it was an overly ambitious name for a shopping center located a few miles inland, but she assumed the developers had their reasons for naming it the way they did. She found a parking spot right in front of the pet store where she planned to buy a feeding mouse for Alice. _At least two things are going my way today_ , Lucy thought; she was hoping for a trifecta.

Upon walking into the pet store, she was immediately greeted by Damien, the heavily tattooed owner of the store. His body art started at his neck and ended at his wrists; most of it consisted of animals and animal symbols such as whiskers, tails, and paws. Some people related better to animals than humans, and Damien was definitely one of those people.

"Is it feeding day for Alice?" Damien asked. Since Adrian never did any of his own shopping, over the years Damien had gotten to know Lucy and always referred to her as the snake girl when discussing her with other employees. She stood out in his mind because Lucy wasn't the type to have a pet snake; it made him wonder what else she was into.

"Would I be here otherwise? You know I don't have any pets." Lucy hated pets; her rationale was twofold: She didn't want the responsibility of taking care of another living creature, and she hated the messes they made. If she had to add a third reason, she simply couldn't understand how someone could feel love from a domesticated animal.

Damien walked over to one of the crates in the back of the store where the white feeding mice were kept. He scooped one up, placed it in a box, and brought it to the register. "That will be three dollars, please."

Lucy handed Damien a hundred-dollar bill, and he stared at her blankly.

"Is there something the matter?" Lucy asked.

"Don't you have anything smaller? I don't have enough change in the register to break a hundred."

"If I had something smaller, I would have given you something smaller."

"How about instead of a live mouse, you buy a few frozen mice? I can sell you five for fifty dollars. They are actually safer for snakes because—"

Lucy cut him off. "No frozen mice; Alice only eats live mice." When Adrian bought Alice, he was advised to feed her thawed frozen mice as there was less chance that a parasite from the mouse could be ingested by the snake. Adrian refused to do this; one of the reasons he bought a snake in the first place was to observe it at feeding time. He loved to see the snake waiting patiently after the mouse was dropped in its cage and then the look of terror on the mouse's face when it realized the precarious situation it found itself in. He went so far as to record each and every feeding and had asked Lucy to do the same in his absence.

"Can I give you a credit card, then?"

"There's a ten-dollar minimum on all credit card sales."

Lucy was getting agitated. "How about you just charge me ten dollars for this fucking mouse and let me get out of here."

As Lucy's voice rose, one of the dogs for sale in the back of the store started barking.

"Please don't raise your voice—you're upsetting Tyler."

"Who the fuck is Tyler?"

"He's one of the adult dogs for sale in the back of the store. He's a beautiful fella—would you like to take a look at him?"

"I don't want a fucking drool machine. Listen, what if I go to the bank next door and break my hundred?"

"You know what? You seem like you're having a really bad day," Damien said. "Take the mouse for free."

Lucy loathed charity, but she wanted to get on with her day, so she took Damien up on his offer and left the store without paying for the mouse. She got back into her car, left the shopping center, and drove to Adrian's house.

Adrian's house was located in an area surrounded by the canals that led Fort Lauderdale to be known as the "Florida Riviera." His home was located in a highly secure community where each and every visitor had to be both registered and announced in order to be let in. For convenience purposes, Lucy was listed as a resident and given an access card that allowed her to come and go as she pleased.

Adrian's mansion, which had been modeled after a Romanian castle, was located on a peninsula at the end of the street. Lucy inched her car up in front of the gate to his home, which automatically opened up once her car was close enough. She grabbed the box containing the mouse and walked to the front door.

Adrian had a keyless house, but there was a three-stage process to gain admittance. First Lucy had to put her eyes in front of a retina scanner, next speak her name into a microphone, and finally enter a pin code on a keypad. All three elements had to match up or the door would remain locked. If for some reason someone entered in an incorrect pin code, he or she would be given one more chance to get it right. Upon failing a second attempt, the alarm system would go off, a guard dog would be released from a kennel on the grounds, and the police would be notified. Fortunately for Lucy, she passed all three security tests on the first try.

She entered the expansive foyer, which was bigger than most middle-class homes. She walked toward the back of the house and entered Adrian's study where Alice was kept. While Lucy hated pets, she didn't mind Alice so much because she was low maintenance as well as cunning. Like Lucy, she wasn't the touchy-feely type either.

She approached Alice's terrarium and checked the water and humidity levels as well as the temperature; Adrian left strict guidelines for Alice's environment. Next Lucy set up her smartphone on a tiny tripod located next to the terrarium, opened the video recording app, and hit record. If Adrian told her once, he told her a million times how important it was to him that she record the feedings she was responsible for. What he did with them Lucy couldn't fathom, but she knew they were important.

Satisfied that the phone was recording everything properly, she opened the top of the terrarium; this immediately caught Alice's attention and she instinctively stuck out her forklike tongue while holding her head upward. Lucy then reached for the box with the mouse in it and opened it.

"Eww," she said when she noticed the large amount of excrement in the box. Apparently, the mouse was very nervous, and rightfully so. She grabbed the mouse by the tail and held it in front of the terrarium so Alice could see it. For some reason, this step was very important to Adrian. She then held it by its tail, dropped it into the cage, and replaced the top.

She watched as it ran around the terrarium in a state of confusion, looking for a way out but finding none. The mouse panicked when the snake started slithering in the cage; Alice seemed to watch the mouse intently for a few minutes before making a move. Then, as quick as lightning, Alice lunged toward the mouse and constricted herself around it until it stopped moving. For the next few minutes she slowly wrapped her mouth around its body until it was gone from sight.

Lucy couldn't help but think that her relationship with Adrian was much like the relationship between the snake and the mouse; over the last few years she felt Adrian's grip tighten around her and wondered if it was only a matter of time before he squeezed the life out of her.

Satisfied that the snake was finished feeding on the mouse, she stopped the recording on her phone and emailed it to Adrian. While her work there was done, she decided that she wasn't ready to leave and decided to snoop around a bit.

First, she went upstairs to his bedroom and observed how meticulous it was compared to the mess she typically surrounded herself with. The bed was made perfectly and his nightstand only contained a lamp, a clock, and a book, whereas hers contained bills, junk mail, and the occasional empty bottle of wine. She peeked in his closet and saw his suits all neatly lined up and arranged by color from dark to light. In between the blue suits and the dark gray suits she saw a gap; this seemed out of place, so she was curious to investigate further. She then noticed that behind the suits there seemed to be a hidden doorway.

"What the hell?" Lucy said out loud. She pushed the door, which appeared to be on a swinging hinge, and saw a staircase behind it. Her curiosity once again getting the best of her, she decided to walk up the stairs.

It was very dark at the top of the stairs, and Lucy could not seem to find a light switch. She took a step forward, hoping her eyes would adjust to the darkness, and as she did so, she felt the texture of the floor beneath her change. One minute she was standing on what she assumed was plywood, and the next she felt as if she were standing on dirt.

It was pitch-black, and she reached into her pocket to retrieve her smartphone so she could turn on its flashlight. Once on, it confirmed what she suspected: There was dirt everywhere. She then moved the beam of light back and forth in front of her and saw that the entire floor of the attic she was standing in was covered in dirt.

"What the hell?" she said again.

She then passed the beam of light farther out in front of her and saw a structure in the center of the floor. Filled with a sense of dread, she walked toward it. It appeared to be a little over six feet in length and made of wood. She focused the beam of light on its far side and then slowly moved it closer to where she was standing. Suddenly her mouth went dry and her heart started to pound. Once she realized exactly what she was looking at, Lucy had trouble breathing and felt dizzy. She willed herself to not lose consciousness as she backed away slowly toward the staircase that led out of this most secret of rooms. Once at the top of the steps she turned around and walked down, unaware of the soiled footprints she was leaving behind. She couldn't get out of the house quickly enough.

_What the hell was Adrian doing with a coffin in his attic?_

## CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

FARRAH TOOK A deep breath as she waited outside the room where she was to meet Sonny Michaels. Rodney Peters had gone in first so he could brief Sonny on who Farrah was and what she was doing here. And since it had been such a long time since Rodney had seen Sonny, he wanted to clear the air about anything before the meeting got underway. Glancing at Jimmy, Farrah noticed that he was looking a little unnerved.

"Are you okay, Jimmy?"

"I'm fine."

Farrah couldn't tell if Jimmy was trying to appear macho in light of the fact he was about to meet with a convicted killer or if his experience in the men's room was still weighing on him. "Look, if you're nervous, it's completely understandable. I was scared to death right before I met Brandon Nash; in fact, I almost threw up."

"Really?"

"It's not every day you meet someone doing time for murder, but remember, we are here because there's a chance that this man may be innocent and, if we believe that, it will be our job to tell his story; if you keep your eyes on that objective, your nerves will eventually fuel your passion for this line of work instead of impede it."

The door to the interview room opened and Rodney said, "We are ready for you, Ms. Graham."

Farrah took a deep breath and looked over at Jimmy. "This is it."

The two walked into the room; Farrah first, followed by Jimmy. The first time Farrah saw Sonny Michaels face-to-face, she felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. His face was emaciated, as if he had been deprived of food for years; his hair was long and straggly; and his prison garb seemed to hang off him. Then there were his eyes; they were full of pain and sadness. All in all, he looked like a dog that had been abandoned and left for dead yet somehow managed to survive. Since he was a convicted killer, his arms and legs were secured to the table by shackles.

"Mr. Michaels, I am Farrah Graham, and I am here to listen to your story."

"Sonny—you can call me Sonny."

"Thank you, Sonny, and you can call me Farrah."

"Detective Peters says you may be able to help me?" Sonny said. His voice, once full of confidence and conviction, was now filled with uncertainty and pain.

"Sonny, I'm here because Detective Peters reached out to me for help. I promised him I would meet with you to hear your story firsthand. I told him that if I thought there was something more to investigate, I would do everything in my power to help tell the full story of what happened five years ago."

"So you believe I killed my wife?" Sonny looked over at Rodney. "How is she going to help me if she believes I killed my wife?"

"Sonny," Farrah said, "I don't know whether or not you killed your wife. I'm here because I want to hear your story. If I believe it, I promise you that I will do everything I can to tell the story that the jury should have heard."

"Where do you want me to start?"

"Tell me everything you can remember about the day your wife died." Farrah put her voice recorder on the table and hit record.

"You have to understand, this is still painful for me, and it will take a while to get through. Mia was not only my wife; she was my best friend—perhaps my only friend. I'm not like everybody else."

"What do you mean when you say that, Sonny?"

"Ever since I can remember, I have felt different from other people."

"In what ways do you feel different?"

"I focus on some things too much; my mind wanders and gets lost in finding patterns in everything. I have a hard time relating to other people. Stuff like that."

"Tell me about your relationship with Mia."

"We met at Harvard; I was involved in some serious undergraduate research, and she was a reporter for our school newspaper. She was asked to do a story on me and some of the research I was working on."

"What were you researching?"

"Early on in my medical studies, my advisor saw something in me that she thought would make for a good researcher. There wasn't a lot of opportunity for undergraduates to get involved with graduate-level research, so I had to prove myself. She introduced me to Dr. Phillip Reeve in the school's DNA lab; he was spearheading an investigation into the causal relationship between diets high in refined sugars, Type II diabetes, and heredity. He was desperately in need of a lab assistant. I was assigned to him on a probationary basis. Two months after starting in Dr. Reeve's lab, we had a breakthrough in our research."

"What was that breakthrough?"

"Dr. Reeve had a vast dataset based on both continuous and categorical data, but he had a hard time putting together a model with enough predictability to be published."

Farrah was quiet for a minute. Then she said, "Can you repeat that in English, please?"

Sonny gave her a faint smile. "The only conclusion he could draw from his data was that there was a positive linear relationship between the amount of sugar one consumes and a likelihood of Type II diabetes, but this wasn't anything new; the scientific community had known this for a while. Dr. Reeve wanted to show a causal relationship and isolate the offending types of sugars as well as identify a genetic marker."

"So where did you come into play?"

"I found an error in his dataset."

"What kind of error?"

"A very simple one, but I'll spare you the details. Basically I normalized some of his continuous data, reran his models, and from this we were able to show exactly which elements of a person's diet could predict the onset of diabetes, as well as identify a genetic marker that could predict, with a good degree of accuracy, someone's likelihood of developing Type II diabetes. This put me, a lowly undergraduate premed student, in the news, and Mia was sent to do an article on me."

"Tell me more about your relationship with Mia."

Sonny paused and allowed himself a brief smile as he thought of his late wife. "She was the most beautiful person I had ever known. I wasn't easy to pin down for the interview, but she was persistent. I basically gave in just to get her off my back, but she was easy to talk to. I wasn't that experienced talking to women—in fact, I became very awkward around most women, more so than usual. With Mia things were different; talking to her seemed natural."

"How long before you two became lovers?"

Rodney Peters squirmed in his chair; he wondered where she was going with this line of questioning. Farrah gave him a look as if to say, _Trust me; I know what I'm doing_.

"We started seeing each other once a week, and within three months we were a couple. By junior year we were living together in an off-campus apartment, and we married shortly after graduation. She worked full-time while I went on to medical school; we were broke, but we were happy."

"And you were recruited by Tepes Therapies directly out of medical school—is that right?"

"Yes. They put the full-court press on me; they told me they only wanted the brightest and best to work for them and said that I fit their criteria." Sonny stopped for a moment and then said, "I realize I have not answered your original question yet, Farrah. You asked me about the day my wife died, and I've been rambling about the past."

"That's okay, Sonny, take your time. I'm here to listen."

"The morning of my wife's death, I was very excited because I had been invited to share some of my most exciting research with the senior leadership team at T2. While I was their lead researcher and responsible for most of their new product innovations, I didn't have a seat at the table; no one in research did. Adrian Tepes wanted tight control over anything that would have an impact over the company's direction, so research reported to corporate affairs."

"And corporate affairs was run by Lucy Hendricks, was it not?"

"Yes. I've forgotten more about science than that woman will ever know, but as crazy as it sounds, my department reported to her."

"What were you going to present to the team?"

Nonchalantly and without a hint of emotion, Sonny said, "I found a potential cure for Type II diabetes—but they flat-out rejected it."

Farrah couldn't believe what she just heard Sonny say and asked him to repeat it.

"I found a potential cure for Type II diabetes..."

"... and they rejected it..." Farrah finished his sentence. "Why on earth would they do such a thing?"

"Greed," Sonny said, stone-faced.

"Greed?"

"Yes, Farrah, greed. Tepes Therapies makes its money by selling drugs to regulate blood sugar and supplies to test blood sugar; if diabetes goes away, so does the company's reason to be. That's why they rejected the notion of my potential breakthrough."

"What happened after that meeting?"

