 
#### PORTRAIT OF CONSPIRACY

by

J. M. Davis

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 by J. M. Davis

Cover Design by Melody Simmons of eBookindiecovers

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

## Dedication

For Matt and Meredith.

## TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter - 1

Chapter - 2

Chapter - 3

Chapter - 4

Chapter - 5

Chapter - 6

Chapter - 7

Chapter - 8

Chapter - 9

Chapter - 10

Chapter - 11

Chapter - 12

Chapter - 13

Chapter - 14

Chapter - 15

Chapter - 16

Chapter - 17

Chapter - 18

Chapter - 19

Chapter - 20

Chapter - 21

Chapter - 22

Chapter - 23

Chapter - 24

Chapter - 25

Chapter - 26

Chapter - 27

Chapter - 28

Chapter - 29

Chapter - 30

Chapter - 31

Chapter - 32

Chapter - 33

Chapter - 34

Chapter - 35

Chapter - 36

Chapter - 37

Chapter - 38

Chapter - 39

Chapter - 40

Chapter - 41

Chapter - 42

Chapter - 43

Chapter - 44

Chapter - 45

Chapter - 46

Chapter - 47

Chapter - 48

Chapter - 49

Chapter - 50

Chapter - 51

Chapter - 52

Chapter - 53

Chapter - 54

Chapter - 55

Chapter - 56

Chapter - 57

Chapter - 58

Chapter - 59

Chapter - 60

Chapter - 61

Chapter - 62

Chapter - 63

Chapter - 64

Chapter - 65

Chapter - 66

Chapter - 67

Chapter - 68

Chapter - 69

Chapter - 70

Chapter - 71

Chapter - 72

Chapter - 73

Acknowledgements

## Chapter 1

A fist sized lump formed in Philip's throat when his eyes confirmed what his heart wanted to believe. Light reflected off the glossy surface of the art gallery brochure. An adorable little girl, a child he had never seen, gazed at her mother. The name of the painting, My Sweet Beautiful Rachel, erased any remaining doubt.

Renée is alive. We have a daughter.

The jet engine's pitch changed and the plane began its descent toward Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport. Philip turned toward the young woman seated to his right. Through the window, a cloud passed in the distance. Wearing white jeans, a pink Hard Rock Café T-shirt, and matching flip-flops, he guessed her to be a college student returning home for a summer break.

Her hand flipped through pages of Cruising World, the magazine he had purchased at La Guardia before boarding the plane. Appearing to be oblivious to his emotional reaction, he raised the brochure and asked, "Where did you get this?"

She looked up from the magazine and said, "I'm not sure," before lowering her head again.

Not sure?

"Please, I hate to trouble you, but it's important."

She glanced out the window before turning her head toward him. "I took a shortcut through one of those big hotels with entrances on two different streets. Several pamphlets and brochures were in a rack. I liked the picture on that one, so I grabbed it on my way out. Sorry, mister, I don't remember the name of the hotel."

"May I keep it?"

She flipped through another page. "Sure."

He gazed at the portrait. Would it be enough to get the police to reopen the case? No one had been able to find anything, not even her car. All active searches ceased when legitimate private investigators quit taking his money.

Statistically speaking, his wife was dead. Everyone involved in the case either felt that way or had said as much to him. Why had no one been able to find her? Confronting one possibility he had never considered, he tried to think of anything he had done. If she left voluntarily, why for God's sake had she gone into hiding and kept his daughter from him? Rachel's first words, her first steps; he had missed so much. He blinked away tears.

By the time the wheels of the plane touched down, he had organized his plan to return to New York. The certainty his wife and child were alive had brought back all the hope and optimism the last seven years had drained from him.

I have a daughter played over and over in his head. Nothing could stop him from finding her.

The young woman broke the silence as the plane neared the gate. "Thanks for letting me read your magazine." She offered it to him.

He raised the palm of his hand. "Please, keep it."

"Thanks, but I'm not really into boats that much."

He took it and tucked it away.

She gathered a small backpack from beneath the seat.

"My name is Philip Lewellan."

"It's nice to meet you," she said. "I'm... I'm Carla."

"Nice to meet you, Carla." He glanced at his watch.

"Do you have a connecting flight?"

"Not tonight, but I'm hoping to catch one out in the morning. I have to get to New York City as soon as possible."

She knitted her brows. "We just came from there."

"It's a long story. What about you? Are you home?"

"Almost, I work at the Red Bird Grill in Lubbock. They expect me back tomorrow morning at six o'clock sharp. My aunt paid for the trip. I wouldn't have been in New York otherwise. She still has high hopes for me. If you're ever in town, stop by. We serve a good breakfast."

* * *

After she and Lewellan cleared the arrival gate area, she slowed to allow him to get ahead of her. He appeared to be in his early thirties, much younger than she expected. Why had she jabbered on so much? Nervous, scared, whatever, she had done her part. Jessica hoped throwing out the name Carla had not been her biggest mistake.

She watched Philip leave the airport terminal. His confident stride, his hair, his clothes, everything about him indicated money and a lot of it. He could be featured in an upscale men's clothing photo shoot without any additional prep work. His physical appearance was one thing, but his tears and emotional reaction to the photo had conveyed much more.

He didn't try to kill that woman, he loved her.

She dialed the number for her contact in New York. When he answered, she said, "He took the brochure like you said he would."

"Did you keep your mouth shut?"

"I did exactly what you told me. Now, I want you to follow through on your end of the deal."

"The charges have been dropped. You're free to go. You can pick up your ticket at the counter. You have one more thing to do."

She squeezed the phone. "Wait. You said all I had to do was make sure he saw the picture on the brochure."

"Get out of Texas and never go back unless you want to be buried there."

"No problem. I don't ever want to see you again either."

"Where are you going?"

"None of your damn business," she replied.

"Have a great life," the man said sarcastically.

She slammed her cell phone shut and walked toward the ticket counter. What had she done to a man named Philip Lewellan—a man who had fought back tears. More importantly, why had Barletto threatened her? Why did he ask her where... hell it wouldn't be hard for him to figure that out. Her stomach churned.

She placed another call. A woman answered.

"I'm going to be a few days later than I told you."

"Are you okay? Has something happened?"

"I'm fine, Momma. There's something I need to take care of first."

"I've been so worried about you. Please be careful."

She looked up and realized she was next in line. "I have to go now. I love you."

Stepping up to the ticket counter, she said, "My name is Jessica Riddling. I should have a one way open e-ticket."

The ticket agent entered her name and waited for her computer screen to update.

Decision time. Go home and hope Barletto wouldn't come after her, or go on the run. His sarcasm was a dead giveaway. He'd never planned to let her go. If she was going to run, she'd need help. She remembered what Philip had said, "I'm hoping to catch a flight out in the morning." She wasn't ready to confront him yet. Screwing up a police investigation could land her back in jail, or worse, she would end up dead, if Barletto got to her first.

"I want to go to New York. Anything, but an early morning flight."

## Chapter 2

The plane landed at La Guardia fifteen minutes later than scheduled. His carryon bag strapped over his shoulder, Philip hurried through the terminal. After he passed through the doorway, marked Ground Transportation, he scanned the area until he spotted a man wearing a traditional chauffeur's uniform. The man, a cap covering most of his gray hair, noticed him and approached.

"Hi, Joseph."

Joseph reached for his bag. "Welcome back, Mr. Lewellan. I must be losing my mind. It seems like only yesterday you flew out of here."

Trying to appear amused, Philip said, "You're not losing your mind." His forced smile faded. "I hope I haven't lost mine."

He jumped in the limousine and handed an address to Joseph. "Take me here first, then the hotel."

"The James Walker Chapman Art Gallery it is."

Forty minutes later, Joseph pulled the limousine over and stopped.

Philip gazed out the window. "Are you sure this is the right place?"

"Yes, sir." Joseph pointed to an old brick structure packed between two scruffy looking facades. "The one in the center has to be it."

"Wait here." Philip said.

The hand-carved wooden door, dried and cracked from sun and rain, could have used some stain. A brass nameplate, tarnished so dark the raised letters James Walker Chapman Art Gallery were almost unreadable, confirmed he had arrived at the correct location.

The foyer was well maintained, nothing like the exterior of the building. Pale green walls lined the entry. The odor of fresh paint hung in the air as he glanced at the four paintings displayed in the hallway, two on each side of two open archways leading to two rooms, one to his left and one to his right. At the end of the hallway a third open archway opposite the entry door allowed a limited view of a third room. More paintings displayed on its walls.

"Hello," Philip called.

There was no response.

He raised his voice and tried again. "Is anyone here?" Again, no response. You'd think someone would be delighted to greet a customer entering this place.

Against the wall on the other side of the archway to his left were landscapes. Others hung above them. Upon entering the room, the sound of a muted alarm in the background disrupted the only other sound, a whistling return air vent in the ceiling. Gazing around the room, a portrait displayed on the wall to his right caught his attention. Illuminated by a light mounted above it, what he had come for was a mere few steps away. He walked close enough to reach out and touch it.

The brochure photo had not done it justice. The details were flawless. Her brown eyes looked happy and inquiring, the way he remembered. Her hair had been longer the day she disappeared, but the color was right, dark brown, almost black. Scanning down the painting he focused on the smile that had stolen his heart the moment he first saw her. All of her features, so real, he wanted to reach out for her. And the necklace, painted in exquisite quality. The pearls appeared almost three dimensional. The overlapping twists and unique weave of the platinum links connected each pearl to the next. Hair pulled back over her right ear, exposed one of the matching black pearl earrings. The necklace and earrings, his gift to Renée on their second wedding anniversary, were his own custom design.

Farther down, the little girl, with blue eyes, looked up at her mother. Her eyes and hair color like his, but she had her mother's mouth. She's precious. His heart raced.

The alarm went silent. Moments later, approaching footsteps on the black and white ceramic tiled floor preceded a short man with white hair at the doorway. In his late fifties or early sixties, he appeared to take a quick assessment. His eyes cut a path from head to toe as he approached.

"Beautiful, isn't she."

Philip stared at the man.

"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to interrupt your concentration. I'm here to help. If you have any questions, it would be my pleasure to address them."

"What can you tell me about this painting?"

The man smiled and extended his hand. "Roscoe Chapman."

He grabbed his hand and shook it. "Philip Lewellan."

"Randellini is an artist best known for his life-like portraits in oil. Do you notice how her dark brown eyes seem to study us as closely as we study her?"

"Yes, I know those eyes."

Chapman hesitated, and then said, "Randellini captures the soul of a woman better than most artists of our time. Her hair looks so real it makes you feel even the smallest breeze would blow it across her face."

"Yes, thank you. Please tell me what else you know about this painting."

Chapman glanced at it. "I was quite surprised when it arrived. I don't get many from him."

"I'm interested in finding out about the woman in the portrait. Do you know who she is?"

Chapman put his hand to his chin. "That's strange."

"What's strange?"

"Another man came in here a few days ago and asked me the same question."

"Who was the gentleman?"

Chapman lowered his hand and rolled his eyes. "Sir, he was no gentleman. I can assure you. He never gave me his name. He was displeased when I told him Rudolf Randellini died over twelve years ago, and I had no way of knowing who the woman was. He stormed out of here mumbling words I don't care to repeat."

Philip turned and gazed at the little girl. "This work is more recent than that, within the last year or two." He turned toward Chapman. "You have no information in your files to help me find her?"

Chapman shook his head. "Most definitely not, but you are correct, sir. I was merely stating what I told the other man. After he left, I decided to do some checking. I don't know as much about art as my father. This gallery was his passion. After he became ill, he tried to teach me the business. Unfortunately, it was too late by then."

"I'm truly sorry about your father, but I must find this woman."

"Thank you, sir. Rudolf and my father were close friends. My father, deeply saddened by Rudolf's death, sold many of his paintings over the years. This one was not done by Rudolf Randellini. Regrettably, I gave the other man erroneous information. Not intentionally, of course, but all the same I believe it probably cost me the sale."

"This painting is a fake?"

Chapman jerked his head up, raised his voice slightly and said, "No, sir, it is not."

Pointing to the signature, Philip said, "It's signed R Randellini. What else am I to think?"

"I see your point, sir, but I can explain. This one was shipped with two other older paintings from France. I assumed all three were from Rudolf's collection. I have since learned Rudolf's son, Ramsel painted this portrait, not his father, Rudolf."

"You described how Randellini could—"

"Capture the soul of a woman better than most artists of our time. Yes, sir, the artist capable of matching Rudolf's ability is Rudolf's son, Ramsel."

He glared at Chapman. One hoped to get simple straight forward information, but Chapman's approach seemed to be anything but that.

"If you're disappointed, sir, I have the two by Ru—"

"I'm only interested in paintings of this woman."

Chapman shook his head. "I only have this one of her."

"Do you know when Ramsel completed it?"

"As you thought, within the last year. After I reviewed the records more closely, I realized Rudolf's son had to be the artist."

"Where can I find him?"

"I suppose I could get that information for you."

Picking up on Chapman's hint, he asked, "How much for the painting?"

"I can let you have it for five thousand."

It's the proof he needed. "I wish to take it with me along with the information on Ramsel Randellini." Pulling a credit card from his wallet brought a smile to Chapman's face.

"Yes, of course," responded Chapman. He beamed and grabbed the card. "It will only take me a moment, sir." He turned and walked toward his office.

While he waited for Chapman to run the card, Philip read the name of the portrait again. My Sweet Beautiful Rachel. Painted within the last year. He removed his cell phone and took several photos of the painting. He should call Copeland. No one knew more about the case. But would she be willing to help him after what he had put her through?

At the time, the detective seemed too young and inexperienced to lead the investigation. His requests for a more seasoned person had been denied. He was told Detective Sandra Copeland had outperformed her equals as well as older and more experienced detectives. If anyone could find his wife, she would.

His thoughts were interrupted once again by the sound of footsteps. Chapman approached with a frown. "I have bad news. I should have checked the status of the painting after I returned from lunch. My assistant accepted an offer while I was out. I'm sorry, but this painting is no longer available." He held out the credit card.

Philip took it and said, "Can you tell me who made the offer?"

"That's not our policy. My assistant accepted it and confirmed the sale by e-mail."

"Tell them you have another buyer for the painting."

Chapman stared at him. "Another buyer? I'm afraid I don't understand."

"I'll pay them three times the price they paid you for the painting. In addition, you could earn a nice fee. Let's say, ten thousand for brokering the deal, if you can get it done today."

Chapman's eyes widened. "I'll try my best, sir."

That was more like it. He held out a business card. "I expect to hear from you no later than this evening. Do you have the information on Randellini?"

"Yes," Chapman said, taking the card. "He lives in Paris, but like his late father, spends a lot of time in New York. He maintains his father's old studio apartment, not far from the Brooklyn Bridge. In fact, according to my assistant, he could be in town as we speak."

Chapman handed him a piece of paper. "Here's the address. I'm sorry I can't give you a telephone number. Ramsel detests them, but I'm told he often dines at the River Café, a nice restaurant near the bridge. If he's not at his apartment, you might find him there this evening."

"Thank you." He took the paper and glanced at the address. _Brooklyn_.

"It is I who want to thank you, sir. Please accept my apologies for my lack of knowledge about the woman in the painting."

Philip left the gallery. As he approached the limo, Joseph opened the rear door. He handed Joseph the address. "Take me to this address."

Before he closed the door, Joseph glanced at it and said, "Brooklyn it is."

What if Chapman doesn't come through? Without physical evidence, getting Copeland out of Dallas would be like getting Washington out of the dollar bill. There had to be a way to get her to New York, painting or no painting in hand.

Joseph started the car. Philip pushed the button that lowered the privacy window. "Joseph, I need to make stop before we cross the bridge."

## Chapter 3

Dallas Police Detective Sandra Copeland sat at her desk reviewing an investigative report. In an attempt to gain ground, she had skipped lunch again. Her new partner had made things better. For a change, he pulled his weight in their missing-persons case load.

Unfortunately, Detective Kevin Franks posed a new problem. He had shown plenty of interest in her. Dating him was out of the question. They'd be yanked apart at even the hint of a romantic relationship. She'd figure out a way to handle the situation. But at age 32, how long could she keep her social life on indefinite hold?

Her desk phone rang. The flashing light, the last in a row of ten, indicated a call on her direct line. The unlisted number given out to family members of missing persons.

"Copeland."

"Detective Copeland? Philip Lewellan."

"Mr. Lewellan, it's been a long time."

"About three years."

"I'm sorry, but we have no new information about your wife."

"I've always assumed you'd call me if you did," Philip said.

"Yes, sir, I would. What can I do for you?"

"Do you remember our last conversation?"

She leaned back in her chair. "Why don't you refresh my memory?"

"You told me there was nothing further you could do without physical evidence."

"I recall saying something like that."

"And what else you said?"

Where's he going with this? "What's your point, Mr. Lewellan?" She straightened in her seat and leaned forward.

"I've found proof that my wife and child are alive and I need your help."

She glanced at her partner. Kevin sitting at his desk less than three feet from hers was obviously listening to her side of the conversation. She moved the receiver to left hand and picked up a pen. "What kind of proof?"

"Twenty minutes ago, I left an art gallery where an oil painting of my wife and child is on display. The painting is recent and the child appears to be the right age. I tried to purchase it, but someone else beat me to it."

She frowned and tossed the pen back onto her desk. "Mr. Lewellan, I don't think an oil painting is proof they're alive. It's probably a painting of a woman who looks like your wife."

"I thought you'd give me a little more credit than that. I'm not stupid. "

"I never meant to imply─"

"Of course you didn't. The name of the artist is Randellini. I'm going to find him. I've had the brochure scanned and I'm sending the image to you. I'm hoping you'll be willing to meet me in New York City tomorrow. My cell phone number and your flight information will be in the e-mail. I can pick you up at the airport."