"I got upset, stormed out of the conference room, and went back to my office."

"What happened after that?"

"I have no idea. The next thing I remembered, I was facedown on a bar in a hotel near the airport in Pompano Beach. While I was still at the bar, I received a call from Adrian. He assumed I was still in a dissociative state and told me where I could find Mia."

"Why would he have done that?"

"I believe he was luring me there to kill me. He knew that if I published my research findings in an academic journal, his whole world would crumble."

"That is a very tidy story, and if it's true, it means that your employer sanctioned the kidnapping of your wife, but the defense was unable to convince a jury of that in court. Why wouldn't Adrian just go after you directly?"

Rodney interrupted them. "Because Mia knew something."

"Like what?" Farrah asked.

"I'm pretty sure she found the USB drive copies of my research," Sonny explained.

"Mia had a USB drive hidden on her person when she was brought to the hospital," Rodney added.

"Wouldn't whoever abducted her have taken it?"

"Let's just say it was well-hidden. The medical examiner showed it to me."

"Where is the drive now?" Farrah asked.

"I have it in a safe at home," Rodney said.

"Why did you take it from the medical examiner—wasn't it evidence?" Farrah asked.

"Because I knew it must be important; I knew it must be the clue to why she was taken. The problem was that I couldn't access it—it was password-protected," Rodney explained.

"But you decided not to hand it over for the trial?" Farrah said.

"I asked him not to," Sonny spoke up. "If T2 knew Rodney had it, they would destroy it, and it is the only copy of my work."

"Wait a minute, though. For this all to make sense, someone at T2 would have had to have known that Mia found the drive; otherwise why go through the trouble of kidnapping her? It wouldn't have been worth the risk."

"The answer to that question is buried in Mia's cell phone records," Rodney answered.

"Explain," Farrah said.

"During the investigation, we pulled Mia's and Sonny's cell phone records. With Sonny, we were looking for any location-based data that would prove where he was during the day, and we were able to determine that he was actually nowhere near his house at the time of Mia's abduction. In Mia's case, we were looking to see if she was in contact with anyone in the period of time leading up to her abduction. One number comes up multiple times."

"Let me guess: Lucy Hendricks," Farrah said.

"Bingo!" replied Rodney.

"But that isn't unusual; they were best friends. Of course Mia would be in contact with Lucy after Sonny went missing."

"And that's exactly how the prosecution positioned it at trial," Sonny said. "But consider this: Lucy was in charge of corporate affairs for T2, and the company was set to go public the next day. If anything negative happened to threaten the stock price, her job would be on the line. I have no doubt that she did whatever she had to do to make sure I was out of the picture; even if that meant abducting my wife."

"Her best friend, though . . ." Farrah objected.

"Lucy Hendricks was not a true friend. She always manipulated my wife and tried to sabotage our relationship; it's as if she were fueled by jealously and enjoyed making Mia suffer."

"And Mia never saw that?"

"My wife always saw the best in people; even when I was at my worst, she always saw the best in me." A tear ran down Sonny's cheek.

"Why did Lucy have it in for Mia?"

"Lucy and Mia met in kindergarten at an exclusive private school in Fort Lauderdale. Mia's parents were well off, but Lucy's weren't. She was there on scholarship. Over time I think jealousy got the best of Lucy, and while she was jealous of the fact that Mia's family was wealthy, I think she was equally if not more envious of her family's stability."

"Why did you kidnap Lucy before going to the church Adrian supposedly told you to go?"

"She was going to be my insurance policy; I didn't think whoever Adrian had waiting at the church to kill me would do anything to me or Mia while I had Lucy."

"Obviously that backfired for you; the video of you at Lucy's house was the nail in your coffin."

"Hindsight is 20/20, Farrah."

"But why didn't you call the police? Why did you take matters into your own hands?"

"Why would they believe me? Would you?"

"Fair enough," Farrah agreed. "Tell me what happened when you got to the church."

"Well, that's when my life officially ended. I found my wife in the confessional, dead."

Rodney spoke up again. "I was on the scene, Ms. Graham, and I can tell you that the sobbing I heard from Sonny Michaels came from a place of pure pain. At that moment I knew he had nothing to do with the death of his wife, but I was powerless to do anything about it."

There was a knock on the door and a corrections officer came in and announced, "Time's up."

"Can we please have two more minutes, Officer?" Peters asked.

"You have sixty seconds."

"One more question," Farrah said. "You had the chance to plead insanity, but you didn't. Based on all the evidence, you could have received a much shorter sentence. Why didn't you?"

"The answer to that question is very simple," Sonny said, looking her directly in the eyes. "Because I didn't kill my wife."

The corrections officer came back into the room along with two aides. He uncuffed Sonny's legs from the table and then his hands, and the aides flanked him on either side as he was escorted out of the room.

Before closing the door, the corrections officer said, "You can have this room for five more minutes. Someone will be waiting outside the door to escort you out once you are ready to leave."

After the officer left the room, Rodney turned to Farrah and asked, "So what do you think?"

"I don't know if he is guilty or not," Farrah said, "But I can tell you one thing I'm certain of—there's a hell of a story here. I'll take it on."

"Do you have to check with Melody first?" Jimmy asked.

"Doubts, I almost forgot you were here," Farrah said. "I have complete creative control over the show, and Melody knows that. However, I'll give her a call tonight after we get back to the hotel."

"I don't know about you two," Rodney said, "but I wouldn't mind getting out of this place. How about we head back to Pompano? We can grab a bite to eat at the restaurant adjacent to the fishing pier. They have the best conch chowder outside of the Bahamas."

"Aw, shit," Jimmy said.

"What's the matter now, Doubts?" Peters asked.

"I was so wrapped up in this interview that I totally forgot about flying back. Can't I take the car?"

"Son, you aren't old enough to rent a car yet, and there's only one way back—we're gonna fly the friendly skies."

Farrah looked at her intern and smiled. "Come on, Doubts, you made it here in one piece. What's the worst that can happen?"

"Whenever someone says that in a movie, something worse than the worst always happens."

"This isn't a movie, Jimmy Doubts," Rodney said. "This is real life." He was overcome with another coughing fit and quickly pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket; as before, he noticed a splatter of blood.

"Rodney, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Ms. Graham," Rodney said, folding his handkerchief and hastily stuffing it back into his pocket. "Let's get out of here."

The trio were escorted out of the visitors' area and found themselves back into the lobby. Rodney made plans with Maria for dinner in the not-too-distant future and then drove Farrah and Jimmy back to the airport, where they got back into Rodney's Cessna and flew back to Fort Lauderdale without incident. Even Jimmy was able to relax and, if not enjoy the flight, at least survive it more calmly.

## CHAPTER FIFTY

IT WAS SUNDAY night, and Lucy had been good all day; she hadn't touched a drop of alcohol, not even a light beer she found herself craving after leaving Adrian's home. She was thoroughly creeped out, though, after seeing a coffin surrounded by dirt in his attic. _Has he really lost his mind_? she wondered.

As she thought about her relationship with Adrian, she reflected on how it always seemed one-sided; she gave, and he took. He never called her just to talk; whenever he called her, he had a business purpose for doing so. When they were physically intimate, he always made sure her needs were taken care of before his, but she always felt it came from a place of duty instead of passion, or even love. Being with Adrian meant being with a distant partner. Still, she stayed with him because doing so provided her access to society, something she never had before. Sure, she had her own fortune now, but she quickly learned that it wasn't enough to have money to make it into certain social circles; you had to either be somebody or be linked with somebody. That was the primary reason she stayed with him.

She felt like having a glass of white wine and chose a nice sauvignon blanc from New Zealand from her wine cooler. While she enjoyed California chardonnays, she felt as if New Zealand produced a superior sauvignon blanc, and tonight she was craving the country's signature mineral taste.

As she was uncorking the bottle, her mobile phone signaled that she had received a text message. Pouring a generous amount of wine into her glass, she walked over to the sliding doors which led to her balcony and its expansive view of the Atlantic Ocean. She sat down in her favorite chair, took a large sip of her wine, and looked at her phone. It was a message from Adrian.

_It must be after midnight in Romania_ , she thought. _What could he possibly want this late on a Sunday night?_

"How is my darling Alice?" the message read.

_That son of a bitch—his first question is about the snake and not me. Why do I put up with this?_

She texted back, "Didn't you get the video I sent? She's been well-fed."

Adrian: Of course I did, I was just looking for a reason to text you.

Lucy: I'm flattered.

Adrian: You should be. Actually, I would love to see you; can we video chat?

Lucy: Fine.

She looked at her phone to make sure she was connected to her Wi-Fi network; she sometimes received a weak signal on the balcony and would have to go back inside if the signal wasn't strong. The connection looked reasonably strong, so she decided to stay where she was. Her phone started vibrating and she accepted the video call from Adrian.

"Hello, luv, how are you doing?"

"I'd be doing better if I knew what you really wanted," Lucy responded.

"What, I can't have a video chat with my girlfriend just to catch up?"

"I've had a long day, so just cut to the chase, Adrian. I'm really not in the mood for small talk." She wanted to ask him why the hell he had a coffin surrounded by dirt in his attic but exercised constraint.

"I had a chat with Senator Barker today."

"Everything okay with the merger?"

"He assures me that the FTC won't be an issue."

"Good," Lucy said. "That confirms what I heard in the rumor mill as well."

"He did say something alarming, though."

"What's that?"

"He received a package in the mail at his home address. It was a picture of Mia Michaels and on it, written in lipstick, was a Bible verse."

Lucy thought about the message left on her car that morning. "Which verse?" she asked.

"John 8:32."

"You know I am a lapsed Catholic, Adrian; I don't exactly have a Bible handy, and I can't Google it while I'm talking to you. What is the verse?"

"It reads, 'And you shall know the truth, and the truth will set you free.'"

Lucy's face went white.

"By the expression on your face, you seem a bit shocked by this. Did you have something to do with it?"

_"What?"_

"There are really only four people who could have something to do with this, and one of them is locked up in prison. The others are you, me, and Gerry, and I can tell you that I had nothing to do with it."

Lucy wondered if she should mention the notes that were being left on her car. She figured that he would find out about it somehow anyway, so she said, "I received a similar message on my car as well. I was going to tell you about it when you got back."

"It seems as if our friend Lucky has gotten a bit of a conscience."

"I don't think that's it; that man was born without a conscience."

"Then who could it be?" Adrian yelled into the phone. Lucy thought she saw something odd in his mouth; were those _fangs_?

"The detective, Rodney Peters. It was probably him," Lucy said.

"Interesting," Adrian said. "When did you say you found a note on your car in our parking lot?"

"Friday afternoon—I went to the garage right after I saw you in your office."

Adrian was silent for a few minutes; all Lucy heard was the unmistakable sound of his fingers typing on a keyboard.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Pulling up security footage from last Friday."

Most people would be shocked that the CEO of their company could pull up security camera footage in the middle of the night on another continent, but this didn't surprise Lucy at all.

"There you are getting to your car, there you are reading the note, and there you are crumpling up the note and tossing it in your bag. Oh dear Lucy, we have to work on that temper. What did it say?"

Lucy cleared her throat, "The note had a picture of Mia Michaels on it and said 'Karma is a bitch.' Any sign of the detective?"

Adrian clicked the rewind arrow with his mouse until he saw a man walking away from Lucy's car. "Got him; it's Detective Peters all right." Adrian then called up footage from another camera, which filmed the cars coming in and out of the parking lot. With a few keystrokes he had both streams of footage synced and then hit the rewind button until he saw Peters' car appear to back up out of the entrance to the garage. He froze the frame and was able to get a clear picture of former Detective Peters, along with the make, model, and color of his car and his license plate.

"What do you need me to do, Adrian?"

"Help me figure out why now, after five years, Peters is deciding to play games with us."

"I should also let you know that I saw him yesterday when I was out running."

Adrian was unnerved by this admission. "Do you think he was spying on you?"

"No, it was just a coincidence. He was talking to a homeless guy on a bench; they appeared to be having breakfast together."

"I don't believe in coincidences, Lucy. I'm not sure what he's up to, but the timing is bad with this pending merger. I don't have to tell you how important it is that we avoid any bad press at this time. I'm going to put Gerry on his tail."

"Adrian, there is something I want to talk to you about," Lucy said. "Adrian?" The screen went dark and the video call was terminated.

_That son of a bitch_ , she thought to herself. She picked up her glass, which was still half full, and downed its contents with one gulp. Adrian's terminating the call was enough justification for a second glass, and a third, and a fourth.

## CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

ONCE RODNEY, FARRAH, and Jimmy were safely on the ground at the Pompano Beach airstrip, Farrah looked around. "Rodney," she said, "Isn't that the hotel where Sonny checked in after leaving his house the day of Mia's abduction?"

"Yeah, the Bali Hai hotel is right over there. What are you thinking?"

"According to what I read in the court transcripts, there were two people who he interacted with at the hotel; a receptionist and a bartender. If we're going to tell his story through our podcast, we'll want to interview both of them."

"And you want to do that now?" Rodney asked.

"Don't put off tomorrow what you can do today," Farrah replied.

"Mark Twain," Jimmy said.

"Huh?" asked Rodney.

"Mark Twain said that," Jimmy replied.

"College boy," Rodney said. "Okay, why don't you and Samuel Clemens Junior over here go over to the hotel and do what you need to do. I'll go run an errand and then get us a table at Fisherman's Wharf, the restaurant on the pier in Pompano. Let's meet there around six p.m."

"Isn't that a little early for dinner?" Jimmy asked.

"Look, Doubts, when you live in South Florida, you either go to dinner by six or you wind up waiting for a table until nine. Trust me on this."

"We will see you at six, Rodney," Farrah confirmed.

Rodney got into his car and made a right out of the parking lot; Farrah and Jimmy made a left and were in the parking lot of the Bali Hai hotel minutes later.

"This place looks like it's from a 1940s movie set; I wouldn't be surprised to walk through those doors and find ourselves in the middle of a black-and-white movie."

After saying these words, Jimmy heard something he didn't remember hearing from Farrah before: laughter.

"You know, Doubts, if the whole radio career doesn't work out, you can always be a comedian."

Before Jimmy could answer, they were greeted loudly by an older Polynesian woman behind the reception desk. "Welcome to Bali Hai, your special hotel. You two love birds want a roomy for some special boom-boom?"

Jimmy blushed and Farrah replied, "He's really not my type."

"Hot piece of ass like that not your type, you must be lesbian."

Farrah just looked at the receptionist, whose name tag read Bloody Mary, with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, my mistake. So you would like two rooms?"

"Actually we're not here for a room. We were hoping to ask you a few questions."

"What are you, cops? You don't look like cops; dressed too nice to be the fuzz."

"No, we're not cops. My name is Farrah Graham," Farrah said, handing the Mary her business card, "and this is my associate Jimmy. I run a podcast called _Uncorking a Murder_. We are doing a piece on Sonny Michaels, and I was hoping you could answer some questions for us."

"Wait-a minute, I know you. You did a thing on Brandon Nash, right? Dat was very good."

"Thank you. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions about the day Sonny Michaels was here?"

"Okay, but let's talk in my office," Mary said, motioning Farrah and Jimmy to join her behind the counter. She placed a bell with a sign saying "Ring for Service" on the counter before leading her guests into a small office.

"How can I help you?" Mary asked.

"Wait, what happened to your accent?" Jimmy questioned.

"Oh, please, handsome, that accent is as fake as these," Mary said, pointing to her chest. "The owner of the hotel insists we carry out the South Pacific theme when interacting with guests, and we get reprimanded if we don't do it. I can't afford to lose this job, so I have to play ball."

"Do you mind if we record this conversation?" Farrah asked.

"Go ahead, but I don't know how much help I'll be. The day you're talking about was over five years ago."

Farrah set her audio recorder on the table, hit record, and started asking Mary questions.

"What do you remember about the day Sonny Michaels came into the hotel?"

"I remember that he didn't have a reservation, so I assumed he was looking for a little adult company; most of the men who come into the hotel without a reservation in the afternoon usually have a guest show up later on; I figured I would see a call girl or guy within an hour."

"Did he seem odd to you in any way when he checked in?"

"Not at first, but then he took me on a trip to crazy town."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, he looked me in the eye and spoke in a very clear, calculated manner, but things took a turn when he showed me his ID."

"What was odd about it?"

"It was one of the worst fake IDs I had ever seen; it said his name was Captain Derek Krunch of the Pompano Beach Police Department. It took all my strength not to laugh in his face—and then there was the dog."

"What dog?"

"Exactly—what dog? He bent over and started talking to what I assumed was a dog; he even had a name for it, Eddie. When I looked down I didn't see anything, but he kept on talking to the dog. There was nothing there; the guy clearly wasn't playing with a full deck."

"And you still gave him a room?"

"Look, this is a judgment-free zone," Mary said. "Plus he paid with cash. My boss likes it when customers pay in cash."

"Do you remember anything else about your interaction with Sonny?"

"No, but you could try the bartender. After he went up to his room, he came back down and went to the bar."

"Is the same bartender still here?"

"Yes, Joe. He's the owner's son; good-looking kid, but dumber than a box of nails.

"Thank you for taking the time to speak with us," Farrah said.

"I never believed it," Mary said, as Farrah and Jimmy got up to leave.

"Never believed what?" Farrah asked.

"I never believed that Sonny killed his wife; he may have been a bit crazy, but I have been around killers in my life, Ms. Graham, and Sonny isn't one of them."

"Thanks again for your time, Mary," Farrah said as she hit stop on her digital recorder. She and Jimmy then took a walk through the lobby to the bar.

Jimmy said, "I guess the decorator wasn't afraid to go all out with the South Pacific theme," as they entered Clippers Bar, which was empty save for the bartender.

"Have a seat anywhere you like," the bartender said. "I'm Joe; are you two thirsty, hungry, or both?"

Farrah and Jimmy took up a seat at the bar, and Farrah didn't hesitate to order a cocktail for herself. "I'll take a dirty martini with Ketel One."

"You want anything, Mack?"

"Excuse me?" Jimmy said.

"You want something to drink, or is the dame the only one with a working liver around here?"

"Bud Light, draft," Jimmy replied.

When he returned with their drinks, Joe tried to engage Jimmy and Farrah in small talk. "Of all the gin joints in South Florida, what brings you to mine?"

"You can cut the theatrics," Farrah said, and then introduced herself as the host of the _Uncorking a Murder_ podcast.

"No shit, I loved that podcast; it made me think twice about old Brandon Nash. What's the next one?"

"That's why we are here. We're reviewing the case of Sonny Michaels and talking to everyone he saw the night of his wife's murder, and we were hoping we could pick your brain. Do you mind if I record this conversation?"

"Will this make it to the new series?" Joe said excitedly.

"Almost certainly," Farrah said with a wink.

"Yeah, I remember the night Sonny Michaels was here. There was a film crew here shooting a movie."

"Do you remember the movie?" Farrah asked.

"How could I forget? _Pacific Theatre of Pain_ —it was a slasher film shot primarily here in the hotel and over at the airfield across the street. Nikki Sixx from Mötley Crüe did the music, and Eric Shon directed. At the time they thought it would get a theatrical release, but it went straight to streaming."

"That was a great movie!" Jimmy chimed in. "All the guys in my dorm can recite it word for word."

"What do you remember about Sonny?"

"The first time he came into the bar, I thought he was just another down-and-out guy looking to drown his sorrows in a glass. I remember him telling me that earlier that day he found his wife in bed with another man and it upset him, so he came here."

"Did you believe him at the time?"

"Hey, that's a story I have heard on more than one occasion between these four walls; I had no reason not to believe him."

"I'm asking because your testimony gave the prosecution a motive to use against Sonny at the trial."

"What can I say, I said it happened the way it actually happened."

Farrah made a note to herself to check the autopsy report in order to see if there were any signs that Mia Michaels had been sexually active earlier that day.

"Earlier you referred to the first time he came into the bar. Did Sonny come into the bar a second time?"

"Yes, much later in the evening."

"What was your impression of Sonny the second time he came in that night?"

"About the same, but then he passed out on the bar, and when he came to, he seemed like a different person."

"Did he have too much to drink? Is that why he passed out?"

"No, I can tell you for sure he wasn't over-served—not here, anyway. I remember he was watching something on TV that seemed to upset him. Next thing I knew, he took a nosedive into the bar and we had to revive him with smelling salts. When he came to, he acted completely different."

Farrah wrote down "hit his head?" as a note to herself to ask Rodney about it later.

"What happened after he came to?"

"That I don't remember because there was a fair amount of commotion in the bar. The last I saw him, he was walking toward the lobby, talking on his phone."

"And you didn't see him again?"

"No, not until the trial."

"I think those are all the questions I have for you," Farrah said.

"Actually, there's something more I'd like to say. I know that my testimony hurt him, but I don't think he got a fair trial."

"Why do you say that, Joe?"

"During the trial the medical examiner put Mia's time of death a little after midnight. I have security footage showing that Sonny was here between 11:00 p.m. and 12:20 a.m. The other thing that did Sonny in was the fact that he visited and supposedly abducted Lucy Hendricks before going to the church. But the cops didn't show Sonny getting to the abandoned church until about 1:30. So if Mia died around midnight, how could Sonny have killed her if he was here at 11:00 and didn't get to the church until two?"

"You've really given a lot of thought to this."

"I'm a bartender at a second-rate hotel in Pompano Beach—I have a lot of time to think."

"Thanks for your time, Joe. Can I call you if we have any additional questions?"

"Absolutely."

Farrah and Jimmy left the Bali Hai hotel and drove east to meet Rodney at the restaurant. As they drove, Jimmy asked, "Wasn't there enough to create reasonable doubt within the jury?"

"It all depends on how the timeline was challenged by the defense. My sense is that Sonny didn't exactly have a dream team of lawyers on his case. The good news for us is that it certainly makes the story more interesting."

## CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

GERRY FEIN'S SUNDAY ritual of watching football at Koz's, his favorite bar in Fort Lauderdale, was interrupted with an urgent message from Adrian. His boss explained that the company faced a potential security threat and his services would be needed immediately. Gerry knew that this was code for having to follow someone in order to do some reconnaissance and, a few minutes later, he received a note on his mobile phone with a name and a picture.

_Why the hell does he want me to follow this guy?_ Gerry thought. He knew better than to question orders, though; he had a job to do, and that was that.

"I need to close my tab, Rob," Gerry said to the bartender.

"No charge for you today, Lucky—see you next Sunday." Rob was the only person in the United States who could get away with calling Gerry by his nickname.

Gerry was always amazed about how much personal information people shared with each other on the Internet, so he wasn't surprised when, after a few Google searches, he was able to pull up an address and phone number for Rodney Peters just minutes into his new assignment. Deeper in the search results, he saw a link to a social media post from a bar in Pompano. Gerry knew the place well; it was one of the only restaurants on the beach and a popular spot with the silver-haired crowd. He clicked on the link and saw that Rodney had been tagged the previous Sunday, and knowing that people are creatures of habit, Gerry decided to take a trip north to Pompano Beach.

## CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

RODNEY PETERS WAS sitting at the bar having a beer when he felt a tap on his shoulder; he turned around to see Jimmy and Farrah. "Glad you two could make it. Farrah, why don't you take my seat—it will be about fifteen more minutes before we get a table."

"This placed is packed at six p.m. on a Sunday," Jimmy observed. "And I don't think I see anyone under sixty in here."

"You two certainly bring the average age down a bit," Rodney joked. "You guys want a drink?"

"I'll take a beer," Farrah said.

"Same," replied Jimmy.

"Sammy, three drafts, please," Rodney called out to the bartender. Sammy still worked at the Fort Lauderdale Police Department, but he spent four evenings a week tending bar at Fisherman's Wharf. He had three boys to put through college, and that was challenging on a cop's salary. Even though his wife was an ER nurse, they both took on second jobs to give their children a better life.

As Sammy got their drinks, no one noticed a stout, gray-haired man enter the bar and sit down on a stool next to Farrah.

Sammy came back with their drinks. "Rodney, who are your friends? I've never seen you in here with anyone."

"Sammy, allow me to introduce to you Farrah Graham and Jimmy Doubts—they're helping me on a special project."

Gerry made a mental note of these names and the fact that Peters was working on a special project.

Sammy stroked his beard with his fingers. "What kind of name is Doubts? Sounds like a bad mobster name."

"Long story," Jimmy said. Before he could finish, Sammy was called to the other side of the bar by another customer.

"Did you have a productive meeting at the hotel?" Rodney asked.

"No earth-shattering information, but I found it interesting that the receptionist and bartender are convinced that Sonny didn't do it. The bartender actually feels bad that his testimony was a nail in Sonny's coffin."

Gerry's ears perked up. _So this had something to do with Sonny Michaels; but who were these two and why did they care about a five-year-old case?_ Gerry knew that he would need answers to these questions before the end of the night.

"Peters, party of three," came a voice over the loudspeaker. Rodney left a twenty-dollar bill on the bar for Sammy, and he, Farrah, and Jimmy went to the hostess' station in order to be seated. Jimmy told the others that he was going to the men's room and would meet them at the table.

_Shit_ , Gerry thought, but then caught a lucky break as he watched the young kid make a beeline for the men's room. Gerry thought he looked pretty green, so he figured he had nothing to lose by engaging him in some friendly conversation in the men's room. He waited twenty seconds and then followed him in.

Jimmy was standing at a urinal and, fortunately for Gerry, there was one open immediately to his left.

"The Dolphins suck," Gerry said nonchalantly as he approached the urinal.

Jimmy replied, "The way they lost to New England last Sunday, they should consider bringing Marino back."

Gerry laughed. "Say, that woman you're with, is she single?"

Ever since he started working with Farrah, Jimmy was stopped frequently by other men looking to hit on her. "If I had a dollar for every man who hit on my boss, I wouldn't have to work another day in my life," he said.

"Must be tough working for a woman like that. You ever get with her?"

"I'm not her type," Jimmy replied. By now their conversation had transitioned from the urinal to the sink.

"She looks kind of familiar to me—what kind of business are you two in?"

"She runs a podcast called _Uncorking a Murder_ ; have you heard of it?"

"I may have heard about something like that."

"I'd be surprised if you hadn't," Jimmy said, wide-eyed. "It's currently the most frequently downloaded podcast on iTunes."

"You don't say. What brings you down here, a little R&R in the winter?"

"No, work. We're doing our second season on a case down here, but I can't really talk about it. Look, it was nice talking to you..."

"Lucky—you can call me Lucky."

"It was nice talking to you, Lucky."

"Enjoy your night," Gerry said with a smile.

Jimmy left the men's room, and Gerry left the restaurant, feeling lucky once again.

"We were worried about you, Doubts. I was about to put an APB out on you if you didn't come back in another minute," Rodney said.

"Sorry, I was talking to some old guy in the bathroom."

"I don't think I need to hear any more," Farrah said. "I saw that old guy go in right after you; I thought he was looking to pick you up. That happens a lot down here."

"He was just being friendly; people are friendlier down here than they are in the Northeast."

"Chalk it up to the sunshine. Look at the menu quickly, kid, we have to order soon."

Jimmy looked at the menu and announced he would have a steak.

"Good evening, lady and gentlemen," said a middle-aged waiter. He was skinny, mustached, and his eyes revealed a man who made some poor choices in life. "My name is Bobby, and I will be your waiter."

"Well, hello there, Bobby," Peters said. "I have something for you." Rodney opened his wallet and took out a coupon for a "buy one, get one" drink special. The restaurant ran an ad in the newspaper each Sunday with this coupon, and customers had to present it to the waiter before ordering a drink in order to take advantage of the special.

"I can always count on you to have the coupon, Detective Peters."

"I live on a fixed income, Bobby; I've got to save money where I can."

After Rodney, Farrah, and Jimmy gave Bobby their drink orders, he asked, "Do you have any questions about the menu or are you ready to order?"

"We'll each have a bowl of the conch chowder," Rodney said. "I'll have the ribs, she'll have the filet of pompano, and he'll have the steak," Rodney said, pointing at Jimmy.

"Very well, sir."

"Thanks, Dad," Jimmy said after the waiter left; this caused Farrah to giggle.

"Don't push it, Doubts," Rodney said, waving his finger at Jimmy. "I was thinking that there's another person you should interview while you are here."

"Who's that?" Farrah asked.

"Trixie," he said.

"Who is she?" Farrah asked.

"Trixie is a 'he'—he runs the gentleman's club in Pompano I told you about last night; Sonny was there right before heading back to the hotel on the night of the murder."

"You know, Joe the bartender pointed out something earlier this evening that any defense attorney worth their degree should have flagged," Farrah said. "The timeline the state proposed is inconsistent with the facts of the case. The fact that the defense could have proved that Sonny was nowhere near that church in Pompano the night of the murder may have helped his case."

"The defense had a number of reasons not to enter the receipt from the strip club's ATM into evidence," Rodney replied.

"Such as?" Jimmy asked.

"Such as Sonny's character, for one. The prosecution had already assaulted his character when they brought up the altercation he had with Mia years ago, and they also had Joe's testimony that Sonny admitted to his wife having an affair. The defense felt that the fact that he was at a strip club while his wife was dying wouldn't help his case at all."

"Even if it meant refuting the prosecution's timeline?"