Why won't he accept the fact his wife is dead and never coming back? She couldn't let this start all over again. "I'm afraid that's not going to happen. I can't imagine getting travel authorization based on an oil painting."

There was no response.

"Are you still there?" she asked.

"Yes, I was considering my other options, since you don't want to help me."

"You're well aware I was forced to halt all active search activity. And that order came from a high enough level that not even you were able get it overridden."

"I know how much your department spent chasing down bogus leads. I spent twenty times that much on private investigators. This won't cost your department anything but your time. I'm willing to cover that if necessary, but I realize I'm still asking a lot."

"It's not that I don't want to help you, but my hands are tied. I have other cases, active cases."

"I'm asking for twenty-four hours. If you're convinced there's nothing to what I've found, I'll send you back to Dallas in the First Class cabin."

"Twenty-four hours."

She shook her head once. Why was she even considering it?

"Your flight arrives at La Guardia at 1:20 tomorrow afternoon. I have an e-ticket confirmed for you on the seven o'clock flight tomorrow morning."

"I can't promise you anything without the lieutenant's approval." A good excuse when she comes to her senses.

"You're not coming, are you?"

"I told you I have to get the lieutenant's approval," she said, wishing her tone had not been so harsh. Even Kevin looked away.

After a few moments of silence, Philip asked, "Can you at least promise me you'll look at the picture I'm sending you?"

"That, I can promise." She reeled off her e-mail address and hung up.

Kevin gazed at her eagerly. "Let's have it."

"Philip Lewellan thinks he's found proof his wife and child are alive."

"Never heard of him."

"It's an old case, before you transferred to the department. Seven years ago, he went to London on business. When he returned to his home in Dallas, his wife was gone. She's hasn't been seen or heard from since. She was four months pregnant at the time."

"Seven years?"

She nodded. "Exactly my thought."

He spun around in his chair to face her. "So what did he find?"

"An oil painting."

"How does it prove they're alive?"

"He believes it's a recent painting of his wife and child."

"Sounds like the husband in our last case."

"Lewellan's actions didn't add up to a murdering husband."

"How so?"

"Nothing indicated another woman. There was no financial gain by her death. But the most compelling reason I don't think he had anything to do with her disappearance was his unborn child's nursery. When I was forced to put the case on inactive status, I went to his home to tell him. He showed me the nursery he and his wife had prepared. His voice cracked looking in the empty crib. I doubt any man has been more ready to be a father than Philip Lewellan. Struggling to fight back tears, he vowed he would keep searching until they were found. He did everything humanly possible. Never withdrawing the million dollar reward he offered for information leading to their safe recovery."

"Maybe a reward he knew he wouldn't have to pay." Kevin flipped his pen in the air and caught it. "Do you really think she could be alive?"

"No," she said shaking her head. "But from his tone, he wants to believe they are. A far different tone than three years ago when he seemed ready to give up on life"

"I bet. Killing your pregnant wife might do that to a man."

She stared at him. "I was that way once."

"Pregnant?"

"No! Suspecting the husband is the bad guy in every case where a wife disappeared."

"Since I've been here, we've closed three cases where they were."

"We've closed that many where women ran away for a new life."

Kevin shook his head. "Well, Lewellan's wife didn't, or she would have turned up somewhere by now. In my book, he's still a suspect."

She laughed. "You have a few things to learn."

"Like what?"

"When police stop actively searching, murdering husbands give up looking. You might want to put that in your book."

He swung back around in his chair and tossed his pen on his desk. "I'll try to keep an open mind."

"Good idea."

She checked her e-mail and clicked on the one from Lewellan. There was an attachment. A double click, an image started filling the screen from the top down.

She snatched a file folder from her lower left desk drawer. Opened it, retrieved a photo of Renée Lewellan, a photocopy of a fingerprint card, and the twenty-eight page summary of notes she'd made during her investigation.

Kevin glanced at the label on the folder. "You've got to be kidding."

Ignoring his comment, she spread the documents out on her desk.

"How did you end up with that fingerprint card?"

"It's a copy of the original. Her prints were on several of her personal items in their master bathroom. I wanted them entered into the database in case we needed to ID a body. I also collected strands of hair from one of her brushes."

"You've kept a closed case file on a missing person in your desk for seven years?" He shook his head. "No wonder your desk looks like a disaster area."

"For the record, it's not closed. It's inactive. And the official file is kept in the record's department downstairs. This one has a photograph of Renée Lewellan and a copy of my report. I used to keep short files of photos and physical descriptions, inactive cases and data in my desk, before we had everything put on computers. It was a good way to quickly compare notes to forensic reports I received from the state lab."

"Maybe I should do that too," Kevin said sarcastically. "Or, I could operate in the modern world and continue to use the department's computerized file system."

When the full image filled the screen, she held the photo of Renée next to it. "Hmmm."

Could it really be her?

"Kevin, I'd like your opinion on this."

He stepped over to her desk.

Holding the photo next to the computer screen, she asked, "What do you think?"

"She's beautiful."

"That's not what I was asking." She elbowed him in the side. "Do they look like the same person to you?"

For several seconds, Kevin examined the two images. "The hair's shorter and the face in the painting is fuller, but otherwise I'd say they're unquestionably the same person."

Putting the photo down, she said, "People do gain weight."

Kevin straightened up and patted his firm stomach. "Some don't."

She waited until he was forced to let his breath out. "You'll have to cover for me while I'm in New York."

"Good luck getting the lieutenant's approval. Especially after you tell him all you have is an oil painting. Besides, have you forgotten he's on vacation this week?"

"How could I forget?" After the image was saved and sent to the printer, she said, "Must be why I don't hear him telling me I can't go."

"I'd love to see The Big Apple with you." He grinned.

She stood and glared at him.

"I meant you may need backup."

She patted him on the shoulder. "I'll call you when the shooting starts."

"I guess one of us has to stay and keep the crime wave to a ripple."

"You're the man."

Checked her watch, gathered up the documents, and placed them back inside the folder. "I might need these in New York." She grabbed her purse and said, "I'm going home to pack a few things. See you in a couple of days."

On her way to the stairs, she stopped at the printer and grabbed the photo and placed it in the file with the other documents. At the stairway, she stopped and turned around.

Kevin, still standing beside her desk, smiled. "Change your mind about me going with you?"

If he only knew how much she'd love that.

Reality set in. With all the cases they were working, he had to stay. "No. I skipped lunch today. It's in the refrigerator, lettuce and tomato on wheat, if you want it."

He nodded. "Call me if you need anything."

"I'm pretty sure I've got your number."

After pressing the unlock button on her car remote, she hesitated and looked back at the building entrance. Without authorization, going back would be the smart move. She'd received her fair share of warnings from the lieutenant. How much more would it take before he was forced to bring disciplinary action against her? Lewellan's influence and money had made it one of the most publicized missing-persons cases in the country. The pressure from above to solve the case had been horrendous. Re-activating the seven-year-old case, based on an oil painting, would be the last thing the lieutenant would approve. Getting on that plane might be career suicide.

A couple of vacation days left. She opened the car door, started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. Who said they couldn't be taken in New York?

## Chapter 4

William Tomes approached the conference room reserved for senior partners of the Law Firm of Tomes, Castle, Harris, Compton, and Hall. No one was going to destroy what had taken forty-six years of his life to build into one of the largest firms in Texas. The glass lined wall allowed him a full view of the room and Reunion Tower through four large windows overlooking Dallas.

Met at the door by his secretary, she said, "They're all here."

"Thank you."

She closed the door behind him.

After taking his seat at the head of the table, he raised his hand. Silence settled on the room.

"I apologize for interrupting your workday, but I'm afraid this couldn't wait." He turned to Ben Harper, the firm's head of security. "Tell us what you found, Ben."

With a somber face, Ben stood and said, "Our secure network was breached from outside the firm."

The attorneys looked at each other, and then back at Ben.

"Unauthorized access to confidential files has been confirmed."

Laura Harris shook her head. "I don't put anything past our federal government anymore. Before long, there won't be any privacy left for American citizens."

Lewis Compton rolled his eyes at Laura. "How bad is it?" She glared back at him.

"We don't know yet," replied Ben. "The first unauthorized access may have occurred as far back as two months ago."

"This could be catastrophic for my clients. Were any of the files related to active cases?" John Hall, a defense attorney, asked.

"I need more time before I can give you an answer. We're still looking over the data."

"Why did it take two months to find the breach?" Lewis asked.

"The network is set up to flag any unusual access attempts. The network transactions are normally reviewed each month, but my guys were expanding the network for the new floor of offices. When they got around to checking the network transaction logs, they found problems."

"What the hell are we paying him for?" Lewis mumbled to the person sitting to his left.

A tint of red crept up Ben's face.

Tomes waved his hand in the air to cut off the blame game. "Ben, tell us what you're doing about it."

With a nod, Ben acknowledged Tomes support. "I've retained the best computer minds in the country. They're completing their analysis as we speak. Whoever did it is most likely a professional. The files weren't trashed, and they did a damn good job of covering their tracks."

"Then how did you find it?" Hall asked.

"We almost didn't. When the file accesses recorded by the visible network and the stealth monitor didn't match up, we knew there was a problem. The hacker's access was saved on a secondary stealth backup disk. Fortunately, the hacker couldn't detect the monitoring system I had installed last year."

"Ben, you were right about that expenditure," a partner said and gazed at Lewis. "Looks like it paid off."

By waving his hands in surrender, Lewis acknowledged his rush to judgment.

In a more confident tone, Ben said, "We're going through everything on the system to make absolutely sure we don't miss a damn thing. I don't have to tell you the volume of data involved. The hacker installed a program which modified access dates. It's going to take another day or two to figure it all out, and to pin down specifically what he was after."

"Do you have any leads?" Helen Castle asked.

"Not at this time, Ben said. "The trail ended at a wireless router in a restaurant."

Tomes caught Ben's attention. "Thanks, Ben."

Ben took a seat.

"The reason I requested this emergency meeting," Tomes said, "is because I want everyone to know what we're facing, and to tell you I'm taking this to the authorities."

"You sure that's a good idea?"

"We don't really have a choice," Tomes replied. "Think about the possible litigation, if any of our clients suffers damages from this breach. They're not going to like having their confidential files exposed."

There were several raised eyebrows.

Tomes looked around the table at the partners. "We'll have to give our clients a heads up. They can't find out about this from any other source. Once the police are involved, the press won't be far behind."

"William, I can't see the police making this a priority."

"I'll have to call in a favor to make sure they do. Hopefully they'll keep it quiet. Are we in agreement?"

Heads nodded.

Tomes turned his attention back to Ben. "As soon as possible, I want the complete list of the files that have been compromised. We have to know what the son-of-a-bitch was after."

## Chapter 5

The logo on the side of the van parked in front of her house read Atlanta BMW sales and Service since 1987.

"No ma'am, it's not a mistake," the young man said. "The sales manager told me to deliver it to you at this address.

Angela gazed at the new car parked in her driveway. The color, the model, everything about it was perfect. If not a mistake, someone with money knew her well?

"You have to tell me who purchased it," Angela demanded.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I have no idea, and even if I did, I couldn't tell you. According to the sales manager, confidentiality was part of the purchase agreement."

He held out a clipboard with a form attached. "I need your signature here."

She ignored the pen he offered her.

"It's to verify you've taken delivery of the car."

She took the clipboard and read the document from top to bottom. It appeared to be in order. "What about the title and registration papers?

The man held up an envelope. It's all in here." He pulled the title and registration from the envelope and handed them to her. The title was in her name. There was no lien on the car. It was hard to believe someone would give her a new car. If she were to accept it, what strings were attached?

She handed the papers to him. He slid them back inside the envelope. It might be the only way she'd ever get her dream car. She sure couldn't afford to buy it. She gazed at the young man. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five.

"You really can't tell me who purchased it?"

"Ma'am, it's yours, free and clear. That's all I know, honestly." He offered the pen again.

"Okay." She grabbed it and signed her name.

He handed her the envelope and said, "Two sets of keys are in the car. One is in the ignition, the other is in the glove box."

She couldn't help but smile at him. "Thank you."

"Enjoy it." The young man jogged to the dealership van waiting at the curb.

Not sure exactly what to do next, she opened the door of the light blue BMW. The new car smell enhanced her excitement and lowered her misgivings about accepting it. Easing into the driver's seat, she checked the time on her watch with the time on the dashboard clock. With a turn of the key, she started the engine. Music, clear and crisp, came from the radio drowning out the sound of the engine. No need to get too carried away until she could figure out who was behind it. She turned the volume down. There had to be note or something somewhere. A quick check of the glove box produced an envelope with her name handwritten on it. She opened it, and read the note.

My Dear Angela,

Please accept this gift as a small token of my appreciation for our friendship. Please examine the car carefully to make sure it has everything you wanted.

A Friend

She turned the key off and exited the car. On her way back to her house, she dialed a number on her cell phone and asked to speak to Harry Spinelli.

"Hi, Angela," the receptionist said. "I'll see if he's available."

Calling him had been on her list of things she would never do again.

"Angela, what a pleasant surprise."

She could visualize him leaning back in his high-back leather desk chair thinking she had come crawling back to him on her knees.

"Harry. How are you?"

"I'm great, thank you. Have you changed your mind?"

Having made her decision clear to the man on more than one occasion, leaving no doubt whatsoever she would never marry him, his question exemplified the eternal optimist. "For once in your life, would you please be serious?

"Do you really think I'd joke about marriage?"

"I haven't changed my mind. Therefore, I cannot accept your gift."

"Gift?"

"Yes, they delivered it five minutes ago. Please don't play dumb. You know how I hate the way you act like you don't understand something when I know full well you do."

"Okay, you got me, but I don't understand why you can't accept it. Is there something wrong with it?"

"There's nothing wrong with it, except that it came from you."

"I had no idea asking a woman to marry me was such an insult."

No need to destroy the man's ego, like that would be possible. "I'm sorry. That was a bit harsh."

"Yes, it was."

"You're a wonderful man. You're handsome, kind, and obviously extremely generous, but I'm not going to be anyone's fourth wife."

"You shouldn't think of it in those terms. Think of it as being my last wife."

A man who obviously hasn't learned from his mistakes is bound to repeat them. "Listen to me, Harry. I don't want to be your last wife either."

"What could I have possibly done to deserve this?"

"Will you send someone to pick up the car?"

"Car?"

"I'll leave the keys in it. You better hurry, before it gets stolen from my driveway."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Then I'll call the dealership and tell them to come get it and deliver it to you."

"You might not want to do that."

"And why not?"

"I didn't buy you a car."

"Then why did you tell me you did?"

"I thought you were pulling a joke on me."

"You thought this call was a joke?"

"I hate to admit it, but not only did I not buy you a car, I didn't buy anything for your birthday. Our last date was a couple of months ago, I believe, right after I told you I had three ex-wives. And to be completely honest, forgetting your birthday is not my fault, because you never told me when your birthday was."

"You're right, I didn't. Thank you. You truly are a sweet man."

"That's more like it. Why don't we have dinner tonight and discuss how sweet I'm willing to be."

"Goodbye, Harry."

"Goodbye, Angela."

Her next call was to the Law Offices of Malcolm Hamilton.

"Wanda, you're not going to believe what happened."

"Hi, Angela. I was going to say the same thing to you."

"What happened?"

"No, you first." Wanda said.

She told Wanda about the car.

"I'll bet a new car makes turning forty a little easier to take."

"Please don't remind me."

"Honey, it's not the chronological age you have to worry about. If I looked like you do, I'd never tell anyone I was a day over thirty. I certainly don't tell people I'm forty-six."

"You look great."

Wanda laughed. "I'd look great if I were fifty-six."

"Stop it. You don't look fifty-six and you know it."

"It depends on how far away from me you are." Wanda giggled.

"You're in a good mood. What's going on?"

"Malcolm gave me a nice bonus this year."

"I thought he gave you a bonus every year."

"I don't call five hundred dollars a nice bonus for working my butt off."

"He gave you more than that this year?" Angela asked.

"A lot more. No, let me rephrase it. A hell of a lot more. Twenty times more."

"Ten thousand dollars. My God, Wanda, that's great. I'm so happy for you."

"It's not a new BMW, but it's enough to make me wonder what the hell is going on."

"Malcolm has finally realized how valuable you are to him, and he's decided to share the wealth."

"There's no wealth here to share. He hasn't had a big case in over six years. I'm wondering where the money came from. The kind of clients Malcolm has couldn't put ten thousand dollars together if their extended family pitched in."

"You worry too much."

"That I do, but I'm not worried enough to give it back. I guess the stars are in perfect alignment for the two of us. You get a new car, and Malcolm gives me a big bonus on the same day. Speaking of your new car, when do I get to see it?" Wanda asked.

"Tonight, I'll be there around six-thirty."

## Chapter 6

Philip gazed at the back of Joseph's head as they drove toward the address Chapman had provided. Finding the artist would be the fastest way to get a lead on Renée. If they were the subjects of his painting, Randellini had to know something about them, maybe even an address where they lived. He glanced out the side window of the limo and caught a glimpse of the Brooklyn Bridge. It wouldn't be much longer before they reached the studio.

Joseph pulled the limo over to the curb. Philip studied the apartment building; probably built in the early twenties. A hundred dollar bill got him access to the sixth floor. No one answered his knock at apartment 612. He knocked again.

"Come on, please be here." He had to talk to Randellini. After pounding on the door a third time, he heard a click.

Across the hallway, a man peeked at him from behind the chain which stopped the door from opening more than a few inches.

"Excuse me, sir," Philip said. "Do you know Mr. Randellini?" He took a couple of steps across the hallway toward the elderly man in slippers.

A hand discolored with age spots held a grip on the doorknob. "Yes, I know him."

"Would you happen to know when he'll be returning to his apartment?"

The man shook his head.

"It's important I speak to him." He needed to gain the man's trust.