"Look, I wish I had an answer for you, but the only person who could really answer that question was his defense attorney, Nicole Mathers, and she died of a heart attack years ago."

"Was there anyone else on the defense team—someone we could interview?"

"I'm afraid not; Sonny's father could barely afford Nicole's fees and they couldn't tap into Sonny's savings."

"Why not?"

"Because somehow the DA's office was able to freeze his assets."

"They must have had some muscle to be able to do that," Farrah observed.

"They sure did; his name is Stuart Barker."

"The junior senator from Florida?" Jimmy questioned.

"Yes, although at the time he was the politically ambitious district attorney in Fort Lauderdale. I've suspected that he played a role in this all along, but I couldn't prove it. Anyway, Trixie may be able to shed some light on what Sonny was like immediately before going back to his hotel."

"I guess it couldn't hurt to have another perspective; at least it would make for an interesting story."

Bobby came over with their drinks and three bowls of the restaurant's signature soup, Bahamian conch chowder. "I have to warn you, this has a bit of a kick to it."

Jimmy put his nose close to his bowl and took a whiff. "Whoa! This stuff just cleared my sinuses."

Bobby then looked at Farrah and said, "I have a bet going with one of the other waiters. Are you Farrah Graham?"

"Guilty as charged," Farrah said, holding up her hands. She was finally starting to have fun with her newfound celebrity status.

"I loved your first season of _Uncorking a Murder_! Are you going to do a second season?"

"As a matter of fact, we're working on it right now."

"Have you considered doing a season on Sonny Michaels? He was a local loony tunes down here who was convicted of killing his wife."

"You don't say?" Farrah said.

Even though the restaurant was quite crowded and Bobby had a number of tables to cover, he continued to engage Farrah in conversation. "I saw him the night of the murder."

"Really. Tell me more, Bobby." Farrah took out her voice recorder, hit record, and placed it on the table. "Do you mind if I record this?"

"Not at all. It was earlier in the evening, and I saw this guy outside looking out at the beach and talking to himself. It was a slow night here, so I went to go see what was going on. Anyway, I saw him examining a piece of driftwood that washed up on the shore, and then I heard him having a conversation with people who weren't there; I think he thought he was at an actual crime scene."

Farrah initially decided to record this conversation as a joke, but now she thought there might be something to it.

"What was he saying?"

"I could have sworn he was pretending to talk to another detective and then a medical examiner. I heard him pleading with someone to get an autopsy done ASAP."

"What did you do then?"

"I encouraged him to get the hell out of there. As I said, we were slow that night and the few customers that were walking up to the restaurant were being scared away. We work off of tips here, and he was bad for business."

"Any idea what time that was roughly?"

"Yes, it was about 6:30. It was still light out and guests were just leaving after the five o'clock seating."

"Sir, can you check on the status of our meal, please?" said another customer in Bobby's section who was getting annoyed that Bobby was fraternizing with Farrah's table.

"I'll check right away, sir," said Bobby to the irate patron. Before he left, he said to Farrah, "Let me know if you want to hear anything more about my experience that night."

Farrah turned her attention back to Rodney and Jimmy. "Well, that was unexpected."

"I wonder if his testimony could have helped Sonny," Jimmy said.

"Most likely it could have; it's another point that puts the state's timeline into question."

"I'll be dammed," said Rodney.

"So here's what I'd love to do during the rest of the week: I want to interview Trixie, even if only for the sheer entertainment value. Then I'd like to interview Lucy Hendricks to see what she knows, and finally—and I know this is a long shot—I would love to sit face-to-face with this Adrian Tepes character to see if I could get him to admit to anything."

"That's some risky ground you're treading on, Ms. Graham. If we believe what Sonny is saying—that Adrian orchestrated Mia's death—you'll be playing a dangerous game."

"Really, how bad can he be?" Farrah asked.

## CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

IT WAS TWO o'clock in the morning, but once again Adrian Tepes felt awake and alive; he was running through the streets of Bucharest and clocking himself at a six-minute mile—not too bad for a man in his late forties. His stride was broken when a homeless man holding a knife staggered out from an alleyway.

"Bani," the homeless man said, using the Romanian word for _money_.

"Bani?" Adrian questioned, his pulse racing.

"BANI," the homeless man repeated loudly, waving his knife around with the hopes of intimidating Adrian. Out of the corner of his eye, in the alleyway, Adrian could see two sets of eyes staring at him; they belonged to two very small children, most likely the homeless man's children.

"Nu," Adrian replied, using the Romanian word for _no_.

The man looked confused, as if he didn't expect Adrian to refuse his request. He then lunged at Adrian with the knife in his right hand. Adrian used both hands to chop the man in his right forearm, causing the knife to fall to the ground. He then slid his right hand up the man's arm while grabbing his right hand for leverage, and hit the man in his carotid artery. The man was clearly stunned as Adrian's left hand struck him squarely in the nose with his palm. Adrian then wrapped both of his hands behind the homeless man's head and pulled them downward until the man's head met Adrian's right knee, followed by his left knee. After Adrian let go, the man collapsed to the ground, unconscious. Adrian then bent down and bit the man on the neck; he barely broke the skin, but he was able to taste some blood.

As all this was happening, the two children in the alleyway watched in complete horror. Adrian looked up from the homeless man's neck and made eye contact with the children. He then got up from the man, reached into his pocket, and dropped some paper bills on the man's chest. "Bani," he said to the children, and then continued on his run.

Adrian returned to his family's residence around four a.m. When he checked his mobile phone, there was a message from Gerry. "I found out what our old friend is up to; call me immediately."

Adrian dialed Gerry's number; he picked up after two rings. "It seems you got lucky tonight, Gerry old boy."

"I can assure you that luck had nothing to do with it."

"Well, don't keep me in suspense—what is the retired detective up to?"

"It seems that former detective Rodney Peters just can't let the Sonny Michaels situation rest. Have you ever heard of Farrah Graham?"

"The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I can't place her. Who is she?"

"She's the creator and host of the hottest podcast in the country right now, _Uncorking a Murder_. The first season consisted of a ten-part downloadable 'podumentary' on Brandon Nash, the former NFL star who was convicted of killing his wife. She made a compelling case for his potential innocence, and the popularity of her series may lead to his eventual release."

"Let me guess—our good detective has somehow convinced her to do her second season on Sonny Michaels."

"I confirmed that this evening."

"How sure are you?"

"One hundred percent. Her intern admitted it to me in the men's room."

"What else can you tell me about this Farrah Graham?"

"She was a high-powered attorney at a prestigious New York law firm before starting her show. She has a brother who is a Catholic priest and she has been involved in a long-term lesbian relationship with a woman named Melody Note; they live together in Stamford, Connecticut.

"How does the detective look?"

"Not so good. I did some digging on him, too. His health is in decline—lung cancer. My source tells me he has refused treatment and doesn't have long to live."

"We need to put an end to this quickly; if Graham does an exposé on the Michaels case and drags T2 through the mud, it could cripple the company."

"Do you want me to take care of her?"

"No—if someone that high-profile goes missing, it's newsworthy. But if something happened to her girlfriend..."

"Should I book a trip to Connecticut?"

"Yes, but you'll have to fly commercial; we can't have this trip on the corporate jet's logbook."

"Hold on a second." Gerry did a quick flight search on his phone and then put it back to his ear. "There's a Jet Blue flight out of Fort Lauderdale at seven a.m. tomorrow morning, and it lands at Westchester airport around 11:00. It's only a thirty-minute drive from the airport to Stamford; I should be able to get her by 11:30."

"Text when you have her, and I'll take it from there."

"Should we bring Lucy into this?"

"No!" Adrian said firmly. "She hasn't been herself recently; let's keep this between us for now." While reviewing the security footage of the inside of his home earlier that day, Adrian had seen Lucy enter his closet and then come out a few minutes later, trailing dirt behind her. He was planning for the two of them to have a little talk about respecting each other's privacy.

"Roger that."

Adrian hung up the phone and placed a call to Brian Stokes, his private pilot. "Gas up the plane," he said. "We're going back to Florida now."

## CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

FARRAH WOKE UP early on Monday morning in order to get a workout in. Later that morning she was set to interview Trixie, and then she was hoping to interview Lucy Hendricks even though she knew that would be problematic. She suddenly realized that she forgot to call Melody last night and knew she was going to be in for an earful. She decided to call her while she was using the elliptical machine in the hotel's fitness center, which was no more than a glorified guest room with some dumbbells, a bench, a broken treadmill, and the elliptical machine.

"I was beginning to think you forgot about me or decided to go straight with the young intern," Melody said.

"I'm sorry," Farrah said. "Yesterday was beyond crazy. We went to see Sonny Michaels in prison."

"Holy shit, that was fast."

"Rodney Peters doesn't mess around."

"I was reading a story yesterday about how STDs are running rampant in nursing homes around South Florida. Yet another reason why I never want to visit the state."

"Remind me to pick up some penicillin."

"That's not funny, woman! You know I'm insecure. What are you going to do today—play shuffleboard?"

"Maybe after some mahjong with the girls at the club."

"You are Catholic, not Jewish. I don't think you're allowed to play mahjong."

"Can we be serious for a minute? I really miss you."

"Then come home! Forget this crusade you are on for Sonny Michaels; there are better cases out there."

"If you only knew! This one is hot, Melody. It's bigger and more intriguing than the Nash case. Trust me."

"All right, but when you get home, I'm stealing you for a long weekend."

"Deal," Farrah said. "I'm going to have Jimmy upload all the audio we've been capturing to the FTP site. I want to make sure we have a backup of everything in case anything happens to the recordings."

"Okay, I'll be on the lookout for them. Wait, why are you panting?"

"I'm working out—needed to get the blood flowing."

"When you come home, I'll give you a workout!"

"Deal. Love you."

"Bye—love you, too."

After Farrah hung up with Melody, she put on a cable news channel; a segment on T2 immediately caught her interest.

The anchorwoman said, "And big news for Fort Lauderdale-based Tepes Therapies: The FTC has decided that it will not block the merger between the company and its major competitor, Diabetica. The joining of the two companies will create the world's largest supplier of pharmaceuticals and pharmaceutical supplies for the diabetes industry. According to the Centers for Disease Control, diabetes affects almost 30 million Americans with upwards of eight million people being undiagnosed."

Farrah picked up her phone to call Rodney, who answered on the first ring.

"Good morning, Ms. Graham! You're up early, I see."

"Rodney, do you believe that history repeats itself?"

"Yes, I do—and I believe that those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it."

"I just saw a segment on the news about T2 merging with Diabetica. Mia was murdered the day before T2 went public, correct?"

"That's right, Ms. Graham."

"And now we're poking around right when the company is about to go through another milestone. That's why you reached out to me when you did, isn't it?"

"It may have had something to do with it."

"If we break our story sooner rather than later, we could really hurt T2, couldn't we?"

"Forget breaking your story, Ms. Graham; you could break them!"

"I'm going to have Melody in my office put this together right away. We've got to fast-track this."

"I love your enthusiasm, Ms. Graham, but I can't underscore how important it will be for us to be careful; if Adrian Tepes catches on to what we are planning, he will come after you."

"We'll have to work fast and quiet. I'll scrap my plans to try and interview Lucy Hendricks—that will tip our hat too much. I'll just interview Trixie today and then hole up in our hotel and start putting together the narrative. If I spend today and tomorrow writing and recording my voiceovers, I'll have Melody work around the clock to put the entire story together. We've got to launch the second season before the merger goes through."

"You just made an old man's day, Farrah Graham."

Farrah hung up with Rodney and texted Jimmy. "Wake up, Doubts—we have a big day ahead."

## CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

LUCY WOKE UP with a nasty headache; after coming home from Adrian's yesterday, she killed two bottles of wine and fell asleep on the couch. She opened her eyes and rubbed her temples; she suddenly felt queasy and darted to the bathroom, where she proceeded to throw up the contents of her stomach into the toilet. _I have to stop drinking_ , she thought. She couldn't remember the last time she woke up in the morning and didn't feel like garbage.

She thought about calling in sick to work today and checked the calendar on her phone to see what kind of meetings she had going on; any hopes of taking the day off were squashed when she saw a text from Adrian stating, "I am flying back today; should be in around noon. We have to talk."

She wondered what this could be about and then remembered what she saw in his attic and assumed that somehow he knew she went up there. How was she going to explain that? At least she had some time to think about it. While standing in the shower, she began to reflect on her life over the last five years; she had made more money than she ever thought possible, but she couldn't say that she was a happy person. She was dating a man who gave her access to the upper echelons of society, but she was lonely inside.

She also thought about Mia, and her involvement in Mia's death. Lucy had always rationalized that she wasn't the one who killed Mia, but she couldn't help but feel some sense of responsibility over what happened to her. Periodically this would gnaw away at her until she became paralyzed with guilt and anxiety; perhaps this had something to do with why she drank so much. Drinking helped her to not feel anything at all.

Lucy ended her shower feeling overly introspective. She got dressed, did her makeup, and decided to buy coffee on the way to work instead of making it at home. She could get a coffee at Destiny Donuts just down the street. Although it was in walking distance, Lucy decided to drive and then head to the office immediately from there.

When she entered the shop, she was relieved to see that there was no line; in fact, the only customers she noticed were a woman in her forties sitting with a much younger male. _You go girl_ , Lucy thought to herself as she immediately assumed that the younger man was the woman's boy toy.

"How are you doing this morning?" Topher asked from behind the counter. "What kind of drink can I get started for you?"

Lucy stared at him blankly; she was distracted by something she saw out of the corner of her eye. It was the homeless man Darryl sitting at a table inside the shop—Lucy hadn't seen him walk in, and she was repulsed by his being there.

"Miss, is everything okay?" Topher asked.

"Sorry," she said. "You should really call the cops to get rid of that man." Lucy tried to whisper this, but Darryl heard her and glanced in her direction. He was wearing the _Uncorking a Murder_ hat that Rodney Peters had given him a few days before.

"That's just Darryl, miss; he won't hurt anyone. He's a very interesting guy—do you know he served a few tours of—"

Lucy interrupted Topher before he could continue. "Can I please have a half caf with skim and two Splenda?"

"Anything to eat?"

"Just the coffee, thanks."

"Just wait over there," Topher said, pointing toward the far end of the counter where Darryl was sitting. "Your drink will be coming right up."

Lucy dreaded the thought of standing near a homeless person. Veteran or not, he didn't have the right to loiter there. She made a mental note to address it with the shop's manager the next time she saw her.

"Lovely weather we are having for January, isn't it?" Darryl said as Lucy was waiting for her coffee. He was very lucid today and uncharacteristically talkative. "Not too hot, not too cool, it's just right the way Goldilocks would have wanted it." After he said this he started laughing to himself. "I used to tell that story to my little girls..."

Before Darryl could finish his sentence, Lucy cut him off. "I would appreciate it very much if you didn't talk to me. I have a lot on my mind.'

"Oh, I know what that's like, to carry a burden and all. When I came back from the war, I was a different man. Wouldn't talk to no one about it; drove me half crazy. I lost my wife, I lost my kids, I lost everything. I had to discover a truth about myself before I could get better."

"And how did you do that, with a bottle of Night Train. Maybe some Mad Dog 20/20?"

Darryl looked into Lucy's eyes, and this made her uncomfortable. "You know what they say about those who live in glass houses?"

"What is taking so long?" Lucy said to Topher.

"Sorry, miss, I had to go into the refrigerator in the back for the skim milk. It's coming right up."

"No, I don't know a thing about you, but you look like you are carrying a massive weight on those shoulders and I can tell you from experience that it will crush you unless you unload it."

"And how do you suppose I do that?"

"Find your own truth, and it will set you free."

Lucy looked at Darryl in stunned silence. These were practically the same words on the note left on her car, and the same message Senator Stuart Barker apparently received in the mail.

"Your drink is ready," Topher called.

Lucy turned around and got her drink from Topher. When she turned back around expecting to see Darryl, she was surprised to see he was gone. She ran out of the shop and looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of him anywhere. Just then, her phone vibrated, indicating she had received a text message. It was from Adrian.

"Change of plans—do not meet me in the office today; come over to Poenari around one. I have some developments I need to discuss with you regarding the matter we spoke about yesterday, and I can't do that in the office."

With this turn of events, Lucy decided to go back home instead of heading to the office; she would drink her coffee and work from home until it was time to meet Adrian.

## CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

"DID YOU SEE that guy who just left?" Jimmy said to Farrah, who had joined him for a quick breakfast at Destiny Donuts at Rodney's insistence—he wanted to make sure they got to sample what he considered to be the best coffee in town. "I am pretty sure he was wearing an _Uncorking a Murder_ hat."

"Doubts, you've got to focus; we have a lot of work to get through today."

"So let me get this straight," Jimmy said to Farrah. "Our job today is to go into a strip club and interview a transvestite about Sonny Michaels."

"That's pretty much the long and short of it."

"If you told me that part of my job was going to involve going to a strip club, I wouldn't have believed you," Jimmy replied. "What is your plan for this interview, and what do you need me to do?"

"Let me address the last part of your question first. I expect you to be professional and keep your tongue in your mouth. With regards to my plan for the interview, I want to hear Trixie's take on Sonny's state of mind that night, as well as anything she can provide to corroborate our timeline. The more I think about it, the timeline is really going to push this story forward. If we can show that there was no way Sonny could have been with his wife when the medical examiner said the time of death occurred, we can pave the way for the theory that Mia was murdered because of what she knew about Sonny's research."

"In other words, we make it irrefutable that Sonny could not have murdered Mia, and then we outline an argument for who did and why?"

"Exactly. My sense is that the timeline is the easy part; the harder part is getting anyone to believe our theory of who really did it."

"Why is that? There's plenty of evidence that—"

Farrah cut Jimmy off before he could continue. "No, there isn't any evidence that Adrian Tepes or anyone from Tepes Therapies was involved in Mia's death. All we have is a hypothesis that just happens to make a lot of sense, but you can't confuse that with solid evidence."

"So what is it that we need more than anything else?"

"Short of an admission of guilt from someone involved, one of the best things we could do is actually find the guy whose blood was found at the crime scene—or at least convince someone in the FLPD to run that blood to see if they find a match in a criminal database somewhere. Remember what Peters said that first night he took us to dinner? Someone else's blood was found in the home, but the jury never got to hear about it. It's a total long shot, but if we could somehow find that person and link them to T2, Sonny Michaels would once again be a free man. If we can't get an admission of guilt or produce the real killer, our case is purely circumstantial."

"I don't think we can just waltz into the police department and ask for that blood evidence," Jimmy said.

"No, but let's not worry about that yet. One thing at a time—and the next thing on our list is interviewing a transvestite named Trixie."

Farrah and Jimmy finished their breakfast and then drove to the CheeryHo strip club. The parking lot was empty except for a handful of cars that Farrah assumed belonged to the employees.

"Of all the names they could have picked," Farrah said, "why choose CheeryHo? It reminds me of a breakfast cereal."

"I doubt the adult entertainment industry hires naming consultants," Jimmy said. "They could call a place like this Mr. Crabs and it would get business so long as it had the right reputation."

"You sound like an expert, Doubts—anything you want to share with me?"

"Just providing the heterosexual male perspective," Jimmy said, and then added, "We are pretty simple creatures."

The two of them walked up to the door and found it to be open, although no one was standing in the check-in booth where patrons paid their cover charge.

"Hello, anybody in there?" Jimmy called.

"We're not open until noon." The words came from a raspy voice behind the curtain separating the entryway from the club.

"My name is Farrah Graham, and I have an appointment with Trixie."

Jimmy was trying to peek through the curtains when he came face-to-face with the one and only Trixie, although he wasn't yet dressed in drag.

"That would be me," said Trixie, an older man who appeared very thin. "But I don't put on that persona until later in the evening. It's tough to do all the back office stuff and help stock the bar in high heels and a dress, not to mention what it does to my wigs. For right now, you can call me Cristopher."

"Cristopher, thank you so much for taking the time to talk, is there someplace private we can go?"

"My office is an absolute disaster; let's go into the club. We can sit up near the stage; that will give us plenty of privacy. The girls on the lunch shift won't be showing up for a while; we don't get much of a lunchtime crowd on Mondays, so my best girls typically take the day off. Say, junior, you _are_ cute." Cristopher said, looking at Jimmy, who immediately blushed.

"As Jimmy mentioned on the phone, we are preparing our second season of _Uncorking a Murder_ and have decided to feature Sonny Michaels."

"I have to say your first season on Brandon Nash completely changed my thoughts on that case. I was sure he did it when the case was in the news; I practically watched the trial as if it were a daytime soap."

"That's very kind of you to say. Do you mind if I record our conversation?"

"If it's just audio, no problem at all. If you need video, darling, I'm going to have to put my face on. You know how it is, don't you, Jimmy?" Again Jimmy turned bright red.

"Just audio," Farrah confirmed. "How do you want me to refer to you on the recording, as Cristopher or Trixie?"

"I think for the sake of your story you should stick with Cristopher. Trixie sounds too much like a character on a breakfast cereal box, and people might question my credibility."

"Why did you choose that name in the first place?" Jimmy asked.

"Oh, he speaks, and such a strong, masculine voice. It's like this, baby doll: That damn cereal came out the year I was born, 1955. My mother, being the good, post-war 1950s mother that she was, introduced me to it when I could start eating solid food, and it's all I ate for years. She nicknamed me her little Trixie rabbit, and the goddamn nickname stuck. When it was time to adopt a nickname for my drag persona, Trixie was the natural choice. Damn near killed my mother, though; she blamed herself for the way I am."

"What do you remember about the last time Sonny was in here?"

"What you have to understand, darling, is that I didn't know him as Sonny Michaels; I only knew him as Derek Krunch, and that day was the first time I ever saw him."

"What time did he show up?"

"Let's see, the first time was about three p.m., and the second was about 10:00 p.m."

"Hold on a second—he was here twice that day?" Farrah asked. "We knew he was here in the evening, but we didn't know he was here earlier in the day."

"Well, of course he was—how else would I have known his number to call him later that night?"

"Let's start from the beginning. What can you tell me about the first time you saw him that day?"

"Well, he came in solo, which most men do at that time of day. And I can prove he was here because we have a video camera at the check-in booth; if you want, I can go into the archives and get a copy of his two check-ins. As scatterbrained as I can be, I keep meticulous business records."

"We'll take you up on that, but for now tell us what you remember when you first met Sonn...I mean Derek."

"He decided to get a drink and sit at the bar. I thought maybe he was some undercover vice cop looking to bust the club on, shall we say, too much incidental contact; the place next door was raided earlier that week. But I knew he wasn't going to find anything wrong here—I run a clean club!" Cristopher said emphatically, and then continued.

"I went up to talk to him, and he claimed he was waiting for an informant. Now if there is one thing I know about real cops, and trust me, handsome, I know a lot," Cristopher said, looking at Jimmy, "it's that they will never tell you what they are really doing. I thought he was an oddball right off the bat—and if there is one thing I know, it's that oddballs are the ones who cause trouble for my girls."

"So why didn't you ask him to leave?" Farrah asked.

"Well, he was kind of cute, so I signaled to a girl I knew could take care of herself and suggested that they get to know each other better in one of our private dance rooms."

"Did he take you up on that?"

"No, so then I made a pass at him, thinking he was gay. He kept insisting he was there to meet an informant. Since he was giving off such a weird vibe, I thought he was scaring off the few customers we had that afternoon, so I suggested that I could call him if his informant showed up. He agreed, gave me his number, and left the bar."

"But he came back to the club later that night?"

"Well, don't hold this against me, gorgeous"—again this was directed at Jimmy and not Farrah—"but I was having a slow night, and I had a new girl, Pebbles, who was giving me an earful about not having enough customers to entertain that night. So I called him and told him that one of my girls had overheard something I thought he should hear. So maybe it wasn't the most ethical thing I've ever done in my life, but it took care of my problem with Pebbles."

"So you call Sonny—I mean Derek—and he comes back into the club. How long did it take him to get here?"

"If we go back to my office, I can check my cell phone records and also the time he checked in that night. I have everything digitized."

The three walked back to Cristopher's office. Pictures of Cristopher, dressed as Trixie, posing with various celebrities and professional athletes adorned the walls.

"That's me and Danny Boy," Cristopher said, referring to an actor who starred in a primetime soap popular in the '80s. "That man could party so hard, the city of Miami could go bankrupt. Say, handsome, you look a little bit like him, only blond."

"No one has ever told me that before," Jimmy said, his face another shade of crimson.

"Okay, I found the phone record. I placed a call to him at 8:26 that evening, and here he is walking through the door of the club at 10:15."

"Can we get a copy of this?"

"Sure thing—I'll print out the frame from the video and make a copy of the phone log for you."

"Cristopher, I can't thank you enough for your time; this has been very helpful."

"There _is_ one way you can thank me," Cristopher said, looking at Jimmy. "Tonight is men's night at the club and we take on amateur dancers. What do you say, Jimmy, want to make some easy money?"

"Going to have to pass on that, but I appreciate the offer."

"Your loss, gorgeous."

Cristopher walked Farrah and Jimmy back to the front door, undressing Jimmy with his eyes as he walked out the door.

## CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

GERRY "LUCKY" FEIN was feeling his nickname this morning; his flight into the Westchester County airport had left on time and arrived early. Fortunately for him, there was no traffic on the Hutchinson River Parkway, and he arrived in Stamford, Connecticut, ahead of his predicted time of 11:30 a.m. His rental car's GPS took him immediately to a dead-end street in the north part of town. The location couldn't have been any better; the houses were spaced far apart, and there didn't seem to be much activity on the street. It was a school day, after all, and Gerry estimated that many of the households were dual income in order to pay the steep mortgages in the upscale suburb; that meant fewer people there to see his comings and goings. He parked at the end of the street.

On his drive through Farrah's neighborhood, Gerry noticed a cable company van parked near a telephone pole; he looked up and saw a linesman working on the line, with the back of the van wide open. "Let's see how lucky I really am," Gerry said to himself. He pulled up behind the cable company van and looked up; the linesman was oblivious to his presence. Gerry then got out of his car, walked to the open doors of the van and peeked inside. He saw some spare hard hats and a few clipboards amidst multiple spools of cable wire. He brazenly took a hard hat and a clipboard and stowed them in his car, with the linesman being none the wiser.

Gerry took out his phone and texted Adrian. "I'm at the restaurant." They decided to use code so that if their messages were intercepted by anyone not meant to see them, it would just look like a normal conversation.

"Excellent. Have you seen the hostess yet?"

"Not yet, but it isn't very crowded. She must be taking a break."

"Let me know when you are seated."

"Will do."

Gerry decided that it might be best to take a walk around the house. He took out the hard hat and clipboard that he had stolen minutes earlier; if anyone questioned him, his plan was to tell them he was a surveyor. In the left pocket of his jacket was a bottle of chloroform and a rag, and in the right pocket was a small handgun with a silencer attached. These items had been left for him in his rental car—Gerry had ties to organized crime up and down the East Coast, and a foot soldier for a crime family managed to get these tools of the trade to the Irishman through a connection he had in the rental car business. Gerry's target could come the easy way or the hard way; either way he was prepared.

Gerry walked around the house, pretending to write notes on his clipboard. He noticed there was one car in the two-bay garage. _Looks like someone is home_ , he thought. As he walked through the backyard, he peeked through the windows to see if he could see anyone; there was no sign of life downstairs. He turned his attention to the second level and saw a light go on in what appeared to be a bathroom. _Bingo_ , he thought. He walked around the side of the house, taking note of any and all potential exits. He deduced that the best way in would be through the front door and the best way out through the garage. He went back to his car and backed it into the driveway, parking it so his trunk was within six inches of the garage door.

Melody heard a car coming down the street, and she allowed herself to get her hopes up that Farrah had come home early to surprise her. She was disappointed to see a Chevy Malibu pull around the cul-de-sac. She thought it was odd that the driver would park there. _Maybe he just needs to take a quick phone call,_ Melody thought, giving him the benefit of the doubt.

Having just come back from a run, she decided to take a shower and then continue editing the audio footage Farrah and Jimmy had collected in Florida. She had to admit that Farrah was right—the footage thus far was very compelling, and she could see where Farrah could take the story. _I'll have to make it up to her_ , she thought.

Melody turned on the light in the bathroom and then turned on the water in her shower. She and Farrah had purchased an old colonial home, and the plumbing needed some love; it could sometimes take five minutes for the water to warm up. Before undressing, though, she looked out the window and saw a man wearing a hard hat and carrying a clipboard in her backyard. _What the heck?_ she wondered.

Minutes later she heard a car engine start. She went to her bedroom, which had a window that overlooked the street, and saw the same man back his car into her driveway. He exited the car and left it running; he was heading for the front door.

Instinct told her to set the alarm. The closest keypad was in her walk-in closet; she entered the secret code and pushed "arm." The alarm system made a beeping sound to confirm it was armed.

Gerry debated how best to gain entry into the house. In his mind he had two options: break in through the back door (which was accessible via a three-season porch) or ring the doorbell and pretend to be a salesman. He opted for the latter since it was less risky. Before ringing the bell, he thought he heard water running in the house and deduced that his subject was taking a shower. He rang the bell; there was no answer—but no dog barking either. That was a good sign; he hated dogs...and dogs hated him.