"He's been in and out the past couple of weeks," the man said softly, obviously feeble. "When he left this morning, he said he'd be back this evening to check on me again. His father and I were close friends." The man adjusted the weight on his feet to keep his balance.

He couldn't keep the feeble old man standing at his doorway. "I apologize for my intrusion. I'll come back later."

"Don't mind my shaky appearance. I'm not as bad off as I look, young man."

If he lived to be ninety plus, he hoped he had half as much spunk as the man standing in front of him. He removed three one-hundred dollar bills from his wallet, along with a business card, and held them beneath the chain. "The money is for your generous help. Would you please give the card to Randellini when he returns? I need to speak to him as soon as possible? I'm interested in one of his paintings. He may call me day or night. My cell phone number is on the card."

The man smiled, took the money, and the card with a shaky hand. "I'll tell him."

"Oh, one more thing," Philip said. "Please tell him I'll be dining at The River Café this evening around seven. We could meet there, if he likes."

"The River Café?"

"Yes. It's near here, under the Brooklyn Bridge."

The man nodded once and slowly pushed the door closed.

## Chapter 7

Even with the rush hour evening traffic in Atlanta, Angela realized someone had been following her since she left her house. The white car matched her speed and stayed behind her turn for turn, but too far back for her to see the driver.

After entering the freeway, she pushed down on the accelerator. Staying four or five car lengths back, the white car weaved in and out of traffic to keep up with her. A glance at the speedometer, her speed was ninety miles per hour and climbing. She eased up on the pedal and looked in the rear view mirror again. The car behind her slowed with hers to the legal speed limit. Other cars began passing them. The car stayed behind her for three more miles. She had hoped to bring the driver in closer before reaching her exit. She had an idea. With her exit coming up fast, she turned the wheel hard at the last second and made a right turn onto the exit ramp. If she had been in her old Honda sedan, she might have flipped it. She merged onto Eighth Street and drove four blocks straight ahead before turning onto Willard Street. When she slowed almost to a stop a half a block from Wanda's driveway, the white car pulled into the left lane and accelerated around her. The driver appeared to be a young man.

He looked in his rear view mirror as he sped away.

What was that all about? She turned into Wanda's driveway.

Wanda stepped out the side door of her house, ran up to the car and yelled, "It's beautiful. You've got to tell me who gave it to you."

She got out of the car and grinned. "I think you did."

Wanda stepped back. "Me?"

"It has to be you. There's no one else."

"Right, like I could afford this car. Honey, if I could afford one of these, it'd be for me, not for you, nor anyone else."

"Then I have a big problem. I don't know who bought it."

"Unbelievable. A sixty-thousand dollar BMW for your birthday and you don't have a clue?"

If Wanda hadn't given her the car, then who did? She closed the door behind her. "No, I don't."

Wanda pointed. "You wouldn't be holding out on your best friend?"

Shaking her head, Angela said, "You know there's no new man, or old man in my life."

"Well, there's someone in your life who can afford it."

Her friend was right about that, but who? "Let me show you the features. It has everything."

Walking around the car together, Wanda admired and commented on its beautiful lines, making a big deal out of the smallest detail.

Fifteen minutes later, after Wanda had time to fix herself a drink, they were on their way out of the driveway in the shiny new BMW. "Where are we dining?" Angela asked

"I'll give you three guesses," Wanda replied. "But you'll only need one. You haven't eaten there recently have you?"

"No, it's been months since I've had a date."

They arrived at the restaurant and valet parking took care of the car. Within seconds after being escorted to their table, their waiter approached. "My name is Antonio. I'll be serving you tonight." He placed a wine menu on the table. "May I get you ladies a cocktail?"

Wanda glanced at the menu. "How about this Latour 1982? It must be a good one."

The young waiter's eyes widened. "I'm sorry. We no longer have the Latour. May I recommend another fine—"

"Wanda, don't you think we better order by the glass?" Angela asked. "I have to drive us home tonight."

Wanda gazed at the waiter and smiled. "What was I thinking? I'd like a glass of your house Chardonnay."

"Yes, of course." Antonio knitted his brow and turned his attention to Angela.

It was all she could do to hold a straight face. "I'll have the same along with a glass of water with a slice of lemon, please."

"I'll bring water for you both," he said, before turning and walking away. His head shaking just enough that they both laughed.

"He was on to you," Angela said.

"I can't believe anyone in their right mind would pay four thousand dollars for one bottle of wine. What am I going to do now? They've had that one bottle of Latour in stock for as long as I've been coming here."

"I'm sure they'll replace it with one just as expensive so you can keep the waiters guessing whether or not you're serious."

"They'd better. It's one of the reasons I come here. You can almost see their minds calculating the tip. So, Angela, what are you going to do about the tax?"

"What tax?"

"Being a legal secretary, I know a few things about expensive gifts. Gifts in access of eleven thousand dollars are taxable as income according to our dearest of friends at the IRS. Let's see. Sixty thousand minus eleven makes forty-nine thousand in additional income. Even in your income bracket, it'll mean several thousand in additional tax liability."

"Well, I don't plan to keep it unless I can find out who bought it for me. Besides, I'm not exactly penniless. If I end up keeping it, I'll sell my old car. Maybe that would be enough to pay the taxes."

Wanda shook her head. "I'd never give it back unless you could prove it's stolen."

"It's not stolen."

The waiter brought two glasses of Chardonnay, along with two glasses of water with lemon slices.

"Are you ready to order?"

Wanda nodded. "I think we're ready."

The waiter held his pen and pad at the ready.

Wanda pointed at her. "You're the birthday girl."

Glancing up from the menu, Angela said, "I'll have the sea bass and a Caesar salad."

"Very well." Antonio turned his attention to Wanda. "And for you?"

"I'll be good and have the same, before I'm bad and have dessert."

"Can I get you ladies anything else?"

Wanda gazed up at him. "Don't let our wine glasses get empty. We're celebrating her thirtieth birthday." She lowered her gaze and winked at Angela.

"I understand. I'll place your order."

Raising her glass, Wanda said, "I have a toast to make to the birthday girl."

"Oh-no, do I really want to hear it?" She picked up her glass.

"Probably not, but you are anyway. May every day be a great day for you and may each day be better than the previous one."

"What a sweet—"

"Even if you are forty," Wanda added.

They touched glasses then took a sip.

"Forty." Angela shook her head.

Wanda leaned in and whispered, "Wait until you're forty-six. Forty won't sound so old."

"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. Let's change the subject. Let's talk about anything but my birthday."

"How about a mystery?"

She placed her glass on the table. "A mystery?"

"Yeah, the mystery of who gave you a sixty-thousand dollar car on your birthday? What about Harry?

"I spoke to Don Juan. He claimed he didn't know a thing about it."

Wanda smiled. "And you believed him?"

"You know, he could have found out it was my birthday. You didn't?"

"No, of course not, but after what I went through, a rich man sounds pretty good. My Ex could come up with more excuses for not holding a job than I could for not wanting to have sex with the lazy bum."

"You're one to be telling me what kind of man to date. You haven't dated since your divorce two years ago."

Wanda picked up her glass of wine. "You caught me. I can't even get a date with a poor man."

"Now that's not true." Her friend had supported a worthless bum for twenty years trying her best to make it work out. No wonder Wanda was afraid to try again. She often wondered if Wanda's humor was cover for a lingering pain.

Before placing her glass back on the table, Wanda took another sip of wine. "Let me rephrase my last statement. If I looked as good as you, I'd concentrate on the rich ones like Harry."

"Harry is nice and a pleasure to be with, but he's too predictable. Call me a romantic, but money is not everything. I'd like a little intrigue in my life, at least occasionally. I want a man who surprises me in a way other than telling me he has a bunch of ex-wives."

"Who is he?" Wanda leaned in.

Perceptive as ever I see. "It's Philip."

"I knew it." Wanda grinned. "Tell me all about him."

How many Philips does she think there are? "I did. Three years ago."

Wanda put a finger to her temple. "You mean the old sailor you met online in that sailing forum?"

"That's my Captain Philip."

"Speaking of intrigue, did you ever find out who he is?"

"No. He never asked for my last name, so I never asked him for his. I think he wants it that way."

"I'm confused." Wanda raised her hand. "You're hung up on an old guy, whose last name you don't know, because he responded to a question about sailing three years ago?"

"I'm not hung up about him. Why do you think he's old?"

"I thought he told you he'd been a ship's captain for over twenty years."

"So?"

Wanda pretended to count her fingers. "Oh, my God, you're right. He might have gotten promoted to captain in his twenties. Anyway, what's the problem with your young Captain Philip?"

"I haven't heard from him in weeks."

"So what's the big deal?" Wanda shrugged. "It's not like you own a sailboat and you're stuck in harbor."

"At first, my questions were about sailing. Later, in one of my e-mails, I asked if he had a family. He didn't write back for a long time. When he did, what he wrote about his wife was so beautiful, I cried. He is so in love with her."

"He's married." Leaning forward in her chair, Wanda said, "Sort of explains why you've been so secretive about him?"

"I have not. There's nothing to be secretive about."

"Okay, so why are we thinking about him tonight?"

"What if something terrible has happened? He tried to change the rules of our relationship."

"Rules? Oh, Lord." Wanda took another sip of wine. "Tell me about these rules."

"Over time we became friends and leaned on each other for advice. I enjoyed having a male friend I could confide in without fear of him misinterpreting my intentions. I told him all about Harry."

"Really? What did Captain Philip say about Harry?"

She smiled. "Philip is always so sweet. He wrote I knew I wanted to marry my wife within a week after meeting her. When you meet the right person, you won't need to ask anyone's opinion."

"And all this time I thought I was your best friend." Wanda leaned back from the table in an overly melodramatic way, placing her hand to her eye to wipe away non-existent tears.

Trying not to laugh out loud, Angela touched Wanda's arm. "You are my best female friend."

"I know, dear. Come on, tell me what happened." Wanda leaned back in.

"Everything seemed fine." She took a sip of wine before continuing. "A little over a month ago, he sent an e-mail asking if I would consider meeting him in person."

"It only took him three years? I guess he needed that much time to dump his wife."

She frowned. Wanda wasn't taking her seriously. There's a time to joke around and there's a time to listen. She wanted her best female friend to listen. "Do you want to hear this story?"

Wanda dropped the smirk. "I'm sorry I said that. Please continue."

"His asking to meet in person caught me off-guard. I sent back a short statement, and I haven't heard from him since. I thought surely he would write on my birthday. He always had before."

Wanda appeared to be in deep thought, before she asked, "Exactly what did you write in your reply?"

"It was a one line reply." She took a sip of wine, then another before placing the glass down. "I can't imagine for what reason."

Wanda raised her hands in the air and framed her face. "I think I know why you haven't heard from your Captain Philip."

She glanced at Wanda's hands.

Wanda pulled them down. "What did you expect him to do after that reply?"

"You don't understand. Why would he want to meet me in person after three years of not wanting to meet me?"

"He didn't want to meet you?"

"I assumed not. I once wrote him that if he ever got to Atlanta, I'd love to take him and his wife to dinner. He replied it was very generous of me, but unfortunately, unlikely to ever happen."

"Oh, what a surprise. Maybe he left his wife, or she left him. I'm not speaking for myself now;" Wanda flashed your gaze toward the ceiling. "But a person once told me, if all they want to do is send e-mails, you're wasting your time. I wish a man would e-mail me something other than a picture of himself naked."

"Wanda."

She winked. "I'm kidding. So what's the problem? Write him and explain how you feel."

"I don't know how I feel. Before, I felt like I could tell him anything. He had never been anything other than a perfect gentleman. His last e-mail was so out of character for him. The question, the way he wrote it was not like him."

Wanda wiggled her closed mouth as if she was moving Listerine around.

Her friend obviously wanted to tell her something she was missing in all of this. "What is it?"

"You're afraid to meet him, because he might not be the kind of person you've imagined him to be."

She tried to soak that in. What if Wanda was right? Subconsciously, was she afraid to meet the man of her dreams, because in real life they might all be shattered? For so long, Philip had appeared to be untouchable, yet alluring and mysterious in so many ways. No other man had been able to compete. Now she knew why. It had all been a childish fantasy. Had that been the reason she'd quit dating. She didn't acknowledge her friend's insight. Instead, she put her hand up to her eye and wiped a tear away.

"I must have hurt him terribly to have written such a harsh response."

Wanda touched her hand. "You did the right thing, Angela. He might not be a perfect gentleman. There's a reason he never gave you his identity, and I bet the reason is a wife, and probably a kid or two. Although, they're probably grown by now."

There was that humor again. Wanda couldn't go long without it popping back up. She nodded. "I can't believe I'm letting this bother me this way. I never meant to hurt his feelings."

"You didn't. It's almost impossible to hurt a grown man's feelings. Take my word for it."

Antonio walked up with an open bottle of wine.

"Just in time." Wanda glanced at their empty glasses.

The waiter poured more wine. "I'll bring your food right out."

"Thank you." Angela said. How could she have been so naive? She tried to pull herself together as she watched Antonio walk away. "I guess you could be right. Philip may have something to hide."

Wanda lifted her glass. "Here's to intrigue only with single men."

She lifted her glass and took a sip of wine, before placing the glass back on the table.

With another lift of the glass, Wanda said, "And no more tears for Captain Philip. Let's party."

She raised her glass again and smiled at her best female friend, taking more than a sip on that toast. When she placed the glass back down, it was almost empty.

_Why hasn't he written_?

## Chapter 8

Joseph stopped the limousine as close as he could get to The River Café.

"Thank you," Philip said, when Joseph opened the rear door for him. "There's no need to wait for me. I'll call when I need you to pick me up. It should be a couple of hours."

"Yes, sir, I'll be ready when you need me."

After waiting in the restaurant for thirty minutes in hopes Randellini might show, he decided to order dinner.

When Randellini entered a cab outside his apartment, the man watching started his rental car, and pulled in behind the cab and followed the taxi as it crossed over the bridge into Brooklyn. In an area beneath the Brooklyn Bridge, Randellini exited the vehicle.

The man following pulled over and parked. Staying fifty feet back, he followed the artist on foot toward the water. The sun, behind the Manhattan skyline, made the high rise buildings appear in full glow. Randellini glanced at his watch before taking a seat on a bench near the water's edge.

The man pulled his handgun and closed the distance. Randellini looked over his shoulder at him, and his eyes widened at the sight of the gun barrel held inches from his head. Before the artist could open his mouth, a pop, made by the small caliber revolver, mixed in with the bus engines, car horns, boat traffic, and other sounds. His body, with a .22 caliber bullet in the forehead, slumped on the bench. When a leg twitched, the man put a second bullet in Randellini's temple. The movement stopped. He stuffed the gun in his waistband beneath his shirt and dropped the hat over the artist's head wounds.

Walking away, he scanned the area and the bridge over his left shoulder. The people above walking across were far enough away. No one appeared to be looking in his direction. With all the other sounds, two pops of the .22 caliber handgun had not been loud enough to get anyone's attention. How long would it be before someone noticed the man wearing a floppy hat was not asleep on the bench? There would be more than enough time for him to get far away from the crime scene.

Philip liked The River Cafe restaurant. It had charm, a great view, wonderful service, and delicious food. Dinner went well. He gazed at the water and the skyline. Disappointed Randellini hadn't shown, he wondered if his neighbor might possibly have been asleep when the artist checked on him.

The waiter approached. "May I bring you anything else, sir?"

"The check, please." He felt his phone vibrate and hoped it was Chapman. "Hello, this is Philip."

"I completed the task," Philip's personal assistant said.

"Oh, it's you, Cody. I was expecting someone else."

"Everything went well. She took delivery and drove it to her friend's house. I think she may have noticed me following her. I'm not very good at that sort of thing."

"It's okay. You did your job. I have a new task for you."

"Whatever you need."

"Get back to Dallas to your family, and then find out everything you can about an artist named Ramsel Randellini. And thanks, Cody."

"Yes, sir, I'm on my way."

He placed a call to Joseph and requested he bring the car around.

As he approached the limo, two police cars headed toward it with their lights flashing and sirens blaring. He and Joseph watched as the cruisers came to a stop a few feet in front of the car. Police officers exited both vehicles and ran down the walkway toward the river.

"I thought they were going to ticket me for parking here," Joseph said.

"Whatever it is, it's not a parking ticket they're after. I'm ready to call it a night." He stepped into the limo.

"The Waldorf it is," Joseph said, before he closed the door.

## Chapter 9

Copeland showed her badge and declared her firearm to the TSA agent the following morning at the DFW Airport.

In the process of being cleared, the agent asked, "What's going on in New York?"

"I'm sorry?" asked Copeland, staring at the agent.

"We cleared another Dallas detective on his way to New York City a few days ago. I was wondering what's going on up there, a convention or something?"

"I'm investigating a lead on a missing person. Do you remember the other detective's name?"

"Sorry. Someone else took him through. Have a safe flight, Detective."

"Thank you."

Flying first class to New York while Kevin handled their case load alone was unfair. She'd make it up to him by taking him out to dinner. Not a date. Partners get together all the time for beer after work. There would be nothing wrong with the two of them getting together for a nice dinner. Then again, it might not be a good idea. He's already way too obvious with his feelings, better not encourage him. Not thinking about him was getting harder by the week. Keep it professional. Wait until the time is right. She'd know when.

After a smooth flight to La Guardia, she entered the terminal two minutes before the scheduled arrival time. She retrieved her checked luggage and followed the signs to ground transportation. When she didn't see Lewellan, she dialed the cell phone number he had given her.

Philip took the call and told her he had her in sight. She hadn't changed much since he had last seen her, except for her wardrobe. She still wore her blonde hair pulled away from her face and tied in the back, but the dark blue business suit and black high heels were nothing like what he remembered her wearing. At five-eight, dressed to the nines, she could pass for anything but a police detective.

"Mr. Lewellan."

"Thank you for coming, Detective Copeland. I knew you wouldn't let me down."

"Did you find Randellini?"