He rang the bell again; still no answer. He reconsidered option one and started walking around to the back of the house.

Melody was paralyzed with fear. She could feel her heart pounding, and this only intensified as she heard the doorbell ring twice. Then, suddenly, the house was silent. When she mustered the courage to do so, Melody peeked out the window at the front door; she caught a glimpse of the man walking around to the back. Immediately she became even more nervous; she couldn't remember whether she had locked the door going from the porch to the house.

She left the shower running as a potential distraction and went downstairs to make sure the door was locked. The porch was off the family room, which was adjacent to the kitchen. She couldn't see the porch from her current vantage point, but fear made her senses hypervigilant; she heard someone place a hand on the doorknob and then heard the knob turn. The answer to the question on her mind was no, the back door was not locked. She heard the door open.

Gerry slowly turned the knob on the door and was pleased to feel it give way; it was unlocked. Unfortunately, he did not count on the house alarm going off since Melody was home. Everything changed when he heard the unmistakable beeping of the alarm's warning. He estimated he only had a minute before the alarm company called the home to confirm the validity of the alarm. It would then likely take approximately three to five minutes for an officer to be dispatched. Whatever he had to do, he had to do it quickly. He entered the home and removed the gun from his pocket as he walked through the door.

Melody waited around the corner. Ideally, she could try and hide for a few minutes and wait for the police to come, but in her present location she was exposed. The intruder would hear any move she made, possibly making his job easier. She decided that her only option was to stand up to the intruder when he found her and engage him in conversation as long as possible.

Gerry was thankful that the house was old; he could still hear water running through the pipes and assumed his target was still in the shower. While he knew she wouldn't hear him with the water running, even though time was of the essence, Gerry was very careful with his steps and walked slowly down the hallway that separated the family room from the kitchen. That's when he received the shock of his life.

The intruder was so close that Melody could hear him breathing. Her back and arms were flat against the wall, and her heart was beating mercilessly in her chest. She knew he was about to walk around the corner where she was hiding, and she debated for a split second letting him pass and then running down the hallway and out the back door. For that to work, she would have to take a chance that he wouldn't look over his left shoulder and see her pinned against the wall. She decided that was too much of a gamble; someone bold enough to enter a house in broad daylight would certainly check the corners of a room as he entered. Her only decision was to use the element of surprise to her advantage.

Just as Gerry was about to walk into the kitchen, the phone started to ring. _The alarm company!_ He paused, startled by the phone, and Melody jumped out and screamed. She saw the gun in his hands, and her instincts took over; she did what Shihan Manny taught her. She used both hands to grab the gun and twist it upwards, catching her attacker off guard. He let go of the gun for fear of his wrists breaking, and she threw it across the kitchen. He then tried to punch her with his right hand, but she deflected the blow with both of hers; she grabbed his right arm with her left and used the side of her right hand to chop him directly in the neck. He was stunned. She let go of his right hand with her left and used her left palm to strike him squarely in the nose while holding on to his shoulder with her right hand. The crunch she heard immediately after striking him in the nose, along with the blood that began flowing from it, told her that his nose was broken. Next, she used both of her hands to grab him by the head and pull his head down to meet her right knee, then her left.

Gerry dropped to the floor, dazed and confused, his face a bloody mess. Melody then used her right foot to stomp him squarely in the groin; as he tried to sit up to protect himself, his cell phone fell out of his jacket pocket, and she kicked that to the corner of the kitchen. Continuing her attack, she maneuvered behind him and put one arm under his chin and interlocked her hands and put pressure on his windpipe. He tried tapping her on the shoulder, but lost consciousness quickly and sank to the floor.

She walked across the kitchen, picked up the gun, and pointed it at the intruder. At some point she heard sirens coming closer. She kept the gun aimed directly at the intruder until the officers arrived.

## CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

FARRAH AND JIMMY drove over to Rodney's house and briefed him on their meeting with Cristopher/Trixie. Farrah noticed that Rodney looked tired and didn't seem to be himself.

"Cristopher told us that Sonny was actually in the club earlier in the afternoon; he has proof that he was there around three o'clock. Looking at the hotel records, we can see that he checked into the Bali Hai hotel around 4:30. If we believe the bartender, Sonny was near the pier around 6:30. From there, we know from what you told us that he was at his father's house around 7:15. Let's assume he stayed for about an hour talking to his dad, who his Captain Krunch persona thinks is the father of a murder victim. He then gets back into his car and drives to his own home, expecting to break the news to Mia about her husband's death. He shows up at the house around 8:30, and stays with you for about how long, Rodney?"

"In my notes I have him entering the home at 8:41 and leaving around 9:30."

"Okay, 9:30. He then drives over to the CheeryHo and gets to the club around 10:15. He's there for about an hour and then heads back to the hotel where he hits his head on the bar and eventually takes a call from Adrian. After talking to Adrian, he heads over to Lucy's house and arrives after one a.m.—for better or worse, we have footage of that. From there he goes to the abandoned church and arrives just after two a.m. Does anyone see what I see here?"

Jimmy spoke up with excitement, "Yes, there's no possible way that Sonny Michaels could have been around to either kidnap or kill his wife."

Rodney spoke up, "The new timeline is compelling, but we're still missing a key piece of information: We can't say who actually abducted Mia Michaels from her home and killed her. Without that, we have less of a case, and Sonny continues to rot away in a jail cell."

"Rodney," Jimmy spoke up, "you seemed to think that Lucy knew something and could hold the key that shows how T2 may be behind Mia's murder, right?"

"Yes, in my heart of hearts, I know that she is involved in this."

"Is there any way to see who she may have called that day? Maybe there's a clue in her phone records."

Farrah said, "We may need a new nickname for you, Doubts—you may be onto something."

"I don't think we'd be able to get Lucy's phone records without going through an official process, and since the case hasn't officially been reopened, we can't request them. Hell, I'm not even a cop anymore."

Jimmy smiled. "I don't think we will need her records. In the materials you gave us the other night, I remember seeing both Sonny and Mia's phone records as evidence in the case. If we could go through those and see whether or not Lucy called either of them that day, it could show that she was unusually motivated to talk to them."

"You had me for a while, Doubts, but I'm not sure we can draw any conclusions from that; remember that Lucy and Sonny worked for same company, and supposedly Mia and Lucy were best friends. That may explain why she had called both on the day of Mia's abduction."

The room was momentarily quiet, but then Jimmy had another epiphany. "Okay, but if we go over Sonny's records with a fine-tooth comb, we can at least see where he was geographically that day; different cell towers would be pinged, depending on his location. If Sonny's cell phone records can help corroborate our timeline as well as support the fact that he was nowhere near the crime scene until the early hours of the morning, our argument gets that much stronger."

"Doubts, you have redeemed yourself; why don't you get working on that with Rodney and see what you can come up with...hold on a second," she said as her phone began to vibrate. Farrah took it out of her pocket and saw a number she did not recognize from Connecticut's 203 area code. She picked it up and walked out of earshot of Jimmy and Rodney.

"Hello, this is Farrah."

"Ms. Graham, my name is Detective Sean Mooney with the Stamford police department. I want to assure you that everything is fine, but there was an incident at your home."

"What kind of incident?" Farrah asked, feeling panicked.

"An intruder broke in while Ms. Note was home."

Before the detective could say anything more, Farrah asked, "Oh my God, tell me nothing happened to Melody..."

"She's not the one we need to be concerned about," Detective Mooney said, as he watched the stretcher carrying Gerry Fein's limp body head-first out the door. "Ms. Note successfully defended herself against an armed intruder; she is in shock, but fine. The paramedics are checking her out now."

"Can I speak to her?"

"Not just yet. I need to ask you a few questions first. We don't think this was any regular break-in; the intruder was dressed as a service technician and had backed his car up to the garage. He was armed with a gun and had a bottle of chloroform on him, and he was also carrying what we think is a false identity. We suspect that he was planning to abduct either you or Ms. Note. Any idea why either of you would be targets for such an attack?"

Farrah thought for a moment; the method of attack seemed eerily similar to what possibly could have happened to Mia Michaels.

"Ms. Graham?"

"Yes, I have an idea who might be behind this, but you'd never believe me."

Farrah then ran through what she was working on for season two of _Uncorking a Murder_ for the detective.

"Ms. Graham, if it were anyone else telling me this story, you're right, I wouldn't believe it, but you are not just anyone. Here's what I think we need to do: first we'll identify the intruder; we've got plenty of blood samples, and between that and dental records, we should be able to identify him quickly. Hell, he may even confess himself when he regains consciousness. Then I suggest we contact the FBI in Fort Lauderdale and brief them on everything you know; this has to happen fast, as it's only a matter of time before whoever sent that man to your house realizes something went wrong. I've got a friend down there and will reach out to him on your behalf. Finally we have to find a way to get the son of a bitch."

Farrah agreed to the detective's recommendations and then was able to speak with Melody. "I'm so sorry this happened to you," she said apologetically.

"I'm fine," Melody lied. "Just come home soon; I can't be alone here."

"I promise I'll be home soon, but not yet. Someone has to learn a lesson."

"Farrah Graham, when are you going to learn that you can't right all of the world's wrongs? I need you _now_."

"Why don't you stay with your mom and dad until I get back?"

"I don't believe this! Someone breaks into our home and almost attacks me, and you're going to stay in that backwards-ass state so you can finish a story? What the hell is the matter with you?"

"I need to get justice for Sonny Michaels!"

"To hell with Sonny Michaels, and to hell with you. Don't expect me to be here when you get back." Melody terminated the call and Farrah walked back into the room where Jimmy and Rodney were waiting for her.

"Is everything okay, Farrah?" Jimmy asked.

"No, Doubts, everything is pretty fucking far from okay," Farrah replied.

## CHAPTER SIXTY

ADRIAN TEPES RARELY allowed himself to get nervous, but he hadn't heard from Gerry in over two hours and made the assumption that something had gone wrong. It wasn't like Gerry to miss a check-in, and The Count himself worried that perhaps Lucky's luck had finally run out.

"The Count." At first, Adrian detested that moniker, but over the years he had come to embrace it. Like the Count Dracula of fiction, Adrian felt as if he was charming, cunning, and ruthless. Right now he was thinking he would need to put all these characteristics to use in order to free himself from the bind he was in. But how much of a bind was he in really? If Gerry were arrested for whatever reason, no one would be able to tie him back to T2; he wasn't on the books as an employee, but instead was paid as an independent contractor from one of T2's tax shelter corporations. It would require a skilled forensic accountant to uncover a link between the two. As for the texting that went on between the two of them, even though all messages were written in code, they couldn't be traced back to Adrian because he only communicated with Gerry through disposable, month-to-month mobile phones.

Adrian reflected on all this while lying in the middle of what he considered to be his "sacred circle": the coffin in the middle of his dirt-filled attic. There was a circle drawn in the dirt, almost like a moat surrounding a castle. Adrian believed that nothing could hurt him when he was in the circle; there he was untouchable.

His thoughts drifted to his transformation from a poor boy in Romania to a global business leader. He thought of how he had dealt with all the people who got in his way, but he didn't feel remotely guilty about either ruining, or ending, their lives. It was business—nothing more, nothing less.

He smiled as he ran through his accomplishments, but he knew that there was a liability in his life: Lucy. While he knew she was aware that revealing what she knew about Mia's death could ruin the life she built for herself, in his experience women were unpredictable and often let their emotions get the better of them. In The Count's mind, his girlfriend was a loose cannon and, on top of that, her drinking was increasingly becoming a problem. Right then and there, in his sacred circle, he made the decision to deal with her personally.

His concentration was broken by a beep coming from his alarm system. _Speak of the devil, and the devil appears_ , he thought to himself. He took a few deep breaths and waited for Lucy to let herself in. He knew she would eventually come upstairs, and when she found him, they would have a long talk. He ran his tongue back and forth from one of his new fangs to the other. His pulse quickened and he waited in eager anticipation of seeing Lucy face-to-face.

Lucy waited for the scanner to finish and then entered her unique personal identification number on the keypad beside it. Once the door was opened, she entered the foyer, struck by how dark it was inside—one wouldn't have any idea that it was just after one p.m. on a sunny day in South Florida due to the blackout curtains drawn across the windows and lack of lights on inside.

"Adrian? It's me, Lucy. Are you home?"

No response. She walked around the first floor of his home, expecting to see Adrian in his study, but he wasn't there. _Maybe he's in the shower_ , she thought, reasoning that he had just flown in from Europe and, clean freak that he was, may have wanted to freshen up before seeing her. She decided to go upstairs, and as she did, she thought of how much she missed him when he was away; while he had some eccentricities, she couldn't deny how attracted she was to him. She allowed herself to fantasize about finding him in the shower and joining him. She started unbuttoning the buttons on her silk blouse as she walked up the stairs.

"Oh, Adrian, are you up here?" Lucy seductively. Still no response. Using the flashlight on her phone to guide her, she made a right at the top of the stairs and walked toward his bedroom. _Maybe he's asleep_ , she thought. She knew that Adrian spent much of the night awake, and while he didn't require much sleep, it was reasonable to think that he was napping after a long trip— that would certainly explain why the house was so dark.

Lucy entered his room and noticed he wasn't in his bed. She then walked to his master bathroom, but he wasn't in the shower either. _Maybe he hasn't gotten back yet_. It was possible he had been delayed at the airport or had a last-minute meeting come up. She decided to look in his closet to see whether or not his suitcase was there.

She opened the door to the walk-in closet and turned on the light; she immediately saw his suitcase, but then she saw something that made her gasp. His suits were pushed aside, exposing the hidden door leading up to the attic, and there was a note written in red pen next to the door, which read, "You know where to find me." Lucy suddenly wanted to get the hell out of Adrian's home; she started to walk out of the closet when the door shut suddenly. The slam of the door was followed by the unmistakable sound of a dead bolt turning over; Lucy was trapped and the only way to go was up.

Adrian heard Lucy enter his closet; his sense of hearing was heightened while being surrounded by darkness. He left the coffin and was now waiting by the wall at the top of the stairs. When he heard her gasp, he tapped a button on the wall which closed and locked the closet door, leaving her trapped; by now she would have seen the note and would be heading up the stairs—where he was waiting with a syringe.

## CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

JIMMY, FARRAH, AND Rodney headed down to Miramar, a town between Fort Lauderdale and Miami, where they briefed Special Agent Greg Moore of the FBI on everything they knew about the case. Agent Moore was a dark-haired Irishman with a ruddy complexion; he was tall, almost awkwardly so, Farrah thought—the kind of guy who had a hard time finding a suit that fit properly. She used her skills as a lawyer to carefully map out the story she had been able to piece together thus far. While it was painful for her to do so, she also recounted the break-in to her own home earlier in the day.