Her wardrobe may have changed, but her demeanor had not. All business, all the time. "No, not yet, but I left a message. According to his neighbor, Randellini is in town. We can stop by his apartment. It's not far from the art gallery."

He introduced her to Joseph who took the bag and placed it in the trunk of the limo.

She admired the black leather seats, walnut cabinetry, and large expanse of the limo's interior. This man travels in style.

"Take us to the art gallery," Philip said.

"Yes, sir, the art gallery it is." Joseph closed the limo door.

She leaned back when Philip took the seat across from her. He looked physically fit and impeccably dressed. A light blue silk shirt with a maroon and dark blue striped tie made his blue eyes radiant. The dark gray pin stripe suit, tailored to his tall slender frame probably cost more than she made in a month. Dark brown hair barely touched the top of his ears. Quite a change since the last time she had seen him—a bright sparkle to his eyes, and no longer lifeless, having lost all hope.

"How was your flight?"

"It was fine, thank you."

"You're probably starved. I have sandwiches, fruit, and snacks in the bar to your left. Please help yourself to anything you wish."

"Just some water, please."

He opened a walnut paneled door, pulled out a bottle of chilled water, and handed it to her.

"Thank you."

"I have a room for you at the Waldorf Towers. I hope it's acceptable."

Her phone rang. She looked at the caller ID. It was Kevin

She glanced at him. "Would you excuse me please? I need to take this."

"Of course."

"Copeland."

"Sandra, have you met Lewellan yet?" Kevin said, concern in his tone.

"Yes, we're on our way to an art gallery."

"We received a report from NYPD. Lewellan is wanted for questioning in a homicide investigation. The victim was a man named Ramsel Randellini."

The day before, Lewellan had told her he had Randellini's address and he was going to find him.

She glanced at him. He appeared to be staring at her feet. She moved them. He looked away.

"What else is in the report?" Copeland asked Kevin.

"Randellini's body was found near the Brooklyn Bridge last night, forty feet from the water. A wallet containing five hundred dollars in cash and assorted credit cards were found on the body. The victim had been shot twice in the head with a small caliber weapon. Philip Lewellan, a resident of Dallas, Texas, is wanted for questioning in the homicide investigation. Police found Lewellan's business card was in the victim's right pant pocket. The report came in about thirty minutes ago."

"Thank you. I'll call you back after I check it out from this end."

"He may be armed. Be careful."

"I always am." She closed her phone. _What in the hell had she gotten herself into_?

"Mr. Lewellan?"

"Yes."

"At the airport, you told me you left Randellini a message."

"I hope to hear from him at any time."

"That is never going to happen."

He gazed at her. "What makes you think he won't try to contact me?"

"He's dead," she replied, watching for a reaction.

He didn't flinch.

"I know Rudolf Randellini is dead. I'm looking for his son, Ramsel, who is very much alive according to Chapman."

"Who's Chapman?" She asked.

"He owns the art gallery. You'll meet him when we get there."

Lewellan's lack of any meaningful reaction meant one of two things. He was unaware Ramsel Randellini was dead, or he played it that way for her benefit. The man was wanted for questioning in a homicide investigation. What more did she need? She decided to make her move.

"Tell the driver to pull over and stop the car."

"What's wrong?" Philip asked.

"Stop the car, now," she demanded.

He pressed the intercom button. "Joseph, pull over and stop the car as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir."

The limo came to a stop. Philip leaned toward her. "Are you sick?"

"I want you and Joseph to get out and walk around to the passenger side."

"I don't understand, Sandra."

"It's Detective, remember?"

He pressed the intercom button again. "Joseph, would you step out of the car and meet me on the passenger side?"

"Yes, sir."

Joseph exited the limo, walked to the other side of the car and opened the rear door.

"Ladies first," Philip said.

"Not this time." She motioned for him to get out.

When he stepped away from the limo, she exited it keeping her gaze on him.

Joseph closed the door behind her.

She stepped to one side. "I want you and Joseph to take the position."

"What?" Philip asked, his eyebrows rose.

Did he want her to think he didn't know what that meant? "Both of you. Face the car, and place both hands on the top."

Joseph moved to place his hands on the car.

Philip didn't. "Detective Copeland, what are you doing? We're wasting valuable time here."

She pointed at the car. "Do it."

He nodded at Joseph. "I'm sorry, Joseph," Philip said, before placing his hands on the roof of the limo.

Positioning herself three steps behind them, she asked, "Do you have a weapon on you?"

Philip turned his head toward her. "Weapon, you mean like a gun?"

"Gun, knife, anything considered lethal."

"Of course not, Detective, I don't own a gun, and I certainly don't carry knives around with me."

She gazed at Joseph. "What about you, Joseph?"

"None, ma'am. My wife would not approve of anything like that."

"Are there any weapons in the car?"

Philip glanced at Joseph, who was shaking his head.

She took a step forward. "I'm going to pat you both down. Keep your hands on the car, and move your legs back, then spread them apart."

Philip's eyes flared. "That's it," he said, removing his hands from the car. "We are not going to do this. Joseph, get back into the car."

"Place your hands back on the car." Philip ignored her command took a step toward her. She pulled out her Sig-Saur P226 from under her suit top and pointed it at Philip's chest. "Do it now."

He stepped back, his eyes wide. "Detective Copeland, are you insane?"

She motioned with the Sig for him to turn around.

He moved away from her and placed his hands back on the top of the car and said, "Why are you doing this?"

She lowered the Sig. "I'm checking for weapons."

"We told you we don't have any."

"I'm not getting back into the car until I've patted you both down."

Philip turned his head toward Joseph.

"It's okay with me," Joseph said.

"Well, it's not okay with me, but we're wasting time we may not have." Philip turned his head back toward her. "If we let you pat us down, will you get back into the car so we can proceed to the art gallery?"

"If I don't find anything on you, I'll consider it."

"Then help yourself." Philip turned his head back and looked over the top of the car.

Cars passed by. Drivers slowed to look. Cars honked.

After she confirmed neither Philip nor Joseph was armed, she put her P226 away and told them they could turn around.

"Would you please tell me what this is about?" Philip asked, swatting a bug away from his face.

"You really don't know?" Copeland said.

"Don't know what, Detective?" He replied, raising his voice.

"Ramsel Randellini's body was found last evening under the Brooklyn Bridge."

"I had dinner at a restaurant near there last night. Surely you don't think I—.

"You're admitting you were at the crime scene?"

Philip shook his head and said, "No. I'm not admitting anything."

The situation had gone beyond her scope. He admitted he was there. She should call the local authorities and turn him over to them. She reached for her phone began to dial 911.

He held his hand out. "Wait. You don't understand. That's not why I'm upset. I don't even know where the crime scene is."

She held the phone out. "I'm listening, but make it quick."

He rubbed his hand through his hair. "After seven years, I finally find a clue, and now once again another dead end. I had nothing to do with Randellini's death. I wanted to talk to him, not kill him. I never got a chance to speak to him. I left my business card with Randellini's neighbor. I was hoping to meet Randellini at The River Café, but he never showed."

She maintained eye contact while debating her options. He wouldn't have asked her to come to New York if he'd planned to kill the artist. And he certainly wouldn't have told her he was going to find the artist, if that were the case. She looked at her phone.

"I have a daughter. I want to find her. I certainly wouldn't kill the one man who might be able to lead me to her."

She had never known Lewellan to lie to her. What would he gain by killing the man who might be able to lead him to his daughter? The sincerity in his tone and the look in his eyes made her want to believe him. She closed the phone.

"Okay, I'm going to give you the benefit of doubt, until I learn otherwise."

"Thank you," Philip said, a noticeable softness in his tone.

"The local police are looking for you," Copeland said. "You'll have to give them a statement."

Throwing up his hands, Philip said, "Why? I don't know anything about Randellini's death."

"They've obviously already found out about the message you left for him, coupled with the fact you were at the crime scene."

"I wasn't there." He stared at her. "And I didn't kill him."

A large cloud passed and sun rays beamed down. Shading her eyes with her right hand, Copeland said, "I heard you the first time."

Philip looked down.

She stepped toward him. "I'm trying to make you understand why the police want to question you. I can assure you it's only a matter of time before you'll be their prime suspect, if you're not already. I suggest we go to the police immediately and offer your full cooperation."

He glanced at Joseph, who moved toward the car and opened the passenger door.

Philip motioned for her to get in. "The police will have to wait. My only hope now is the painting. I have to find the name of the other person who was interested in her identity. I wonder if that's who bought it?"

She placed her hand on the top of the door, but stopped before getting in. "What about the Brooklyn police? They're looking for you as we speak. You can't ignore them."

"I have no information that can help them. Besides, I'll worry about the police when they find me."

Who does Philip Lewellan think he is? She pushed the door closed and turned around.

Joseph glanced at her with wide eyes. "I'm not really to leave yet, Joseph. Go sit in the car so you can get out of the sun. Your boss and I are going to get something straight, before we go anywhere."

Philip nodded once at Joseph.

After Joseph took his seat behind the steering wheel and closed the door, she took three steps and put her face in Philip's. "I've already found you. I'm an officer of the court. I can't ignore the fact you're wanted for questioning."

Silence.

She could tell he was fighting hard not to smile. She was winning.

After a few moments, Philip broke off his gaze and walked over to the car. He opened the passenger door. "I don't have time to stand out here and argue with you. I'm going to the gallery, with you or without you." He turned back to face her, holding the door open. "Are you going to help me or not, Detective Copeland?"

"Only if you agree to go to the police and give them a statement, otherwise, I'm walking."

You won't need to walk far. He looked at the cars passing by. I'm sure someone will offer you a ride.

Knowing full well Lewellan wouldn't leave her stranded; she didn't move and waited to see how far he would be willing to go with his bluff.

He stepped into the limo and closed the door.

Damn him.

## Chapter 10

Jodie opened the door of her Bronx apartment. "Hi Harold." She handed him a half a loaf of bread. "I'm sorry, it's a little stale."

"That's the way I like it. Thank you precious." He turned and limped away.

She closed the door. There was another knock. She turned and opened the door again.

"Jessie, what are you doing back here?"

"Who was that guy?"

"That was Harold. He lives in the ally. Hey, I thought you were going—"

"I'm sorry, Jodie. I should've called," Jessica stepped inside.

Jodie closed the door behind her and bolted the lock. "It's okay. I'm glad you're back. Why did you decide not to go to Georgia?"

"I can't until I figure out what to do."

"What's up?"

"I'm looking for a man."

Jodie smiled. "Aren't we all?"

She frowned. "Not that kind of man."

"Jessica, what's wrong? You look pale."

"I should have known better than to believe anything Barletto said."

Jodie's smile faded. "Have a seat and tell me what's going on."

When they settled on two canvas chairs facing the faded brown and yellow sofa, Jessica placed her backpack on the floor.

"A man might be in danger because of what I did for Barletto."

Jodie gazed at her and asked, "What did you do?"

"I'm not really sure."

Jodie laughed. "That's nothing new for you."

Leaning forward, Jessica said. "Please, I'm serious. I'm in over my head this time. I need your help."

"The last time you got yourself in a bind, and I helped you, I almost ended up being charged with accessory to grand theft auto."

"We were just kids then, and how was I to know the lying jerk didn't own it?"

"It was four years ago, we were eighteen, and I tried to tell you that guy was a worthless no good bum."

Jodie had always been better at sizing up people. Unlike her, who'd made so many wrong choices? Her poor mother had gone through hell, trying to keep her only child out of trouble. Her mother had worked minimum-wage jobs, trying to save a few pennies in hopes her daughter would go to college. Have a better life. Meet somebody. Be happy. She had let her mother down so many times. This time was going to be different she'd told her, a fresh start in a new town. Why had she believed that cop? Easy money he'd said.

Turning her head away, Jessica said, "It seems like a lifetime ago to me."

After a few seconds of silence, Jodie stood. "Okay, I'll help you, but this time you have to tell me everything. Take off your shoes, lean back and relax while I make us a pot of coffee."

She walked behind a narrow bar top that separated the cooking area from the living area and grabbed the coffee carafe. Pushing it under the kitchen faucet, she said. "I want to know the whole story this time. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

## Chapter 11

Wanda dialed the number on the letter she had received.

"Dawson Boat Charters. This is Samantha. How may I help you?"

"My name is Wanda Harris. I'm calling to confirm my reservations."

"Yes, Miss Harris, we have you and your friend confirmed for arrival on the third of June. Mr. Dawson will meet you at the airport. From there you'll be driven by limousine to a lovely ocean-view house, where you will be staying during your visit. All of your local transportation will be by chauffeured limo, and meal vouchers will be given to you upon your arrival at the house. You should have already received your airline ticket confirmation by e-mail."

"Yes, I received that."

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Miss Harris?"

"No, I think that does it. Thank you."

"You're welcome. We look forward to your visit with us."

Wanda called Angela.

"We're all set for June third. I called and confirmed our arrival. Get this. Someone will meet us at the airport with a limousine to take us to the house."

"It sounds too good to be true, especially for a contest you don't remember entering."

"I'm always entering contests," Wanda said. "I couldn't possibly remember all of them. Besides, Malcolm checked the whole thing out for me last month. If he says it's legitimate, it's legitimate."

"Okay, if you say so."

"I'm so excited. A private ocean-view house and limousine service to wherever we want to go."

"Wow, it does sound great."

Angela looked at her watch. "I'm sorry, Wanda, I have to go. I'll call you back after I get off work. It's wild here today."

"Wild is one of my favorite words. Goodbye, dear."

Angela checked her e-mail one more time before meeting with her next client. She had twelve new messages; none were from Captain Philip.

## Chapter 12

Detective Copeland was right about Lewellan not leaving without her, but it hadn't stopped him from telling Joseph to take them to the gallery first, then the police station. He hadn't looked at her in several minutes. Rubbing his finger over the surface of the wood paneling, he appeared to be in deep thought as they drove toward the gallery. The artist's death had thwarted their search. The one link they had left was the painting.

Lewellan had always been up front with her. During her investigation, he had given her full access to everything she had asked for, without question. Not one time had she ever caught him in a lie.

She believed him when he said he didn't kill Randellini. Torn between her training and her conscience, she decided to try to ease the tension.

"I guess I owe you and Joseph an apology."

He stopped rubbing and looked up.

"You certainly owe him one. He's sixty-four years-old, has grandchildren, and he's a kind and decent man. Why would you humiliate him, too?"

In most cases, apologizing for doing what her training and experience had taught her would not be in order, but something inside told her she had to do it. She leaned over and pressed the intercom button Philip had pressed earlier.

"Joseph, I'm terribly sorry for what I did to you. I hope you'll forgive me."

"No need to apologize, Detective. I can't wait to tell my wife. She won't believe it."

That wasn't so bad. She could go all in. She gazed at Philip. "I believe you are being honest with me about Randellini."

"Apology accepted." He paused, and then added, "I guess you might as well call me Philip." He smiled.

Oh, he took it the wrong way. Why did I have to go and apologize to him? She decided to set him straight.

"If you're referring to the search, sure, why not. And you might as well call me Detective."

## Chapter 13

Nine calls later, Jessica had the name of the hotel.

"Where did you learn that line of crap you've been telling those people?" Jodie asked Jessica.

"I made it up," she replied. "Hotel clerks are more cooperative when they think they're helping a guest's secretary get an urgent message to her boss."

"How did you know which hotels to call?"

"I didn't, but Lewellan wears an expensive watch. Actually, everything about him looked upscale. I figured my odds were better if I started with the higher-priced ones."

"Smart girl," Jodie said.

Placing her coffee cup on the counter, Jessica turned. "I've got to get to the Waldorf."

"If we're going to Manhattan, we'd better take the bus."

"How long will it take?"

"An hour, maybe more," Jodie replied.

"I hate buses."

"If you have a hundred bucks, we can call a cab," Jodie said.

"Let's take the bus. I'll need to borrow your best dress and a pair of shoes to match."

Jodie shook her head. "Oh no, here we go again."

## Chapter 14

Copeland stepped out of the limo and frowned. "Where are we?"

"I take it you're not impressed by the older architecture of Brooklyn." Philip pointed to the worst looking façade of three buildings built side by side sharing walls between them. "It's the one in the center,"

She gazed at the gray brick structure streaked with water stains. "For some reason, I expected the art gallery to look better."

"It's not so bad inside, except for the occasional musty odor."

When they reached the entrance, Philip grabbed the door handle and paused. "Chapman isn't the easiest person to communicate with." He pressed the latch.

"What do you mean?"

He opened the door for her. "You'll see." Once inside, he motioned with his thumb. "It's in this room to our left."

After they entered the room, she noticed it appeared to have been recently painted. Several paintings hung on the walls, too close, in her opinion, for an art gallery. The room reminded her of the art museum her class had visited when she was in high school. What would she know? The only art galleries she'd ever seen had been on television or in the movies.

A man walked up to them and said, "Ah, Mr. Lewellan, you're back."

"Mr. Chapman, this is Detective Copeland. Detective Copeland, this is Roscoe Chapman."

Chapman extended his hand. "Nice to meet you. Are you with the New York City Police Department?"

Before she could answer, Philip said, "Yes." He nodded at her.

She glared at him. Why does he want Chapman to think I'm with the NYPD?

"I'd like to show her the painting."

"I'm sorry. It's no longer here. After you left, the buyer called and requested we prepare it for immediate shipment. A courier picked it up yesterday."

"Did you mention my offer?"

"Yes, I did. He said she was not interested in selling it."

"He said?" Philip asked. "Who is he?"

"I have no idea," replied Chapman. "The man didn't tell me his name. He returned my call and said he was calling on the behalf of Mrs. Belah and that she didn't wish to sell the painting at any price."

"At any price." Philip said, a little more forceful than necessary.

Hearing a rising tone of disappointment in Philip's questioning, she decided to take over.

"Who is Mrs. Belah?" Copeland asked.

Chapman turned toward her. "The woman who purchased the painting."

"You didn't speak to her directly?" Philip asked, butting back in.

"No, I didn't," Chapman said, turning his attention back to Philip. "I've never spoken to her."

"She purchased the painting through a broker?" Philip asked.

"Either that or her business associate. All I know is he wired the money to my bank after my assistant gave him the account information. At that point, it was completely out of my hands."

Philip frowned and raised his eyebrows. They both stared at Chapman, who stared at the tile floor.

Chapman raised his head and glanced at a large painting of an old sailing ship that hung on the wall. "I don't speak a word of——actually, I do know a few words of French, but not enough to carry on a conversation."

"The man who called on Mrs. Belah's behalf, was a Frenchman?" she asked, stepping closer to Lewellan so Chapman wouldn't have to keep turning his head back and forth. Her high heels made a clicking sound on the tile floor that caught Chapman's attention.

He looked at her feet. "I don't know. He sounded as American as you do."

She understood now what Philip meant. Getting information out of Chapman was like solving a crossword puzzle.

"If you have never spoken to Mrs. Belah, why do you think she's French?" Copeland asked.

"I assume she's French because the painting was shipped to France."

She smiled. "So you have Mrs. Belah's home address?"

"No, I don't," replied Chapman.

What am I missing here? She stared at Chapman until he said, "The painting was shipped to Paris, but not to a home."

In Chapman's case, the crossword puzzle would be a single color. Trying not to show her frustration, she asked calmly, "Would you please give us that address?"

Glancing at the floor again, he said, "Since you're with the police department, I assume I have no choice, do I?" He looked up, but not at her.

She glanced at Lewellan. Appearing to have enjoyed her attempt to extract information from Chapman, he gave her a restrained wink.

That's why he wants Chapman to think I'm with the NYPD. Turning her attention back to Chapman, she said. "Not really."

"Please give me a moment. I'll get it for you." Chapman turned and walked away.

"Thank you, Sandra," Philip said.

Not pleased with how she had let him persuade her into misleading Chapman, she met his gaze and said, "We're even now... and it's still Detective."

Chapman returned with the address. "Here it is," he said, handing a piece of paper to her.

As difficult as it was to extract, she forced a smile and took the address from him. "Thank you for your cooperation."

"You're welcome." He turned to Philip. "Were you successful in locating Ramsel Randellini last evening?"

If there was ever a time for him to read her body language, it was now. Philip hesitated when she gave him a slight shake of her head.

"No, unfortunately he wasn't at his studio when I called on him."

They probably had all they were going to get out of Chapman. Seeing no need to push her luck with impersonating an NYPD detective, Copeland said, "We've taken enough of your time." She grabbed Philip by the arm.

"I'm always happy to help the police. I certainly hope the painting wasn't stolen. I'd hate to lose that much money. It's rare, but sometimes we do get taken in."

Why would Chapman think it might be stolen?

"We have no evidence to suggest the painting was stolen," she said, looking for his reaction.

Chapman smiled. "What I wanted to hear."

They both turned to walk away.

"Wait," Chapman said. "The woman in the painting. You never told me who she is."

Philip stopped and started to turn back.

She yanked his arm. "Let's go, Mr. Lewellan. We can't be late for our other appointment."

He glanced down at the death grip she had on his arm.

"Good day, " she said, guiding Philip toward the door.

"Yes, good day to you both." Chapman said, his voice trailed off as they approached the doorway.

It was one of those times when she wished she had eyes in the back of her head, but it didn't matter. She knew Chapman watched them every step of the way as they left the gallery.

When they reached the street, she let go of Philip's arm.

He stopped walking. "What's the appointment we can't be late for?"

"Did you notice anything strange about Chapman?"

He laughed. "You're kidding, right? Everything about the man is strange."

Annoying, yes, but there was possibly more. "When people are nervous they have a tendency to look away, instead of maintaining eye contact."

"I didn't notice."

She knew why. Lewellan had kept his gaze on her more than Chapman, enjoying every minute of her back and forth with Chapman.

"I did. Secondly, he never asked to see my badge. Believe me, it's been my experience, you usually have to show a badge before getting information. He may have something to hide, or possibly he's already aware Randellini was murdered. He could be calling the police at this very moment, which is why you can't be late for your next appointment. I want you to tell the police everything you know."

"Detective, I don't know anything about Randellini. What help can I possibly be to the police?"

Feeling the heat rising in her neck, she grabbed Lewellan's arm and pulled on it again. He didn't budge and looked at her grip. She released him and pointed her index finger at his face.

"You agreed to go to the police, if I went to the gallery with you."

He looked at the end of her finger. She pulled it down.

"I'm not reneging on our deal, but first, I'd like to see the address Chapman gave you."

"Not until you talk to the police. Then, if they don't arrest you, I might let you have a look at it."

He stared at her for a few seconds then said, "Okay, let's go." They walked toward the limo. Joseph opened the rear passenger door and she stepped in.

Before he stepped into the limo, Philip said, "Take us to the nearest police station."

"Yes sir, the nearest police station it is." Joseph closed the door.

When they were settled in and the limo pulled away from the curb, Philip asked, "Do you think I should call my lawyer?"

Trying to determine whether or not he was serious, she replied, "If you killed Randellini, you'd be crazy not to."

He didn't respond and looked away. Was he serious? Damn him.

He started to wink at her and let her know he was kidding, but he decided to keep her guessing while he thought about what Chapman had said about Mrs. Belah. Not interested in selling at any price. Why is the painting priceless to her? He had a hunch. If cooperation with the local police is what it took to get a look at the address, then he would be Mr. Cooperative.

Once inside the Brooklyn Police Station, Philip said, "Why don't you let me take the lead."

"By all means," Copeland replied, stepping aside.

"I'm Philip Lewellan. This is Detective Sandra Copeland with the Dallas Police Department. I understand the police wish to speak with me concerning a homicide investigation."

The policeman at the desk pressed a button the console and spoke into his headset. "A man named Philip Lewellan is at the front desk with a Dallas Police Detective." The police officer waited several seconds for a response. "Okay." he looked up and said, "Someone will be with you in a moment. You can have a seat over there, if you wish." The officer pointed to a row of eight wooden chairs.

Philip turned toward the chairs. They were well suited for a western movie set. How many people and how many years had it taken to wear the finish on the seats down to the bare wood.

"Thank you officer," Copeland said. She stepped up beside him. "Let's take a seat. It may take awhile."

According to Copeland, he might be a prime suspect. Looking at his watch, he walked with her toward the chairs. "Do prime suspects usually have to wait a long time before they're questioned?"

She shrugged before taking a seat. "Take it as a good sign. At least they didn't draw a gun on you."

"Should I tell them you've already done that and patted me down for a weapon? It might save us time." He sat in the chair next to her.

"Just answer their questions. Most likely we'll be out of here within an hour unless they have the murder weapon with your fingerprints on it."

After Lewellan was escorted to a room for questioning, Copeland talked to several police officers passing through the station. None knew anything about the case. She considered going outside and sitting in the limo with Joseph, but he had driven off after dropping them off at entrance. Having no idea where he parked, she decided to stay inside the station.

When Lewellan finally came walking down the hallway toward her, he put his cell phone back in his pocket and motioned with his hand for them to leave. Without saying a word to each other, they walked out of the station. Joseph stood next to the passenger door awaiting their arrival.

"Take us to the hotel," Philip said, before he stepped into the limo behind her.

"The Waldorf it is," Joseph replied.

Sitting on the soft leather seats felt like sitting in her favorite club chair compared to two hours in the unpadded wooden chair.

She adjusted herself on the seat. "They kept you longer than I expected."

"Is it really necessary for the police to ask the same questions over and over again?"

She knew it was routine to ask the same questions a different way. Witnesses, suspects, persons of interest, they all get to answer the questions more than once. But she was learning to read his body language. Apparently, he had not called his attorney, or he would have been advised to wait until counsel arrived. If he was going to toy with her, she could dish it out as well. "Only, if they think you're lying."

It was obvious to him she wasn't serious. She knew he was telling the truth, or she wouldn't have gone to the gallery with him first. That is why he had forced her hand. Copeland had proved to be invaluable, both at the gallery and in advising him to go to the police. Apparently they had checked out everything he had told them while they made him wait. When they returned, the detective told him he was free to go. He had been right about requesting her help. There were three things for certain he knew about her. She would tolerate nothing less than total honesty. He could rely on her to be completely frank with him, and she was all business. She didn't care about him, his money, or his power. As far as he could tell, she probably still held a grudge against him for the hell he had put her through by offering a large reward against her advice. But she came anyway.

"May I see the address Chapman gave you?"

She pulled the piece of paper from her purse and handed it to him.

He looked at it and studied it. His hunch had been correct. Thank God he had not been able to purchase the painting. If he had, with Randellini dead, he would have no idea where to look next.

Copeland leaned back in the seat and shuffled her feet. "It's nice to see you can smile after what they put you through."

He looked up. "The painting is the key. It's going to lead us right to them. We must go to Paris. I'll call my secretary and have her book us on the first flight out tomorrow."

She couldn't believe he would expect her to leave the country with him. How could he even think she would even consider it?

"I'm sorry, I can't possibly go to Paris with you."

He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and called Joyce.

"Hi Joyce, it's Philip. Would you please book two seats on the next flight out of New York City to Paris? The other passenger will be Detective Sandra Copeland. Thank you... yes; I'll await your call."

She gritted her teeth. "Didn't you hear what I said?"

"Of course I did, but my wife and daughter are one more flight away. And I cannot imagine you would quit on me now."

Does he think I'm working for him? It was all she could do to contain herself. "Mr. Lewellan, I agree the woman in the painting looks like your wife. So much so, that I was willing to come to New York to check it out, but I'm afraid New York is going to be the extent of it."

The definition of disappointment was written all over his face.

"I wish I had been able to show you the actual painting."

"The oil painting by itself isn't conclusive evidence your wife and child are alive. Although there's a striking resemblance, the woman in the painting may not be Renée."

"I thought the same thing until I saw the necklace and the name of the painting."

"What about the necklace?"

"The necklace in the painting is identical to the necklace I gave Renée on our second wedding anniversary two weeks prior to her disappearance. I'm surprised you didn't recognize it. I had it custom made in France. I believe she was wearing it when she disappeared. As you well know, it's never been found."

She hadn't forgotten about it. There was a photograph of the necklace in the police file. Copies had been sent to pawn shops all over the United States. For all she knew, someone could have duplicated the necklace from one of the photocopies.

"You'll have to give me more than that."

"Here, look for yourself." He handed the piece of paper back to her. "Read the name of the addressee out loud."

She looked at the name. "Mrs. C. Belah."

He pulled the brochure from his coat pocket. "Now look at the picture on the back of the brochure and the name of the painting."

"My Sweet Beautiful Rachel. I'm sorry. I don't understand what you're trying to tell me."

Philip leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees. "The name of the painting is significant. Renée and I decided, if our first child was a girl, we would name her Rachel, after my mother."

"I see, but I don't understand what that has to do with the address."

"When my wife talked about our unborn child, she often referred to her as My Sweet Beautiful Rachel."

Remembering he had mentioned the same thing to her the day she told him she had been forced to inactivate the case, she assumed it to be true. "Okay, I'll give you that one. I understand the significance of the name of the painting, but I still don't know why you think she's in Paris."

"As soon as I understood who the painting was actually addressed to, I was glad I had not been able to buy it. Otherwise, we'd be at a dead end."

She shook her head. "I'm not following any of this."

A car horn appeared to distract him. He turned around in time to see a taxi cut in front of a UPS truck to make an exit ramp. He turned back to her and said, "I believe the painting has been shipped to my wife."

She couldn't wait to hear how he came up with that. Leaning forward a bit, she asked, "Why?"

"The hotel written on that piece of paper is where I stayed during my first visit to Paris ten years ago. It's near the Seine River and within walking distance to the Musée d'Orsay. That was where Renée worked when we first met."

He's grasping for straws. "Next, you're going to tell me you stayed in room twenty-six. The same room listed on the address."

"You're good, Detective, and you're also correct."

She wasn't about to let herself fall for Lewellan's weak attempt to tie an address on a slip of paper to a woman who had been missing for seven years.

"It's all very intriguing, but everything you've told me could be a coincidence."

He met her gaze. "I don't believe any of it is a coincidence."

What were the odds the address of the hotel, including the same room number would be exactly the same place he'd stayed years earlier. Had he orchestrated this whole thing?

"What I'm about to tell you next will seem rather far out there, but please hear me out before you comment."

Lewellan had never before come across as a nut case, but when someone prefaced what they were about to say with a statement like that, a session with a psychologist may well be in their future. If he claims she was abducted by aliens, she'd be out of there. She moved away from him.

He leaned in again. "What do you think the odds are the addressee's name is a code name for our daughter?"

Unless he could prove otherwise, she assumed about a billion to one. Before she gave him the name of a psychologist, she decided to hear him out. "Explain how Mrs. C. Belah is a code name for your daughter."

"Renée and I played a word game. We would rearrange letters of words into new words as a code for the real meaning. We placed our coded phrases in the post scripts of our letters and e-mails. It was always a challenge to figure out their true meaning. Sometimes it would take days to unravel them. The more we did it, the better we got at encoding and decoding each other's messages. I've never told anyone, until today, my wife and I often used code to communicate."

Something about that bothered her. Why had he held that information back until now? Was he making it up to get her to go to Paris with him? "You still haven't explained how you know the addressee's name is a code for Rachel."

"Look at the name on the address again," he said.

She lifted the paper and gave the name a cursory review. "What about it?"

"The letters in the name are a rearrangement of the letters in MSB Rachel."

She raised the paper again and studied the letters. "Let me see if I have this correct. Mrs. C. Belah is a code for MSB Rachel, which is short for My Sweet Beautiful Rachel."

"I'm impressed, Detective. That information is not in your police files, nor is the name of our child, since she hadn't been born at the time of my wife's disappearance. I never mentioned the name we had picked out for our child until the day you came to my house to tell me you were being forced to inactivate the case."

When he had passed that information on to her, Renée was dead, statistically, anyway. She had been missing for four years. Everyone, including her, believed the child had never been born. Even Lewellan must have thought that, although he never admitted to it and continued the search.

"No, It wasn't in the file," she said.

He leaned back and placed his right arm on top of the leather seat.

"It seems like you're reaching for straws, Mr. Lewellan. I think even you would have to admit it could be a coincidence the letters in Mrs. C Belah match up with the letters used in MSB Rachel."

"It could be," Philip said. "But it's not, no more than I believe the murder of Randellini is a coincidence. And my guess is you don't either, because I remember you once told me you don't believe in coincidences when it comes to investigating missing persons."

"When did I tell you that?" she asked, trying a straight face that she didn't quite pull off.

"You chased down every lead I brought you, all of them false, until three years ago. At that time, I promised I wouldn't call you again until I had hard evidence you could follow up on."

Breaking off eye contact, she remembered why the department had been forced to pull the plug on the investigation. Lewellan had thousands of posters printed and handed out all over the country. The distribution of them along with the offer of a million dollar reward resulted in the Dallas Police Department being swamped with bogus leads. No wonder she had been forced to inactivate the case. It had turned into a nightmare for the department.

It had been her decision to break the news to him at his home. She recalled that day in the nursery and the look on his face when he made her that promise. After that, he stayed away from her and the police. She later heard through her contacts that even the private investigators he hired had eventually bailed on him.

Now he was back, with what he felt was hard evidence. How could Renée possibly be alive, after all these years? The fact Mrs. Belah had refused to sell the painting at any price raised enough suspicion to make her consider Lewellan's theory. Burning inside her was one question that needed to be answered. If Renée was alive and gave birth to the child, why did she leave Lewellan and go into hiding? She looked up.

He made eye contact with her. "It's decision time, Detective. I've found hard evidence my wife and daughter are alive. I'm going to Paris with or without you. I want you to go with me. No, I need you to go with me."

"I have no authority in Paris."

"You have no authority in New York, but it didn't stop you from getting the address out of Chapman."

Allowing Chapman to believe she was with the NYPD was her own fault was as much her fault as it was Lewellan's, when she didn't correct him. She wouldn't let it happen again.

"I won't allow you to misrepresent my authority in Paris. Besides, no one there would believe I'm with the Paris Police Department."

"That's most likely true, unless you've learned to speak French."

"So what do you think I can do to help you in Paris?"

"I know more about Renée than you, but I don't have your investigative skills. You know the right questions to ask and when to ask them."

He raised his hand before she could speak. "Sure, I could hire a private investigator. The best one money could buy, but no one knows more about the case than you."

There was indeed validity for him requesting her help, but nothing he'd said made her feel obligated to go with him. There's was good chance she'd receive a reprimand from the lieutenant for going to New York to work an inactive case the top brass had ordered shut down. If word of her trip to New York went passed her lieutenant, he wouldn't be able to save her. She'd be working parking meters for six months until she could find another job.

She gazed at Lewellan. "I can't—"

He held out his hands a few inches apart. "Here's the bottom line, Detective. Even the best private investigator in the world would be doing it only for the money. You came to New York for one reason and one reason only. I know how much effort you've already put into this case. You want Renée and Rachel to be alive as much as I do. I know you're not yet convinced as I am they are alive, but you want to believe it, or you wouldn't be here."

She now understood why he'd requested her help. No one wants a person along on a treasure hunt if that person doesn't believe the treasure might actually exist? She couldn't deny the fact the case had continued to gnaw at her gut all these years. She broke off eye contact and gazed out the window at the buildings they were passing.

The way she saw it there were two options. Go back to Dallas and work active cases with Kevin, or go to Paris with Lewellan and work an inactive case based solely on an oil painting and his theory that Mrs. Belah could be Renée. Why jeopardize her career? She turned away from the window.

"I'll make all the arrangements," Philip said.

As much as she wanted to go, she had to tell him no. She shook her head. "I can't go with you. I have no official authorization to travel to Paris."