"If what you're saying is true," Agent Moore said, "the wrong man is sitting in a prison cell."

"That was the entire impetus for investigating this case," Rodney said, "but by doing so we may have just handed you the case of your career, Agent Moore."

"What do you mean?" Moore asked.

"If there is one thing this case is about," Rodney said, "it's greed. Greed motivated the management of T2 to frame Sonny Michaels for his wife's murder so he wouldn't publish research that would negatively affect company profits. However, that alone doesn't explain how they were able to suppress evidence in the trial. The jury didn't get to hear evidence of another person's blood at the crime scene or hear the defense pose a theory supported by hard evidence that questioned their timeline. In order to do that, they would have had to have help from someone higher up."

"Stuart Barker," Jimmy blurted out; Rodney Peters sat back and smiled.

"The senator?" Moore asked.

"One and the same," Jimmy said. He handed Moore a folder of pictures that showed Senator Barker and Adrian Tepes fraternizing at fundraisers.

"Looks like someone has been doing some extracurricular research," Rodney quipped.

Farrah elaborated, "Senator Barker was the DA down here when the Sonny Michaels trial was going on; we assume he had something to do with getting evidence suppressed. I bet if you put a few forensic accountants on the case, they would be able to make a link between Adrian Tepes, T2, and Senator Barker. It takes a lot of money to run for governor and a lot of influence to be able to run for senator; Barker would have needed help from someone like Adrian Tepes."

"Senator Barker is also on the Subcommittee on Antitrust, Competition Policy and Consumer Rights," Agent Moore observed. "There are some in my office who have heard rumblings of back channel deals he was making with some in the government to push the merger between T2 and Diabetica through without interference from the FTC. Given this information, we may be able to launch an investigation into his relationship with Adrian."

Farrah felt the phone in her pocket vibrate and she looked at the caller ID; it was the 203 number again. "Excuse me, everybody—I have to take this," she said, walking out of the room.

Agent Moore looked over at Rodney Peters. "How in the hell did you convince her to take this on? Honestly, if it weren't for Farrah and the popularity of her podcast, I don't think we would be having this conversation right now."

"Don't I know it," Rodney said. "I've been making this argument for years, and it has fallen on deaf ears."

"So how did you do it?"

"I simply made her an offer she couldn't refuse," Rodney said, doing his best imitation of Marlon Brando's Don Corleone from _The Godfather_. Before Agent Moore could press the issue any further, Farrah came back into the room.

"The cops in Connecticut were able to identify the man who broke into my home this morning; his name is Gerry Fein, and they confirmed that he is a native of Northern Ireland. Here is the contact information for Sean Mooney, the detective I'm dealing with in Connecticut." Farrah handed Agent Moore a piece of paper with a name, mobile phone number, and email address. "Mooney is expecting your call. While you get your forensic accountants to work on proving a link between Stuart Barker and Adrian Tepes, you may as well have them try to do the same with Gerry Fein."

After receiving this information from Farrah, it was Agent Moore's turn to take a call. "I need to take this; I'll just be a minute." He left the room.

"Hey, Doubts, nice going with the pictures of Tepes and Barker. I knew there was a good reason to bring you here."

"Hey, my generation is the first generation of digital natives. I figured I needed to put my talents to use."

"Every picture tells a story, don't it," Rodney Peters sang.

"The Faces?" asked Farrah.

"Rod Stuart, solo," replied Peters.

"I literally have no idea what you two are talking about," said Jimmy.

Agent Moore returned, saying, "That was a member of my team who did some basic investigating for me. Neither Mr. Tepes nor Ms. Hendricks showed up for work today. According to his assistant, Tepes returned from Romania early this morning, and my team confirmed this with the airstrip in Pompano where the company's private plane is parked. It cleared customs in New York, refueled, and landed in Pompano around 11:00 a.m."

"Was your team member able to locate where Mr. Tepes lives?"

"He lives on a canal in Fort Lauderdale," Jimmy said, much to everyone's astonishment. "His house looks like an old castle. I happen to have a few pictures."

Farrah looked at him and said, "You never cease to amaze me, Doubts."

"Why do you keep calling him Doubts?" Agent Moore asked.

"Long story," Farrah replied.

"He calls the place Poenari—if you ask me, the guy's got a Dracula complex," Jimmy said.

"What are you saying now, Doubts?" Rodney asked.

"Adrian's last name is Tepes, which was also the last name of Vlad the Impaler, who ruthlessly ruled modern-day Romania and Bulgaria in the mid-1400s. Bram Stoker based the antagonist of his book _Dracula_ on Vlad the Impaler. Vlad's castle in Romania was named Poenari and he used it as his base of operations."

"I guess it pays to have a college boy around," Rodney said.

"After my call with your Detective Mooney, I'll take a drive to this Poenari to see if Ms. Hendricks' car is there."

"Can I go with you?" Farrah asked.

Agent Moore didn't even consider the request. "Absolutely not. This is no longer a piece of investigative journalism—it's an official FBI case. Taking you along would break every rule in the book."

Farrah expected this reaction and didn't push the matter any further.

Rodney spoke up. "There's something that's bothering me."

"What's that, Rodney?" Farrah asked.

"Let's say Fein and Adrian are connected, as we believe. How did Adrian know that you were interested in this case? I mean, we didn't exactly broadcast the fact that Sonny Michaels would be the focus of your second season."

Farrah began thinking out loud. "The only people who could possibly know are someone at the prison, the waiter from the restaurant last night, or the people we interviewed about the case—including Trixie from the strip club and Mary and Joe, the hotel employees."

Rodney thought for a moment and then said, "Do you have a picture of this Gerry Fein guy?"

"His face is a bit bruised, but Detective Mooney did send me a picture of him." Farrah handed her phone to Peters, who looked at it, shook his head, and handed it to Jimmy.

"Doubts, does this guy look familiar to you?"

"Oh my God, he's the guy I saw in the bathroom last night!"

"What did you tell him, Doubts?" Farrah asked.

"I didn't say anything specific. He told me you looked familiar, and I told him that he might have recognized you from your podcast...and that you were down here exploring an idea for season two." Jimmy was embarrassed by this admission.

"Don't beat yourself up about it, Doubts," Farrah said. "You couldn't have known. But isn't that a hell of a coincidence—Fein being in the same restaurant as us at the same time? Something must have tipped him off."

Rodney was silent as he realized that the note he sent to Senator Barker and the multiple notes he left for Lucy Hendricks may have come back to bite him. Farrah thought he was uncharacteristically quiet and looked over in his direction.

"Rodney, what are you thinking?"

"I think we should focus our energies on finding Adrian and Lucy," he replied.

"Rodney, you brought it up, so don't make Doubts feel like the culprit here."

"Okay...I may have sent Senator Barker and Ms. Hendricks a reminder of their guilt."

"What kind of reminder?" Farrah asked.

"I may have sent Barker a picture of Mia Michaels with a Scripture passage written on it."

"What Scripture passage?"

"John 8:32."

Jimmy spoke up. "And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free."

Rodney, Farrah, and Agent Moore all stared at Jimmy.

"What?" he asked. "I grew up going to Catholic schools, and I currently attend a Jesuit university. This stuff is second nature to me."

## CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

ADRIAN WAITED IN silence as he heard Lucy walk up the stairs. With the creaking of every step, his pulse quickened; he lived for this, the thrill of the hunt. As a child in Romania, he would often hunt in the woods with his father on cold winter mornings, and on those mornings, he learned patience. Adrian also learned to ignore the desire to give mercy to the animals he and his father lured; mercy meant that his family might not eat that night.

He could tell Lucy was nervous; her steps were slow and halting. He could tell she was using the flashlight on her phone to see where she was going, but it wasn't very effective. Finally she spoke. "Adrian, cut the shit. Is this some kind of kinky game you want to play?"

He remained still and silent as he did over forty years ago on those cold winter mornings in the woods with his father. When Lucy reached the top of the stairs, she pointed her phone to the left—which was fortunate for Adrian because he was standing to her right. She screamed when she saw the open coffin; he was pleased. She then pointed the phone to the right and screamed again when she saw his face, and this excited him even more.

"Hello, Lucy, did you miss me?" He lunged toward her quickly, catching her off guard. He managed to spin her around and then jabbed her with the syringe. The syringe was filled with an animal tranquilizer called etorphine, a drug veterinarians use to immobilize large animals. When he was younger, Adrian enjoyed dissecting some of the animals he captured while hunting, and he found that dissecting them when they were still alive gave him an incredible thrill. His uncle on his father's side was a veterinarian and Adrian worked for him during high school. At that time, Adrian pretended to be interested in watching his uncle perform surgery on a dog with a broken leg. Wanting to satisfy his nephew's curiosity, he allowed Adrian to observe the surgery and never thought to question his nephew when his tranquilizers started to disappear. These days, Adrian's vast wealth allowed him to procure etorphine from other sources.

Because it was so dark in the attic, Adrian couldn't see well enough to inject the drug into Lucy's carotid artery; this would have knocked her out almost instantaneously. He wound up stabbing her in the shoulder, and, while it would take a few minutes to fully immobilize her, he knew she could already feel the drug's effect.

Lucy said, her speech slurred, "What did chu do?"

"I just gave you a little something to help you sleep; now come with me." He put his arms under hers and dragged her toward the coffin. "I have a nice comfortable bed made up just for you."

Adrian heard her rambling on about something. It took him a minute to make out what she was saying. "I shall know the truth, and the truth shall set me free." This puzzled Adrian; he knew she wasn't religious; far from it, in fact.

As he put her into the coffin, he saw that the flashlight on her phone was still on and removed it from her hands. When he touched the home screen, he saw a three-digit number with "call ended" beneath it. 911! She must have done that while she was standing at the top of the stairs.

"You stupid bitch!" he screamed at her. "You have no idea what you've just done." He threw the phone across the room in a fit of rage and slammed the top of the coffin shut, trapping Lucy inside. He then walked over to the top of the staircase, where he hit the button to unbolt the door to his closet. Adrian went down the stairs, careful to remove his shoes on the first step so he wouldn't track dirt onto the carpet in his closet. He estimated he had three to five minutes before an officer arrived, and he knew that not answering the door was not an option; they would have authority to break in and then it might be game over.

Adrian kept a safe in his closet where he kept pre-filled syringes with etorphine; he opened the safe, took out a syringe, and placed it in his pocket just in case whoever they sent to investigate the 911 call wasn't easily persuaded by whatever story he was about to tell.

## CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

AGENT MOORE ESCORTED Farrah, Jimmy, and Rodney back to the lobby of the federal building in Miramar. "I promise to keep you up to date on our progress, but I feel compelled to remind you that your investigative services are no longer necessary, Ms. Graham. I say this not only for the integrity of our investigation, but for your own safety. You've already had one break-in, and there's no telling what lengths Tepes will go to protect himself."

"I get it," Farrah said. "I think I'll just head back to Connecticut and leave this in your hands."

Jimmy and Rodney looked at each other, stunned. Where was the fearless woman they knew who would do anything for a story?

"That would be a wise decision, Ms. Graham. Again, I will call you with anything we find out." Agent Moore shook everyone's hands and went back into the building.

Farrah, Jimmy, and Rodney walked back to Rodney's car. "What the hell was that all about, Graham? I'd place bets that Jimmy Doubts over here will be admitted into Mensa before I'd believe you'd just roll over and let the FBI take over," Rodney said.

"Rodney, would you mind very much taking the scenic route to our hotel? Maybe you could show us where some of Fort Lauderdale's rich and famous live before Doubts and I head back to the airport."

Rodney was a quick study; they would do their own flyby to see whether or not Lucy's car was at Adrian's.

"You are trouble, Ms. Graham," Rodney said, shaking his head.

"Doubts, do you have an address for us?"

"Yes: 39 Chatsworth Avenue."

Rodney plugged that into his car's GPS. "Traffic looks clear," Rodney said. "We should be there in twenty minutes."

Ten minutes into the drive, Jimmy pointed to something resembling a walkie-talkie and asked, "What's that?"

"That's my police scanner. I miss being on the job, and sometimes I turn it on as a way of staying connected to my old life."

"Could we turn it on now?"

Rodney switched on the scanner, which was set to the frequency that Fort Lauderdale dispatch used.

"Seven-Mary-Three, do you copy?"

Seven-Mary-Three was the police radio call sign for officer Francis Quincey who had been with Rodney when they investigated the 911 call the night of Mia Michaels' abduction. He was part of the motorcycle division now, and Rodney knew that, due to budget cuts, officers were no longer sent out in pairs. He listened with interest to the exchange.

"Copy, dispatch. What's shakin?"

"Seven-Mary-Three, we have a terminated 911 call emanating from 39 Chatsworth Avenue. We see you are in the vicinity. Can you check it out?"

"Copy that, Dispatch. I'm on my way. Seven-Mary-Three out."

"That's Tepes' address!" Jimmy exclaimed.

"Buckle up, kids," Rodney said. "This shit just got real." He turned, pushed the accelerator to the floor, and sped north toward Fort Lauderdale.

## CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

ONCE ON THE ground floor of his home, Adrian turned on the lights, reasoning that whoever came to investigate the 911 call would think it odd if his house was shrouded in darkness. He did some quick research on his personal mobile phone to look up area codes that were close to 911 and found that the 919 area code covered the city of Raleigh, North Carolina, among other areas in the state. He would simply tell the officer that he accidentally dialed 911 while typing the 919 area code and didn't realize the call went through. It was the best he could come up with.

Adrian walked by Alice's terrarium, "Hello, old girl. Still full from yesterday's lunch, are you?" The snake looked at him, stuck out its forked tongue, and went about its business. He unlatched the top of the terrarium, intending to pet the snake, when the house phone rang, alerting Adrian that a visitor was at his gate. _Right on time_ , he thought to himself. He picked up the phone and said, "Adrian Tepes, how can I help you?"

"Mr. Tepes, my name is Francis Quincey with the Fort Lauderdale Police Department. We have a report of a call to 911 from this address, and I'll need to ask you a few questions about that."

"Oh, I am terribly sorry, Officer Quincey. I mistakenly dialed 911 when I meant to dial 919 to call a customer in Raleigh. I didn't realize the call went through."

"I understand, sir, but since the call did go through to 911, it is standard operating procedure that I enter the grounds and make sure nothing is wrong. It will only take a few minutes and then I'll be on my way."

"Very well," Adrian said, trying to sound blasé. "I'll buzz you in." Adrian hit the pound sign on his phone, followed by his personal identification number, 3827, and then the pound sign once again. After doing so, the gate opened. He didn't bother hitting the code to close the gate, figuring the officer would be leaving shortly thereafter. Adrian heard the sound of a motorcycle coming up his driveway and walked to his front door in anticipation of a knock, forgetting to latch the top of Alice's terrarium. He looked through his peephole and saw a cop wearing the trademark tan uniform of the FLPD dismount his bike and walk to the front door. The officer pressed the button for the doorbell, and Adrian kept him waiting for a minute before opening the door.