He stared at her. "Surely—"

"Actually, I didn't have authorization to come to New York."

His eyes went wide. He appeared to be taken aback by her admission she'd come without getting approval from her superiors.

They both sat in silence, until Lewellan, apparently unwilling to give up, said, "If it didn't stop you from coming to New York, why should it stop you from going to Paris?"

"That's not the only reason I can't go." There was something else stopping her. "I don't have my passport with me, and I can't legally leave the country without it." That was a good reason for him to back off while she regained her sanity. If she went to Paris to work the Lewellan case, she might as well turn in her badge and not return to Dallas, vacation days or no vacation days. Top brass would have her head on a platter as soon as she returned.

He appeared to be in deep thought as he rubbed his forehead. He pulled his hand down and the edges of his mouth turned upward. "Where is it?"

"My home in Dallas." Where was he going with this?

"Unfortunately, it sounds like your passport has been misplaced."

"I know exactly where it is." She placed her hands on the seat beside her legs. "This is all interesting, but you can't really expect me to drop everything and go to France with you." She looked away before he could respond. Was there really a code name for Rachel?

She nearly came out of her seat when Philip's cell phone rang.

"First Class seats are exactly what I wanted. Thank you, Joyce." He closed the phone.

If he thought saying first class out loud would have any bearing on whether or not she went with him, he had completely misjudged her. She would love to go to Paris, but not if it meant jeopardizing her job. Besides, she didn't have her passport. Case closed.

Philip opened his phone again and speed dialed a number.

"Charlie, this is Philip Lewellan."

"Well, hello, Philip. I was wondering when I was going to hear from my old friend again. How are you?"

"I need your help."

Charlie had been his roommate their freshman year at college where they became close friends and went home with each other for holidays. They both knew where all their skeletons were buried, except one, so to speak. Charlie had come from a blue collar family and was working his way through college, when a full scholarship came through for him his second semester. He had never asked his Grandmother to help Charlie out financial because he knew Charlie wouldn't accept their help. His grandmother made sure Charlie never knew how the scholarship actually came about. It was the one skeleton Philip had tried to keep hidden from his friend.

"Anything for you," Charlie replied.

"I need to get a replacement passport for a friend of mine. She's a Dallas Police Detective and has a flight out of JFK to Paris tomorrow. Unfortunately, she's misplaced her passport. I was wondering if you might be able to help. What are my options?"

"This must be serious, extremely so." Charlie said.

"It is. I have a lead on Renée. It's real, Charlie, I have proof they're both alive."

"My God, Philip, that's wonderful, after all these years. Where are you now?"

"We're in New York, staying at the Waldorf Towers."

"Are you traveling with her tomorrow?"

"Yes, I am."

"There shouldn't be any problem, if she's clean."

"I'm fairly certain she took a shower this morning."

Renewed hope his wife and child were alive had revived a touch of the humor he had been well known for in college. Humor had been absent for quite some time.

Copeland glared at him.

"All I need is her social security number. I'll have her travel documents delivered to the hotel early tomorrow morning."

Charlie had the right connections and the power to get things done. He could move mountains when necessary. And now was the time to move a small one.

"Thanks, Charlie. I'll ask her for it." He gazed at Copeland. "I need your social security number."

She shook her head. "This is ridiculous. I should report you to homeland security."

"Charlie, she wants to report me to Homeland Security."

"Put her on the phone."

"He wants to speak to you." He handed the phone to her.

She grabbed it. "I am Detective Sandra Copeland with the Dallas Police Department. Who am I speaking with please?"

"Detective Copeland, my name is Charles W. Wooten, Deputy Director of Homeland Security. How may I be of service to you?"

She pulled the phone away from her face and stared at him. "Cute."

She finished her conversation with the Deputy Director of Homeland Security and attempted to hand the phone back to Philip. He appeared to be concentrating on something and didn't take it so she placed the phone on the seat beside him. Had he paid any attention to her conversation with Wooten? The Deputy Director assured her it was not that big a deal to get her an official letter of travel to the country of France, in lieu of a passport. While Philip appeared to be pre-occupied, she continued to debate with herself, until she realized there was one person who might be able to help her.

## Chapter 15

Jessica strolled into the Waldorf Hotel as if she owned the place. Wearing a yellow cotton dress with a white belt, matching yellow heels, and carrying a white purse, she approached the registration desk. The hotel clerk peered over the top of her reading glasses.

"May I help you?"

"I certainly hope so. My name is Martha Townsend. I'm supposed to meet with Philip Lewellan this evening at eight for dinner. Unfortunately, I have a conflict and won't be able to make it. Would you please see that Mr. Lewellan gets this envelope?" She pushed it across the counter toward the clerk. "It's important."

The clerk picked up the envelope. "Of course."

"Thank you."

Jessica made her way out of the hotel and met Jodie standing outside near the front entrance.

"I've done what I came to do. Now it's up to Lewellan to take care of himself." She grabbed Jodie's arm and pulled her down the sidewalk. "Let's get out of here."

Halfway down the block, Jessica said, "I'm starved. Would you like to get something to eat?"

"Are you buying?" Jodie asked.

She slowed and gazed at Jodie. "I was hoping you would."

## Chapter 16

Joseph stopped the limo in front of the main entrance to the Waldorf.

"We're at the hotel," Philip said.

She glanced out the window at the doorman walking toward them. "Yes, I can see that."

The hotel doorman opened the rear door.

She didn't move. "Please go ahead without me." She waved him out, hoping he wouldn't ask any questions. "I have a short errand to run. It shouldn't take me long. I'll meet up with you here a little later."

"Of course, whatever time you need. Joseph will take you anywhere you wish." Philip reached for his wallet.

She shook her head. "That won't be necessary, but thank you for offering."

After Philip exited the limo, she signaled for the doorman to close the door. Once the door was shut, she pressed the intercom button.

"Joseph, would you please drive around the block and lower the window so I can talk to you without having to hold this button down?"

Before he had completely pulled away from the curb, the privacy window came down.

She moved to the front and sat closer to the window that separated the passengers from the driver.

"How long have you known Mr. Lewellan?"

"About ten years," Joseph replied, as he eased the limo down the street toward the first intersection.

"Did you know his wife Renée?"

"Oh yes ma'am. She loved going to see the plays here. They came up several times and stayed three or four days at a time."

"Do you think Lewellan is capable of killing someone?"

Joseph glanced at her in the rearview mirror. He then turned his attention back toward the street in front of him. "He might in self defense, but other than that, no ma'am, not the Mr. Lewellan I know."

"What do you know about him?"

"He's a kind-hearted and generous man."

Why did she expect to get anything other than praise from Philip's hired driver? Joseph was not going to bite the hand that feeds him.

"So as far as you're concerned, he's perfect?"

"No ma'am, I didn't say he's perfect. In my opinion, Mr. Lewellan has a big problem."

She could hardly wait to hear what the man had to say. "Really?"

"Yes ma'am," Joseph replied.

"So what's the problem?" she asked.

"I think Mr. Lewellan is afraid to love anyone else. He's lost every person he's ever loved. First, he lost his parents in a boating accident when he was a kid. Then one day his wife just up and disappears. And three months ago he lost his last surviving relative."

As far as she knew, Philip had only one other living relative at the time of Renée's disappearance. Philip's grandmother was the last person who reported seeing Renée alive. She recalled interviewing elderly woman in her modest three-bedroom home. Mrs. Lewellan stated that Renée had had breakfast with her the previous Friday morning. After they finished eating, Renée stayed and helped her clean up the dishes. Then they chatted with each other until around noon when Renée glanced at her watch, jumped up, and said she had to leave. On her way out of the house, she had told Mrs. Lewellan she was planning a big surprise for Philip and had an appointment at one o'clock that day to work out all the details.

"His grandmother died?"

"Yes ma'am. She raised him by herself since he was a kid. Mr. Lewellan was in New York on business the day it happened. He was sitting where you are when he got the news. I never saw a grown man cry like he did. I don't think he wants to take the chance of losing anyone else. I'm not sure he could take it."

Seven years is a long time to hold out hope. Many people would have moved on with their lives. According to Joseph, Lewellan had no plans to move on with his life.

Joseph stopped the car at a traffic light. He glanced in the rearview mirror at her.

"He needs your help, Detective. If he doesn't find his wife and child, I'm afraid he'll die a lonely man."

Based on everything she'd heard or read about Philip, he'd stayed away from the social scene around Dallas. Apparently, Joseph knew Philip fairly well. Lewellan had used his money and power. Everything he had, for years to no avail. Then one day when he'd finally found something, instead of calling in a horde of private investigators, he'd opted to put his trust solely in her, the woman who had been ordered to give up the active search.

"Thank you, Joseph."

"Detective Copeland, please don't tell him what I told you... about him crying and all. He's a proud man. We all are about that kind of stuff."

The traffic light turned green.

"You're words are safe with me, Joseph. We can go back to the hotel now."

"The Waldorf it is." Joseph flipped on the right-turn indicator, and then closed the privacy window.

Determined to cover all the bases, she placed a call.

"Hi Kevin, I need some information."

"I'm ready. Go ahead."

"Lewellan's grandmother died three months ago. Get a copy of the coroner's report. I'd like to know what's in it."

"That it?"

"For now. Thanks, I really appreciate your help on this."

"You could leave a fresh sandwich next time."

"I'll make you one when I get back."

After arriving back at the hotel, a bellman grabbed her bag from Joseph and guided her through the entrance.

Philip walked up to her smiling. "Are you having second thoughts?"

"All of the time." She couldn't return his smile. There was only so far she could push the departmental rules. If she cared about her career, she'd get on a plane the next day and return to Dallas. Before her conversation with Joseph, she had all but decided on doing exactly that, but Joseph's plead for her help weighed heavily on her.

"You're in room twenty-twelve. It's in the towers." Philip pointed to an elevator on the other side of the lobby. "Is that acceptable for you?"

The last hotel she had stayed in was $79.00 per night plus tax and the department kicked her expense voucher back because the total exceeded departmental guidelines. A room at the Waldorf would probably be several times that. "I'll try to make do if that's the best you could come up with."

If he caught the joke, he didn't let on like it. Her serious demeanor must have rubbed off on him. He pointed toward the registration desk. "They're holding your room key at the desk. Let's go pick it up."

The clerk signaled for the bellman and handed him the room key.

Philip thanked the clerk. Then he turned to face her. "Detective Copeland, it would be my honor to escort you to dinner tonight."

Over the years, Lewellan had remained consistent. He was as close as she had ever come to being with the perfect gentleman. She certainly didn't want to dine alone.

"In that case, you may call me Sandra, but tonight and tonight only." It was hard for her not to smile, but she managed, until a big grin formed across his face.

"Sandra, it is then. How about seven?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Mr. Lewellan," the clerk interrupted. "I have something for you."

Perfect gentleman or not, she needed some time alone. "I'd like to go up to my room. It's been a long day, and I need to check my messages."

"I'm down the hall in room twenty-ten. Call the front desk if you need anything, anything at all."

"Thank you, but I believe I have everything I need."

The clerk held up something pink.

She glanced over Lewellan's shoulder at the envelope before walking toward the elevator.

Philip turned his attention back to the clerk. He took the envelope and said, "Thank you."

The envelope had his name handwritten on the front of it. He placed it in his inside coat pocket and walked to the concierge station. There he made dinner reservations at Le Bernardin. It was by far one of the most glamorous French restaurants in all of New York City. Although it was unlikely Copeland would be swayed by fancy limousines, up-scale hotels, and expensive restaurants, he was determined to do everything possible to make her comfortable enough to get on the plane with him.

He moved toward the elevator and stepped inside when the doors opened.

"Your floor, sir?" asked the tower elevator operator.

"The twentieth," Philip replied.

As the elevator ascended, he pulled the pink envelope from his suit pocket and opened it. He removed a single sheet of folded pink paper and read it.

The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened. He didn't move.

"Sir, this is your floor."

"Take me back to the lobby."

* * *

"How may I help you, Mr. Lewellan?" the desk clerk asked.

He held the envelope up. "You handed this to me a few minutes ago. I need to know who left it for me."

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know. I came on duty at five. It was here when I arrived."

"Can you tell me who was at the desk when it was dropped off?"

"Yes, sir, I'll look it up for you." He tapped his computer keys. "The message was logged in by Rose Goodman at 3:10 this afternoon. She's left for the day."

"Thank you."

He strolled away from the registration desk and pulled his phone from the suit pocket. He called his office in Dallas.

" Joyce, I'm glad you're still there." He glanced at his watch. "Why are you working so late?"

"Hi, Philip. Ray is having new tires put on my car. I'm waiting for him to pick me up. Can I do something for you?"

"Do I have any messages?"

"Are you kidding? Of course, you have messages. My desk is full of messages. Where would you like me to start? Do you want yesterday's or today's first?"

"Give me today's first."

Six minutes later she said, "That was the last one."

"You're sure the call from the police detective came in twenty minutes ago?"

"You're hurting my feelings."

"I'm sorry, it's been a long day," Philip said.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Thank you."

"What about the messages from Helen Castle?" Joyce asked. "She's called twice. The second time, she sounded like it might be important, but of course, she wouldn't tell me a thing."

His estate was in order. Whatever his estate attorney wanted to discuss with him could wait. It probably had something to do with his grandmother's estate.

"I'm sure it's nothing urgent," Philip said.

"If she calls again, what do you want me to tell her?"

"Tell her I'm out of town, and I'll get back to her as soon as I return."

"Will do."

"Thank you, Joyce."

## Chapter 17

Sandra liked the large bathroom and luxurious bath towels. The shower had done wonders for her energy level. She finished getting dressed and checked her hair in the mirror.

Her cell phone rang. She picked it up from the dresser and glanced at the caller ID.

"Hi, Kevin. "Did you get the report?"

"Sure did. She died from a fall."

"In her home?"

"No. According to a statement from one of her neighbors, she was physically fit for her age and still independent. Weather permitting, she liked to take daily walks at a park near her home. Part of her routine was to climb a flight of stairs at the high school football stadium on her way back home. How's that for an eighty-six-year-old woman trying to stay in shape? A teenaged kid found her at the bottom of the stairs."

"Did they do an autopsy?"

"No, the cause of death was obvious, a broken neck. The medical examiner recorded it as an accidental death."

"Thanks, Kevin. I'll call you later.

"Wait, there's something else. Less than half an hour ago, someone claiming to be John Smith called the station asking to speak to you and only you. I ran a trace on the call. It was routed from a cell phone switching center in Manhattan. No ID on the phone means it's most likely a throw away. Have you been expecting a call from someone in New York?"

"No." Why did she feel a red flag had just been thrown up in front of her face?

"How many people do you know in New York?"

"Three so far... Lewellan, Chapman, and Joseph."

"Who are Chapman and Joseph?"

"Joseph drives a limo and Chapman manages an art gallery."

"Sandra, you'd better watch your back," Kevin said. "Remember what I said about Lewellan. There's something about that guy that bothers me."

"I always watch my back. Look, if it makes you feel any better, I'll call you after I've had dinner and return to the hotel."

"Thanks. It will."

"Maybe you'd better check something else for me."

"Shoot."

"Both of Lewellan's parents died in a boating accident. See what you can find out about that."

"I'll try to have it when you call. Anything else?

"Will you go by my house and pick up my mail? Looks like I might be going to Paris with Lewellan tomorrow."

"You're out of your mind, Sandra."

The last thing she needed was Kevin lecturing her about departmental rules. "I don't have time to explain. I've got to go. Philip is taking me to dinner."

Kevin was silent.

"Kevin?" She waited for a response.

Continued silence.

"Kevin, are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm here," he said, getting the words out slowly. "Please be careful. I don't want you getting hurt."

Was he that worried about her? "One more thing."

"I'm listening," he said.

"Everything is under control here, okay?"

There was a light knock at the door.

"Sandra, I've been wanting to tell you—"

"Wait, someone's at the door." She glanced at her watch. "I'll call you later."

After locking her weapon in the room safe, she grabbed her purse and opened the door for Philip. Wearing a navy blue suit, a light blue shirt with a dark blue and pale yellow tie, his blue eyes glowed. His hair, appearing still wet around his ears gave her the impression he had just gotten out of the shower.

"I'm ready." She stepped out of her room into the hallway.

He appeared to take the measure of her red dress with matching pumps.

She knitted her brow. It was the finest dress she had. It if wasn't good enough to suit him, he could eat alone for all she cared.

"I've never seen you in a dress with your hair down. You look stunning."

She smiled. "Thank you. You look rather dashing yourself."

"I made reservations at Le Bernardin." He shrugged. "It was the best I could do."

Surely, he hadn't taken her comment about the room seriously. "I'm sure it will be wonderful."

He held out his arm. "Our carriage awaits us."

She hesitated, and then decided to take his arm. When they reached the elevator, she said, "I sense I may see a whole new side of you tonight, Mr. Lewellan."

He pushed the button. "Of that you can be assured of, and you may call me Philip, but only for tonight, of course."

"Of course." Why was he in such a good mood? Surely, he didn't consider this a date.

When they reached street level, Philip confessed.

"I gave Joseph the night off."

"You don't really think I expect to ride around in limousines when I travel, do you?"

A female chauffer opened the door of a white limo.

"Actually, when you're with me, I do."

After a short ride, Philip escorted her into the restaurant. They were seated at a table with white linen tablecloths. Beside it was a tall cylindrical glass vase full of flowers. Based on an observation of the tables near them, it looked as if she'd have to make do with fine china, silver, and crystal stemware. Out of her comfort zone, she wished she hadn't joked about making do with the room. She was glad she had worn her best dress.

The waiter introduced himself and handed her a menu.

She gazed at it a few seconds, and then asked Philip to order for her.

Moments later, their waiter returned with a bottle of wine. He held it out and showed the label to both Philip and her, Chateau Lafite 1961.

Philip nodded and the waiter opened the wine and poured a small amount in a crystal goblet.

Instead of tasting the wine, Philip passed it to her. "I believe we should let the lady decide."

She lifted the glass and took a sip. Never having seen a bottle of Chateau Lafite on the shelves at Evelyn's Fine Wines in Dallas, she didn't want to make a fool of herself. She placed the glass down and gazed at Philip. "I really don't know anything about expensive wines."

He held his hands open. "You know if you like it or not."

"That I do." She gazed at the waiter and nodded.

The waiter poured the wine and left the table.

"Mr. Lewellan—"

"I had hoped we might be Philip and Sandra tonight."

"Philip," she said recovering. "Tell me about Renée and how you met her."

I've mentioned before that she worked at the Musée d'Orsay, an art museum in Paris."

"Is that where you first met?" Copeland asked.

He nodded. "I was twenty-four. Renée was almost twenty-two. I decided to visit Paris after working a year without a break since completing my master's degree in business administration. I had spent about an hour in the museum studying several of the paintings. On my way to the exit, I heard this French accented feminine voice describing a work of art in English. I turned the corner and saw Renée giving a lecture to a group of tourists. I joined the group and followed along until it was over. I introduced myself. She agreed to let me join her for a cup of tea. Her beauty so striking, I never wanted to let her out of my sight. Unfortunately, life doesn't work that way. Eventually, I had to return to my job. I proposed to her before I left Paris."

"Really, how long were you there?"

"Two weeks." He laughed. "I was young and in love. She told me she didn't know me well enough to spend the rest of her life with me. It broke my heart to leave her.

She picked up her glass of wine and took a sip. Lewellan had always appeared to be logical. She couldn't imagine any logical person proposing marriage to someone they'd only known two weeks.

A waiter walked by with a bottle of Champagne and paused next to their table.

Philip glanced up at the man.

The waiter moved on to a table behind them.

Wanting to hear more, Sandra asked, "So what happened next?"

Philip leaned into the table. "We wrote to each other, and I called Renée often. After being away from her for three months, I sent her a plane ticket. At that time, my work prevented me from going back to Paris. In the letter, I wrote the things you write to the person you love. At the end, I wrote I'd do anything to prove my love for her."

"So she came here?"

"No, she didn't, at least not when I expected her to. Unknown to me, she fell while working at the museum and received a severe concussion. After she was treated and released from the hospital, her parents took her to their home in Amsterdam to take care of her until she recovered. Four weeks passed with no response to my letter. I called every day, but Renée wasn't answering her Paris phone. The museum told me they couldn't give any information about their employees. I thought I'd been rejected. Heartbroken, I tried to figure out what had happened. I considered the possibility she'd found someone else."

Hanging on to every word, she asked, "So what did you do?"

"What any man in love would do. Quit my job, packed my clothes, and made the decision to go to Paris. I planned to stay as long as it took to win her back from whoever had lured her away from me."

She smiled.

"When Renée recovered, she read the letters that had been forwarded to her parent's home. By then there were several of them. After reading the one containing the airline ticket, she decided to surprise me. After making the long flight to the United States and taking a taxi to my apartment building, she found I had moved out of my apartment. Thankfully, my neighbor found Renée sitting on the stairs crying. She told Renée I had quit my job and moved to Paris to win back the heart of a woman. That might have been the moment Renée decided I was worthy of her hand. We were married the following spring."

She shook her head. "What a beautiful love story."

Sitting silently, Philip appeared to be struggling to hold his emotions in check. His red eyes left little doubt he was still in love with Renée.

"Would you excuse me for a moment, please?" he asked.

"Of course."

He stood and walked in the direction of the restroom.

Would any man ever fall that much in love with her? Maybe, if she'd give one a serious chance. She thought about Kevin until she noticed Philip returning.

"I'm truly sorry," she said. "I really hope you find them."

"I will."

It was obvious from his response he truly believed they were alive. What reason would an expectant wife have for leaving a man like Philip? And what on earth would be bad enough to make Renée hide so well no one could find a trace of her existence? So far, everything except an art brochure rested solely on Philip's word.

What if Kevin's rush to judgment was accurate? Did Lewellan kill Renée? Had the guilt finally gotten to him? Was all this a charade? Did Philip and Renée really play that word game? There were plenty of questions, but so far no real answers she could pin to the wall. She couldn't get on a plane to Paris without having something more solid than a picture of a painting.

## Chapter 18

Philip hoped the redness in his eyes had faded. He recalled the first time he'd met Detective Copeland. Her youthful appearance had shocked him. After learning that a twenty-five year old detective, who looked like she might be old enough to graduate from high school, had been assigned to Renée's case, he immediately went to her lieutenant. He requested someone more experienced. All of his concerns went away after her lieutenant explained why that wasn't going to happen.

Flowers stacked in the tall clear cylindrical vases rested on a counter beside their table. The petite scarlet flowers complimented her dress. He wanted to hear what she had to say about herself, her life, or anything in general.

"I've told you my story. How about telling me yours?"

"This food is delicious," she replied. "Good choice."

Realizing she'd ignored the question, he said, "Please, I'm serious. Tell me something about yourself."

She looked up from the plate of food. "Look, I don't have a great romantic story like yours to tell. Can't we leave it at that?"

"I'm not trying to pry into your personal life."

"There's nothing to pry into. The only men I'm chasing are the ones I'm trying to arrest or locate."

With her hair down and around her face touching her shoulders in her beautiful dress, he couldn't imagine her having to chase any man. He reached for his glass of water. "What about the ones chasing you?"

Raising her voice slightly, she said, "Look, when you work twelve hours a day, you don't have time for romance. Can we drop this subject?"

That tone made him think he had raised a touchy subject. After deciding he better let it go, he said nothing more.

Moments later, Sandra rested her left hand on the table. "The fact of the matter is I haven't found the right guy or the right guy hasn't found me. The men I meet are usually wanted for questioning, guilty of a crime, or the guy's a police officer. I don't date department personnel."

He stared at his plate of food. The fact she didn't date law enforcement personnel could have something to do with her father's death. It had been in all the papers. He'd checked the newspaper archives and read an account of the story. Police officer Paul Copeland had stopped at an ice-cream stand to purchase ice-cream cones for several poor street kids. It was a Friday afternoon ritual. Her father heard tires squealing and turned in time to see a teenager running toward him for protection as a car came roaring down the street. A gunman fired six shots from the rear passenger window. The rival gang member who had sought Officer Copeland's protection dove to the sidewalk. Uninjured, the young man got up and ran off.

Copeland's partner, monitoring the radio in the patrol car across the street, jumped out of the cruiser and emptied his service revolver at the car as it sped away. Officer Copeland had used his body to shield the street kids. Four bullets hit him. Officer Copeland was posthumously awarded the department's highest honor, The Medal of Valor. Officer Paul Copeland was survived by his wife, Debora L. and a seventeen-year-old daughter, Sandra Lynn.

He gazed at her. "I'm sorry."

Her eyes flared. "Don't you dare feel sorry for me. I could have a man in my life, if I wanted one. And no, I'm not a lesbian, if you're wondering that."

With her mood continuing to swing in the wrong direction, he decided not to ask any more questions. He looked at anything and everything in the restaurant besides her. It didn't work.

"What's this game you're playing?" she asked.

_Game? What did she mean by that remark_? "I'm afraid I don't understand," he said, in a calm voice, hoping to bring the tension down a notch.

"I know you asked to have me replaced seven years ago. I also heard you had me checked out. You probably already know far more about me than you should, so why are you acting like you're interested in my life?"

She's still upset about what happened seven years ago? Trying her tactic, he said, "This food is really good, isn't it?" He went with his water again, taking another sip, leaving his wine untouched.

She continued to stare. "Are you going to answer my question, or not?"

"I was hoping we could take a break and enjoy a night out in this beautiful city." He needed to calm the situation. People seated at the table next to them had stopped eating. It appeared they were more interested in listening to what Sandra had to say.

She sat back in her chair and folded her arms.

If she needed an apology for something he'd done seven years ago, he would give her one, if it would settle her down.

"After I learned you were the youngest detective on the Dallas police force, I did have a talk with your lieutenant."

"I was only two years younger than you." She stared at him.

"I'm sorry I doubted your ability then, but I was desperate. Your lieutenant changed my mind and I'm glad he did. You proved yourself. I saw how hard you worked, and soon learned how dedicated you were to your work."

Arms still folded, her stare was unabated.

His apology didn't appear to be working, so he added, "I called you because I thought you were the best person to help me find my wife and daughter." He smiled, hoping the tension would melt away.

Unfolding her arms, she leaned forward and picked up her fork.

That worked, hopefully.

After they had eaten several bites of food in silence, she placed her fork down and looked up.

"I had doubts about coming here. To be totally honest, I thought you might be deranged thinking an oil painting was proof your wife and child were alive.

He stopped eating, eased his fork to the side of his plate, and gazed at her.

"Forgive me for being blunt, but when years went by and nothing turned up, I felt certain Renée was dead. If they're alive, statistically speaking, it would be extremely unusual."

She picked up her glass of wine and took a sip.

He had to know if she really thought they might be alive. "If statistically speaking they're dead, then why are here?"

She placed the glass back on the table. "Some unsolved cases never let go of me. Your wife's was one of those. When I saw the photo of the painting, I wanted to believe they were alive. I hope they are, and to answer your question, we both know I came here to help you find them."

Right answer, but what would she have to say about the note? He had a choice to make. He never liked to gamble on emotion. His gut told him one thing and the note another. There was only one way to find out.

"So you didn't come here to arrest me?"

Her neck changed to a reddish tone. Her eyes widened.

"What a fool I've been. You are deranged." She threw her napkin on the table, pushed her chair back, and leaned forward preparing to stand.

It was time to either go with the contents of the note, or trust his gut. He went with his gut and grabbed her wrist. "Wait, please."

She looked down at his hand and then tried to pull free.

He tightened his grip. "Please, Sandra. Let me explain."

She yanked harder. "Let go of me. Now," she said, raising her voice. People seated at tables near them went silent and stared.

He released her. "Please stay. I have something to show you."

She pulled her hand away and stood. "I think I've seen enough."

He stood with her and pulled the pink envelope from his suit pocket and held it out.

"This may change your mind."

She glanced at it. "I don't think so."

"At least read it before you go. If you still want to leave, I'll arrange for your flight back to Dallas in the morning. I'll have Joseph drive you to the airport, and you'll never see me again. I promise."

## Chapter 19

Sandra stared at the envelope he held in front of her.

The words _you'll never see me again I promise_ had stopped her cold. During an interview with Philip's grandmother, she had said Philip prided himself on never breaking a promise. That day in the nursery when Sandra had to tell Philip the case had been moved to inactive status, he promised he'd never give up hope, whether everyone else did or not. Obviously, he hadn't broken that promise. She had a feeling he wouldn't break this one.

"Please."

After she eased back into her chair, the people seated around them returned to their food and conversation.

"Thank you." He sat and passed the envelope across the table. "This was delivered to the hotel this afternoon a little after three o'clock."

She opened it and read:

Mr. Lewellan, please believe everything I have written in this message is true. A Dallas police detective, who has recently arrived in New York City, plans to arrest you. The detective cannot be trusted. Believe me, I know. Get as far away as possible, if you value your safety. I have taken a considerable risk trying to get this message to you. I can't leave my name. You're on your own.

RBG

PS: Don't forget to eat breakfast.

If this was part of a game Lewellan was playing, she'd need to be careful. Did the postscript have a hidden meaning? If so, there were too many letters to be able to rearrange quickly. In her line of work, she had read plenty of notes written by people warning of impending danger. Some of them had been accurate, others had been written by delusional schizophrenics. She preferred to never pass judgment without probing deeper. The note did have a ring of truth to it. She wasn't the only Dallas detective in New York. She considered her approach before looking up from the note.

"Do you know who left this for you?"

"No. I don't know anyone with those initials."

"I'm not the detective this note is referring to."

"Do you know of another Dallas detective in New York?"

"One left DFW for New York a few days ago."

"Who?"

"The airport security agent I spoke with didn't have the name. She mentioned it in passing while escorting me through security."

He shook his head. "I made a terrible mistake. Will you accept my apology?"

She nodded. "Apology accepted." She held the note up. "We need to find out who wrote this. What does this mean, 'don't forget to eat breakfast'?"

"I don't know. It doesn't make any sense to me. I haven't done anything illegal. At first I thought it was some kind of joke, but only a handful of people know I'm staying at the Waldorf. I can't imagine any of them trying to pull such a sick prank."

"Let's hope that's all it is."

"Then I wondered if it might be a note from Renée so I tried to decode the post script, but I couldn't come up with anything meaningful. I don't believe it came from her."

"You need to think back about anything unusual in the last few days or even weeks. The people you may have met, or calls you may have received. It came from someone who knows where you're staying."

Philip thought back over recent events. Nothing he could remember seemed unusual other than finding the painting of Renée and Rachel. Could it be Chapman?

Then he remembered how it all started. Carla.

His mind honed in. _Red Bird Grill_. _RBG_. _We serve a good breakfast_. He looked up. "The woman on the plane." Realizing Sandra was waiting for more information, he added, "Carla Watson."

"Who is she?"

"She sat next to me on the flight from La Guardia. She told me she worked at the Red Bird Grill in Lubbock. She also told me they serve a good breakfast."

She nodded. "Now we're getting somewhere. Okay, what else did she tell you?"

"That's pretty much it except for her name and the art gallery brochure."

She leaned forward and stared at him, eyes wide. "She gave you the art gallery brochure?"

"Yes, in exchange for my sailing magazine."

"We have to find her." Her voice took on the command tone she'd used when she had patted him down.

"I have an idea." He pulled his phone from his coat pocket and called directory assistance for Lubbock, Texas. He waited for the connection.

"Red Bird Grill, this is Pearl," a woman said.

"May I speak with Carla, please?" Philip asked.

"Honey, we don't have any Carlas here."

"Carla Watson told me she worked there."

"You're a little late. She hasn't worked here in over three years," Pearl said. "And you're wasting your time, if you think you're going to get any money out of her. That poor woman didn't have a dime to her name the last time I saw her."

"Does Carla Watson have blonde hair?" Philip asked.

A male voice in the background yelled, "Pearl!"

"Just a minute, Joe, I'm on the phone."

Joe yelled again, "Customers are waiting."

"Kiss my ass," Pearl mumbled.

"Excuse me?" Philip said.

"Not you, hon. I was talking to Joe. We're shorthanded tonight and he's on the warpath. I'm sorry. What were you asking before he butted in?"

"Does Carla Watson have blonde hair?"

"Maybe she does now, but when she worked here it was turning gray."

That didn't match with the young woman on the plane, but if she knew Carla, there was a good chance Carla knew her.

"Would you possibly have a phone number for her?"

"Last I heard, she and her daughter moved to Kingsville, Georgia."

Joe yelled, "You better be talking to someone about a job, because you're about to lose the one you got."

"Look, I've told you all I know. I got customers waiting, and if Joe gets any hotter, I'll have to call the fire department to put him out."

"Thanks, Pearl. You've earned yourself a big tip, I promise."

"Yeah, sure, hon. You do that." There was a click.

He placed another call to directory assistance for a listing in Kingsville, Georgia and waited for the connection.

"May I speak with Carla Watson please?"

"This is she," the woman said.

"My name is Philip Lewellan. Do you have a daughter with blonde hair and green eyes?"

"Is Jessica hurt?"

He gave Sandra a "thumbs up."

"No, ma'am, not that I'm aware of. She left a message for me at my hotel in Manhattan. I really need to contact her as soon as possible."

"Manhattan?"

"Yes, ma'am, New York City. "Do you know where she might be staying?"

"She told me she had something she had to take care of, but she didn't say anything about going to New York."

"Do you have her cell phone number?"

"She told me she couldn't afford one."

"It's really important that I contact her." He waited during a long period of silence. Dishes clinked together behind him. A table was being cleared. Please, ma'am. I really need to talk to Jessica."

"You sound like a nice man."

Her tone told him she wanted to trust him, but wasn't sure if she should.

"Have you heard of the Lewellan Education Foundation in Dallas, Texas?"

"The school counselor sent something home about it when Jessica was in high school. We lived in Lubbock then."

"Yes, ma'am. My grandmother was a public school teacher for over forty years. She started the foundation to help students continue their education."

"Jessica is smart enough to go to college. I sure wish she'd go and make a better life for herself."

"I'll provide whatever help she needs, but it's very important I talk to her as soon as possible."

"She has a friend named Jodie. I think she lives in New York now, but I don't know her address."

"Do you know Jodie's last name?"

"It's Smithers. They went to school together. They've been friends since the ninth grade."

"Let me give you my telephone number, and when you hear from your daughter, would you please ask her to call me?"

"Wait a minute I need to get a pencil."

He gazed at Sandra and nodded. "Her name is Jessica Watson. She may be staying with Jodie Smithers here in the city."

She removed a pen and pad from her purse and wrote down the names.

Moments later, Mrs. Watson returned to the phone. He gave her his name and his cell phone number.

He tried directory assistance again, but they had no listing for a Jodie Smithers. He gazed at Sandra. "Looks like I've hit a dead end. There's no listing for a Jodie Smithers."

* * *

Sandra opened her purse and grabbed her cell phone. "House phones are on the decline in this day and age. Let me see what I can do." She speed-dialed a number.

Kevin answered on the fourth ring. "Dinner didn't take long."

"Where are you?" she asked.

"In the middle of a corned beef sandwich. See what happens when you go out of town? I start eating the bad stuff."

The Diner was two minutes from the Dallas police station. Their sandwiches were great, but loaded with calories. Not something she would let herself eat more than twice a year. She started bringing her own lunches and quit going to the diner with Kevin. "I need you to run a couple of names for me."

"Give them to me."

"Jessica Watson and Jodie Smithers. Smithers lives in New York."

"I'll call you back."