"Hello, Officer Quincey," Adrian said, trying to turn on the charm. "I am terribly sorry about this misunderstanding."

"It happens more often than you think," Quincey assured him. As he did, there was a crack of thunder and the sky opened up. "Five minutes ago it was sunny here," Quincey said, "and now it is about to rain. Do you mind if I come inside so I don't get wet?"

"That's life in South Florida, Officer," Adrian said. "Come on in. I was just feeding my snake."

Quincey came in but didn't close the door all the way. It was a trick he learned when he was new to the job; in case backup was requested it was better to leave a door slightly ajar instead of closed in case the door locked automatically. Before ringing the doorbell, Quincey got a good look at the security setup outside the door and made an assumption that it was self-locking.

"What kind do you have?" Quincey asked. "I grew up with them."

_Shit_ , Adrian thought. _What were the chances that this cop would know something about snakes?_ If Quincey saw the terrarium, he would easily see that there was no mouse present and deduce that Adrian had lied to him.

"Boa," Adrian said, steering the officer away from the room where Alice was kept. "I have a few things to do this morning, Officer; can we speed this up?"

"Yes, sorry, sir. I just need to confirm a few things. First, are you the homeowner?"

"Yes, I am Adrian Tepes and I own this home."

"I'll need to see some ID to confirm that."

"No problem," Adrian said as he reached into his pocket to remove his wallet. He felt his fingers graze the syringe.

"Thank you, Mr. Tepes," Officer Quincey said, looking over Adrian's driver's license and handing it back to him. "Now, the only other thing I need is to see the cell phone the call was made from. I need to confirm that the phone the call came from is in your possession."

Adrian didn't plan on this. He obviously couldn't produce the phone since it was lying somewhere in his attic, but Officer Quincey didn't know that.

"I left the phone upstairs—it will just take me a minute to get it."

"Is it normal for you to not carry your cell phone on you, Mr. Tepes?" Officer Quincey was on the detective track in the FLPD, and it was his unwavering curiosity that was helping him go from patrolman to detective in a relatively short period of time.

Adrian tried to maintain his composure, but he was becoming agitated. "I was making some calls upstairs before you arrived."

"I thought you said you were feeding your snake before I got here."

"Officer, I've had a very long day already—I just flew in from Romania this morning," Adrian said, reaching his hand in his pocket to grab the syringe filled with etorphine. He quickly slid it up his sleeve.

"Sir, I am going to need you to keep your hands out where I can see them," Officer Quincey said, reaching for his Taser.

"Officer, I can assure you there's no need to use that," Adrian said, raising his arms up so that his forearm and bicep were at ninety degree angles to each other. The syringe slid up his arm and rested against his forearm.

"Sir, it would be better for you right now if you stayed right there and didn't make any sudden movements." Officer Quincey pointed the Taser directly at Adrian. He took his eyes off Adrian for a split second in order to reach for his lapel radio with his left hand and call for backup. That split second, however, was all Adrian needed; he put his right hand down and the syringe slid into his palm. He raised the syringe to his mouth, bit off the protective cap, and lunged toward Officer Quincey, catching him off guard. The needle went right into his carotid artery and Quincey was out cold a second later; Adrian retreated up the stairs.

Adrian now had a big problem on his hands: an FLPD officer was now passed out on the floor, and it wouldn't take long for his colleagues to realize that one of their own hadn't checked in after being dispatched to his home. Things were beginning to unravel quickly, and he needed some time to think to clear his head; he needed to go into his sacred circle. He figured just spending a few minutes in his safe place would give him enough time to figure out a plan, so he went up to his bedroom, into his walk-in closet, and up his secret staircase until he entered his sacred circle. _Nothing can harm me while I am up here_ , he assured himself.

Adrian positioned himself with his back to the coffin where Lucy was trapped and unconscious; given the dose of etorphine he injected into her, he didn't need to worry about her coming to for quite a while. He needed to figure out what to do with her once she regained consciousness as well as how to deal with the cop downstairs. As Adrian allowed himself to feel safe and relaxed, he realized that the first thing to do was hide Officer Quincey's motorcycle—it stuck out like sore thumb in his driveway.

Just as he was about to get up, Adrian felt something graze his left leg; it was pitch-black in the attic, so he couldn't tell what had touched him. Minutes later, he felt something slither in the space between his lower back and the coffin.

For the first time in a very long time, Adrian Tepes was afraid.

## CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

RODNEY PETERS MADE a left onto Chatsworth Avenue and stopped at the gatehouse, where a guard asked him for ID. Rodney asked Farrah to open the glove compartment and hand him his wallet; though retired, Rodney kept his badge, and flashed it at the guard. "We are responding to a 911 call at 39 Chatsworth."

"You're too late—a motorcycle cop just came down here not just ten minutes ago. He beat you to it."

"He come back this way yet?"

"No, I haven't seen him."

"Then we better go down there and see if he needs any help," Rodney said.

"Suit yourself, Officer," said the guard and hit a button allowing the gate to open.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Farrah said.

"Me too," replied Rodney.

Adrian's house was easy to spot. It was the only one designed like a castle, and it was situated at the end of the street. The gate that went across the driveway was still open, and Rodney passed through it and parked right behind Officer Quincey's motorcycle. The rain showed no signs of letting up, and a loud clap of thunder startled all three.

"I bet that's Lucy Hendricks' Mercedes," Farrah said, pointing to the car parked in front of the motorcycle.

"We'd better go in," Rodney said.

"Shouldn't we wait for backup?" Jimmy asked.

"I don't think we have that kind of time," Rodney replied.

"I don't think it's going to be easy to get into this place," Farrah said. "I can't imagine that a guy like Adrian Tepes doesn't have a serious lock on his front door."

"Let's just see if Francis Quincey remembered anything that I taught him," Rodney said, approaching the front door. He saw that it was ajar and pushed it open.

"I stand corrected," Farrah said.

As the three walked into the foyer, Jimmy was the first to see Officer Quincey lying face down on the floor. He rushed over and knelt down beside him to see if he was breathing and check for a pulse. "He's breathing, but he's out cold. Better call an ambulance."

Farrah saw the needle but didn't pick it up as she did not want to contaminate what was now a crime scene.

"This is retired detective Rodney Peters," Rodney said into Quincey's lapel radio. "I am at 39 Chatsworth Avenue in Fort Lauderdale where we have an officer down. Send an ambulance and backup immediately."

"You two stay here with Quincey and wait for the ambulance; I'm going to look for Tepes."

Rodney searched the first floor of the house first before going upstairs. When he searched Adrian's study, he saw the open terrarium and noted that it was empty. He wondered what Adrian kept inside it.

"There's no one down here," he called to Farrah and Jimmy. "I'm going upstairs."

"Wait," Farrah said. "I'd better go with you; two on one are better odds."

"Fine, but, Doubts, you stay here and wait for help to arrive."

Rodney and Farrah walked up the stairs, and as they went, it became increasingly dark. Farrah grabbed one of the electric torches that adorned the staircase, glad that it was removable. Since neither she nor Rodney had a flashlight, Farrah thought it could come in handy.

They explored each of the three smaller bedrooms but didn't find anything. "Let's check the master bedroom," Rodney said. "He's got to be here somewhere."

The two entered the expansive master bedroom suite, but there was no trace of Adrian or Lucy anywhere. "Maybe he panicked after knocking out Quincey and fled with Lucy," Farrah said.

"Well, if he did, he would have had to go by boat as the guard would have mentioned something when we were at the gatehouse."

Suddenly Rodney and Farrah heard what sounded like a man screaming. "Did you hear that?" Farrah asked.

"Yes," Rodney replied. "I just can't tell where it is coming from."

"It sounded like it was directly above us, but I didn't see a potential entry into an attic."

Rodney looked around and saw that Adrian's closet door was ajar. "There," he said to Farrah.

They walked into his closet, which was extremely neat except for a few items that seemed out of place. Rodney pushed aside the clothes and saw the previously hidden doorway.

"There's a doorway here and some stairs, but it's pitch-black. Give me that torch."

Farrah handed him the torch and followed him up the stairs. As they climbed each step, the heard the sounds of someone struggling to breathe. Once they reached the top of the stairs, Rodney held the torch at arm's length in front of him in order to illuminate the room. It was so dark that he had to take a few steps forward in order to fully see what was in the room; as he did, he noticed the texture of the ground beneath him change. "The floor is made of dirt," he commented to Farrah.

"That explains the smell."

Farrah ran her fingers along the wall, looking for a light switch. Her fingers ran across a button which she pressed only to hear a door beneath her shut and what sounded like a dead bolt engage. She pushed it again and heard the bolt disengage. She kept running her fingers along the wall until she found the light switch. When the lights came on, she and Rodney received the shock of their lives: in the middle of a dirt floor was a coffin, and sitting with his back to the coffin was Adrian Tepes, currently immobilized by an extremely large snake which had constricted its body around Adrian's. Adrian was trying to fight the snake but was clearly losing.

Farrah and Rodney heard the sound of sirens approaching. "Go downstairs and meet the paramedics; after they take care of Officer Quincey, send them up here and make sure they call animal control. Tell them there are a few snakes up here that they will have to deal with."

## CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

FARRAH SAT IN her chair in the studio while Melody adjusted some sliders on the audio mixer. In the twelve months that transpired since the "Count of the Canal Affair," Farrah and Melody had been able to patch things up. The two spent the past year working side by side to fine-tune the second season of _Uncorking a Murder,_ proving the old adage that time heals all wounds.

While Melody was busy doing sound checks, Farrah reflected on what had happened since she and Rodney found Adrian Tepes in the attic of his Florida home. After the paramedics arrived at Poenari, they took Officer Quincey to Holy Cross Hospital, where he would make a full recovery. A second set of paramedics went upstairs to Adrian's attic where, like Farrah and Rodney, they were astonished to find themselves in a darkened room, the floor covered in dirt and a coffin in the center. While Alice had constricted around Adrian, it was only enough to immobilize him and not enough to fully cut off his blood supply or suffocate him. After they found Lucy Hendricks unconscious in the coffin, Adrian was taken into custody by the FLPD and arraigned on one count of kidnapping, one count of interfering with a police investigation, and one count of assaulting an officer. The number of charges against Adrian would increase in the days to come as the rest of the story unfolded.

When Lucy Hendricks regained consciousness at Holy Cross Hospital in Fort Lauderdale, she asked to speak with the detective in charge of the case at his earliest convenience. Since this case had been taken over by the FBI, she wound up giving a full confession to Special Agent Greg Moore. She told him all about the events that took place five years ago and how she orchestrated the abduction of Mia Michaels. When asked why she was coming clean now, she only gave one reason: "The truth shall set me free." She was now serving a twenty-year sentence for being an accomplice to murder and had been sober for one year and four days. The judge gave her a more lenient sentence since she avoided a trial by pleading guilty to all charges and helped convict Adrian.

The police in Connecticut, working in conjunction with the Fort Lauderdale Police Department, were able to match Gerry Fein's blood to blood collected at the Michaels' home the night Mia was abducted and murdered. They were also able to match his DNA to skin samples found under Mia's fingernails. Additionally, while working with Interpol, they were able to connect Gerry Fein to a number of terrorist attacks committed in Northern Ireland throughout the 1980s. He would never again be a free man—it seemed as though Gerry's luck had finally run out.

As this evidence came to light, Sonny's conviction was overturned. He was offered nothing more than an apology for the ordeal he had gone through courtesy of the state of Florida. Since his father had passed away years earlier, Rodney Peters allowed Sonny to stay at his home in Fort Lauderdale. It was there that Rodney handed Sonny his USB disk drive, and it was there that Sonny watched Rodney pass from this world to the next after his battle with lung cancer came to an end. Rodney, leaving behind no heirs, left his entire estate to Sonny.

It didn't take Sonny long to find a journal interested in publishing the findings of his research. Once the article was published, he had job offers from multiple pharmaceutical companies to run a lab devoted to advancing his research. T2 wasn't one of them; the company's stock price dropped so low after the scandal involving two of its senior managers that it was acquired for a song by Diabetica.

Senator Stuart Barker received the shock of his life when federal agents arrested him one day as he came out of the Capitol Building in Washington, DC. He would eventually be convicted on charges of corruption for his involvement with Adrian Tepes and T2. Some serious digging by the FBI would also tie former Senator Barker to organized crime associates throughout South Florida; he was currently awaiting trial.

The trial of Adrian Tepes would eventually be nicknamed "The People vs. The Count of the Canal," and would become a media spectacle if there ever was one. In the months leading up to his trial, reporters wrote about the ruthless and eccentric business tycoon who went to great lengths to live the life of a modern-day vampire. Employees of T2 would testify that he would often hold meetings in his office while hanging upside down on an inversion table, about his fascination with blood, and, of course, the eye teeth he had filed into fangs while in Romania. The fact that his home was a castle modeled after an ancient Romanian castle and that his attic was filled with dirt imported from modern day Transylvania were the icing on the cake. He is currently awaiting trial for being an accomplice to the murder of Mia Michaels and for securities fraud. Given that he truly believed he was a vampire, he was being held at the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

Jimmy "Doubts" Rella graduated from Fairfield University and stayed on with Farrah and Melody until the second season of _Uncorking a Murder_ was ready to be released. Against Farrah's advice, Jimmy would eventually go to law school, saying he had had enough of the podcasting production business. He assured Farrah and Melody that he had no doubts about his decision.

Farrah and Melody spent the year collecting new interviews and editing all the footage they had for season two of _Uncorking a Murder_. The only thing left to do was for Farrah to record the introduction to the first episode of the second season; everything else was ready to upload to the syndication service she and Melody used to distribute _Uncorking a Murder_.

"Ready when you are," Melody said to Farrah, playing her part as the show's producer.

"Ready," Farrah replied.

"Rolling," said Melody.

"Welcome to season two of the _Uncorking a Murder_ podcast; I am your host, Farrah Graham, and this season we are going to share with you a love story. Does that sound odd to you? Isn't this show supposed to be about a murder? Well, there's plenty of that, too.

"Yes, we will be focusing on the death of Mia Michaels; you may remember this case from six years ago. It was billed in the media as The People vs. Captain Krunch, with her husband, who suffers from a mild psychosis, charged and initially convicted of her abduction and murder—but as many of you know, the story didn't end there.

"The love story actually involves my late friend, retired Detective Rodney Peters, who believed that Sonny was wrongly accused of his wife's abduction and murder. His love for justice and pursuit of the truth found its way to my office twelve months ago. And that is where our story begins."
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