"I need it quick, Kevin."

"I'm already out the door."

"Thanks." She placed the phone down on the table beside her plate. It wouldn't take him long to run the names and get back to her.

"Who's Kevin?" His lips parted slightly.

"He's my partner. He's good. Hopefully, he'll get us an address."

He leaned in closer to her and pushed his plate forward. "How long have you worked with him?"

"A year and half now."

A couple walked by arm-in-arm. The man appeared to be in his sixties. The woman on his arm, about her age, wore a low cut dress, no bra, a huge diamond on her finger, and four inch spikes.

"That's why I didn't remember him," Philip's words trailing off.

"I'm sorry." She turned her head back toward him. "Did you say something?"

"What happened to Barletto?"

"He was transferred to homicide," she replied. "When I told him I had put in a request for reassignment, he failed to mention anything about the request he had put in a month earlier."

"I thought you liked your job."

"Barletto started acting like an ass. I thought it was because of the divorce he was going through, but things got worse after it was final. It got to the point I couldn't stand to be around him. I seriously considered leaving the department until the Lieutenant assigned Kevin to be my partner."

"So you get along well with him."

"Kevin's wonderful. He is a top-notch detective, and he really cares about helping people."

"He sounds like a great partner to work with, as well as a good friend."

Her phone rang. She checked the caller ID. "That was quick. What do you have?"

She took out a pen and small notepad and wrote down an address.

"Thanks, Kevin. I'll call you later. Wait. I need something else. Would you check and see if anyone with the Dallas police force is in New York City?"

"You mean besides you?"

"Yes."

"Hold on, I'll check."

Hearing key strokes in the background, she looked up. "He's checking the travel log."

Kevin came back on the phone.

"No one has logged an official trip to New York. That includes you too, of course."

The waiter stopped at their table, topped off their water glasses, and asked Philip if they wanted to see the dessert menu. She shook her head at Philip, before turning away and lowering her voice. "Kevin, don't tell anyone where I am."

"Not even the lieutenant?"

"He's not around to ask."

"What's going on, Sandra?"

She glanced back at Philip. Using his thumb and index finger, he twisted the stem of his wine glass back and forth while it rested on the table. "I'm not sure, but it's nothing I can't handle."

"Okay, if you say so. Now where are you?"

"Very funny. Thanks. I owe you."

As soon as she closed her phone, Philip asked, "Did you get an address?"

She waved the notepad in the air. "Let's go check it out."

He signaled for the waiter.

## Chapter 20

Philip knocked on the door of Jodie's apartment a third time and waited. "She's either not here, or she's not coming to the door. There was still no response. He pounded once more before giving up. He turned toward Sandra. "Would you mind giving me your notepad?"

She reached into her purse, pulled it out, and flipped to a clean sheet.

"I'll need your pen, too."

She handed him both.

He wrote a brief note and added his name and cell phone number below it, and then held the pad out. "Would you hold it for a second, please?" She took it. He pulled a couple of large bills from his pocket. "It never hurts to grease the wheel." It was one of his grandfather's favorite sayings.

He held his hand out.

She ripped the sheet loose and handed it to him.

He folded it around the two bills, bent down on his knees, and used her pen to push the note under the door. He rose and dusted off his hands.

"Let's give it a minute and see if anyone opens the door."

Five minutes later, Sandra said, "Let's go. We can't stay here all night."

They left the apartment building and returned to the limo where they spent a few minutes discussing their options. Finally, Sandra leaned back in the leather seat.

"Why don't we go back to the hotel? We can try the apartment again in the morning."

"Sounds like a plan," Philip said. "Our flight to Paris doesn't leave until tomorrow afternoon."

She looked away.

Her action told him she still hadn't made up her mind to fly to Paris with him. Resting his finger on the intercom button, he told the driver to take them back to the hotel.

* * *

John Barletto watched the white limo drive away. Who in the hell lived in that dump? He jogged across the street and bounded up steps. After entering the run-down apartment building, he checked the names on the mail boxes until he recognized one from an old arrest report. He climbed the stairs to Jodie Smither's apartment.

## Chapter 21

Several minutes after the pounding at the apartment door stopped, Jessica rose from her squatting position behind one of the canvas chairs in Jodie's apartment. She turned toward Jodie who was on the floor behind the sofa. "I don't hear them anymore. They may have left."

Jodie crawled to the end of the sofa and peeked out around the edge closest to the chair. "What have you gotten me into?"

Jessica held out her hand and motioned for her to stay down and to keep quiet. She then raised her head barely above the chair back and stared at the door. There were no sounds coming from the landing outside the doorway, but there was something white sticking out from the beneath the door.

She gazed at Jodie and whispered, "We better keep quiet for a little while longer. I think someone is still out there."

Several minutes later, satisfied the coast was clear, she motioned for Jodie to get up. "They pushed something under the door. Take your shoes off and go get it."

Jodie tip toed in her socks and retrieved the note. She unfolded it, read what was on it and then waved two one hundred dollar bills in the air. "That Lewellan guy wants you to call him."

"Oh, shit. If he found me, Barletto can too. What if he followed Lewellan here? He might be watching this place right now."

Jessica's heart felt like it skipped a beat at the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairway.

Jodie jerked her head toward the door. "Someone's coming up the stairs."

Lowering her voice, Jessica said, "He can't find me here."

There was a knock on the door.

Jodie's eyes got big. She leaned in close and whispered. "What are we going to do?"

"Is there another way out of here?"

Jodie nodded. "Yeah, but you're not going to like it."

That could only mean one thing. Damn her acrophobia.

Hanging from the bathroom window, her muscles tensed when she looked over her shoulder. In the darkness, the ledge looked a lot smaller from that angle than it had from the window. The feel of Jodie's hand on the middle of her back gave little assurance once she let go they both wouldn't tumble off the ledge and fall two stories to their deaths.

"I'll grab you," Jodie said. "Let go. It's just a one-foot drop to the ledge."

As hard as she tried, she couldn't do it. Her fear of heights had taken control of her muscles. With a firm grip on the window sill shooting pain through her palms, Jessica said, "I can't let go."

"Come on. I'm not going to let you fall."

"Push me back up, damn it. My hands are killing me."

* * *

When no one answered his second knock, Barletto assessed the door and deadbolt lock, and then took two steps back. With one kick of his size fifteen shoe, the door facing cracked. One more kick and the door flew open. He raised his weapon and scanned the interior for movement. Seeing nothing, he stepped inside and started a slow sweep of the entire room, moving into the kitchen area checking behind the small bar, before faint voices got his attention.

He turned and approached the closed bathroom door with his weapon chest high, aimed at the center of it. Easing his left hand to the doorknob, he tried turning it. It was locked.

* * *

Startled by a loud noise, Jessica lost her grip and fell from the window.

Jodie grabbed the strap of her backpack and pulled her away from the edge. "Good girl."

"It sounded like someone kicked the door in. Get us out of here," Jessica whispered.

Keeping her chest close to the building, Jodie led the way down the ledge around the corner of the building.

Jessica felt her fingernails scratch at the mortar each time she grabbed at the brick facade moving along the ledge small step by small step behind Jodie. Getting to the corner then traversing twenty more feet of the two foot wide ledge, she and Jodie reached an antiquated fire escape. From all appearances, the metal ladder had been abandoned years earlier as a viable escape. Her body tensed. How would she ever be able to force herself to get onto that rusted piece of crap?

Jodie placed her right foot on the first rung of the ladder and backed onto it, going down four steps before she stopped and looked up. "We'll be home free when we reach the street. I'll wait here until you get on it. Place your foot on the first step and back down like I did."

A gust of wind sent a spike of tension up and down her back. "I don't think I can do it," Jessica said. She grabbed the top arc of the ladder to steady herself from the wind.

"You have to," Jodie said. She was several steps down looking up.

"It looks like it's about to crumble. What if the ladder won't hold both of us?"

"It will, I went down it once before."

"Why?"

"A cute guy bet me a hundred dollars I couldn't do it."

"You needed the money that bad?"

"Yep."

"Did he pay up?"

"Hell no."

"The story of our lives." Talking had taken her mind off the fear, giving her muscles a rest from the effects of acrophobia.

"Are you ready?" Jodie asked.

"I'll never be ready, but I'm going to try it." Every muscle in her body tensed as she forced herself onto the ladder.

"Don't look down," Jodie said. "It scares me to even think about what would happen if this ladder were to come loose."

"You're not helping."

"I'm trying to remember if this bolt was pulled loose when I came down it before."

She wished Jodie would shut up. Following Jodie's lead, she eased herself down.

"Take it slow and easy, okay? I'll stay a few steps ahead of you." Jodie moved down to make more room for her.

Closing her eyes, she lowered her right foot to the next rung. The thought of Barletto finding her in New York overrode her fear of heights enough to continue the descent.

"Hold up," Jodie said.

Jessica opened her eyes to glance at Jodie. It was then she realized the ladder didn't go to street level.

Jodie lifter her head up. "The drop is a little tricky. You have to climb down using just your hands until you reach the bottom rung. When you're hanging from the bottom rung, it's only a three foot drop to the pavement."

Damn it. Sweat poured from her head.

Stretched out and hanging by her hands from the last rung, Jodie appeared to be ready to let go when she let out a short scream.

"What's wrong?" Jessica asked clinging to the ladder as she peered down."

"Someone grabbed my leg."

"I'm just trying to keep you from breaking your neck." Two brown hands helped Jodie ease down gently.

"Harold, you scared the hell out of me."

"Sorry, Precious."

"It's okay, Jessica. It's Harold."

Barletto stepped into the empty bathroom. A strong wind blew through an open window and the curtains flapped against his face. He yanked them away, ripping the curtain rod from the wall. Sticking his head out the window, he studied the ledge below.

Damn it.

He holstered his weapon and ran out of the apartment and back down the stairs. He exited the building and glanced down the street in both directions. At that time of night, nothing was moving.

They couldn't be that far ahead of him. Maybe they hadn't made it out yet. He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket. A few feet down the side of the building, he found two passed-out drunks, and a cat purring from a window sill one floor up. The stench of urine assaulted his nose as he rounded the corner into the back alley. An old ladder attached to the building was the only way down. Using his light he followed its path up the back of the building. The beam illuminated nothing but the building's exterior as he moved it along the ledge to the open bathroom window. Shit, they had already made it down.

Two shadows, no more than twenty feet from him, jumped from a dark recessed doorway and took off running. He gave chase until a man jumped from behind a garbage bin and tackled him from the other side of the alley.

"Run, Precious, run," the man yelled.

A blow to the head knocked the man unconscious. Barletto pushed the limp body off of him, jumped to his feet, and gave chase. The two women had a good lead on him and appeared to be gaining. He stopped and leveled his weapon.

Someone rammed him from behind causing his shot to go wild.

He swung around.

"You leave Precious alone." The old man staggered to stand up straight. Wearing a ragged worn out army fatigue jacket from the Vietnam War era, blood ran down his face from the blow he'd received earlier. He raised clenched hands as if he was prepared to fight.

Barletto slammed the butt of his pistol against the man's temple.

The old soldier dropped to the pavement.

He turned. They were still in sight. He gave chase.

## Chapter 22

Sandra and Philip arrived back at the hotel. She went straight to her room, grabbed her cell phone charge cord, connected it to her phone, and tossed it on the bed, before retrieving her SIG Sauer from the room safe. It was late, but if she didn't check in with Kevin, he'd call and wake her in the middle of the night.

"I was beginning to think you weren't going to call," Kevin said, the sound of concern in his voice.

"Kevin, something strange is going on."

"Yeah, I just found out about it."

"What do you mean?" She kicked off her shoes.

"I thought I'd study up on the Lewellan case while I waited for your call. When I went to pull the official hard copy file, I was told homicide had it."

If remains were found involving a missing-persons case, homicide took over. Her knuckles turned white as she clenched her phone. "Why?"

"Exactly my question, but no one could give me an answer. I even called Hank at home. He claimed not to know a damn thing about it. Those were his exact words."

"Why did you call him?"

"Because his partner signed for it."

Barletto. She recalled her miserable time in the department having to serve as Barletto's junior partner. The man's temper could snap like the San Andreas Fault. His physique and black hair combed straight back gave the impression of a mob hit man, but if his looks and tone weren't enough to intimidate people, his hands were. They were huge. After a contentious divorce, his wife purchased two dogs hoping they would protect her. At a bar, a few days later, where he was having drinks with another police officer, he bragged about choking both of the pit bulls to death. It scared his ex so bad, she left Texas the next day.

She shook her head. "Why didn't you go straight to Barletto?"

"He's on a personal leave of absence, according to Hank. And get this. Hank has no idea where Barletto is or how to contact him. When's the last time we haven't told each other how to get in touch? Never."

That was a good point. Partners always knew how to get in touch with each other.

When I pressed Hank on it, he swore he knew nothing about it. Why would Hank lie to me about the file?"

"He may not be lying." Having worked with Barletto, she knew he'd been prone to hold back information on a case. In the past, Barletto, the senior partner, had often taken credit when it had been her who found the key to solving a missing-persons case.

"I'm willing to lie for you so you can run around New York and have dinner with a rich guy, who, by the way, may have killed his wife."

Was that jealousy or because homicide had pulled the file?

"Kevin, that's enough."

"I shouldn't have said that. I just wish I could be there to back you up."

From his tone, she could tell he was tired, upset, and worried. "I appreciate your concern, but back off on commentary. I can handle myself, and you're backing me up every minute of every day." She wanted to assure him the last thing she and Philip had going was a love-fest."

"Sandra, as far as I know, homicide only pulls missing-persons case files when remains have been discovered."

He was right. It would be highly unusual for homicide to get involved in an inactive missing-persons case for any other reason. But if that was the situation, forensics should have notified her. "I assume you checked with our contact at the state lab?"

"Yes, and nothing they're working on has been linked to the Lewellan case."

She stood and walked to the window. Far below, a couple across the street from the hotel held hands and swung their arms as they walked down the sidewalk at a brisk pace.

"Did you get anything else out of Hank?"

"Only that John told him he had family problems to take care of, and he wouldn't be back for a couple of weeks. Hank also claimed John's not answering his cell phone."

Whatever Barletto was up to, he sure as hell wasn't operating in an official capacity. She told Kevin about the note and going to Jodie's apartment.

"Where do we go from here?"

"Ask around. See if anyone knows anything about Barletto's recent case activity. That might tell us something about what he's into."

"Most everyone I could talk to about that has gone for the night, but I'll get on it first thing in the morning."

Best partner ever. "Thanks, Kevin. Get some sleep."

"You too."

Should she or shouldn't she? "Kevin, wait."

"I'm still here." He sounded exhausted.

"When I get back, let's go out for dinner." She started to add like a real date, but it was late, and she decided to leave it at that.

"That sounds wonderful. I know a great Italian place we can—"

"Goodnight, Kevin." She hadn't intended to recharge his batteries.

## Chapter 23

The next morning Sandra and Philip awoke early, met for a quick breakfast, and then made a second trip to Jodie Smither's apartment. Within sight of the shattered door jam, Sandra drew her weapon, pointed it down, and pushed Philip away from the partially open door.

"Stand back, that looks like it's been kicked in."

He stood to one side.

She leveled her weapon and eased the door the rest of the way open with her left hand. After scanning the room through the doorway, she entered and began a search of the apartment.

Ignoring her demand to stay back, Philip followed her inside and waved off her glare. They found the open bathroom window. Curtains and the rod were on the floor.

"It appears someone went out the back way."

He leaned out the window. "Not the safest way out."

She nodded and lowered her SIG. "Leaving that note last night may not have been the best idea."

"My note shouldn't have frightened her."

"No, but whoever kicked the door in certainly did. Let's go. She's probably a long way from here." Sandra turned and moved back into the main room. "If Jessica wants to contact you, she will."

He followed her out.

After leaving the apartment building, the two of them went back to the limo.

"What now?" Philip asked after they were seated.

"Let's hope Jessica calls you, but I don't recommend holding your breath in anticipation of that happening. According to the note she left at the hotel for you, she's scared of someone. And if that someone is who I think it is, she has every right to be on the run."

He gazed at her. "Who are you referring too?"

She wiped a piece of lint off her slacks then leaned forward, before placing her hands on the leather beside her knees. "My ex-partner, Detective John Barletto."

"You said he transferred to homicide. Jessica didn't come across to me as the killer type. Why would a homicide detective be after her?"

That was a good question. She considered one possibility that caused her skin to tingle. A month or more back, a rumor spread around the station that Barletto was on the verge of breaking a big case, but he wasn't willing to give any specifics. Later when confronted by a superior, Barletto dismissed the rumor as bullshit from some slut who tried to pick him up at a bar. At the time she assumed Barletto had mouthed off to fellow officers after having a few drinks.

She tilted her head and stared at Philip.

"What is it?" he asked leaning toward her.

There were two possibilities that could explain why Barletto had pulled Renée's case file. One, if true, would mean Lewellan had had not been truthful. That would certainly change the situation she had placed herself in. She continued to stare at him.

"Why are you looking at me like that? What's wrong, Sandra?" Philip asked. He leaned closer and almost touched her hand, but caught himself and moved his hand to the side of hers.

Might as well put it out there and see what kind of reaction it generated. "Nothing, unless you killed Renée, and Barletto thinks he's found a way to prove it."

His mouth fell open. He gazed at her but said nothing. He pulled his hand away. From his wounded expression, her statement had shocked him. Could his reaction be an indication he knew the gig was up? She decided to push on.

"Did you kill her, Philip?" It was a direct question. The kind that, on occasion had elicited a confession after guilt had finally taken its toll. A man who had seen no way out other than to take the life of the woman he had once loved.

He frowned and shook his head.

The man displayed the kind of sadness he had the day he showed her the nursery he and Renée had decorated in the room next to their master bedroom. It was in that nursery where he vowed to never give up the search. That day she felt certain this man would never have done anything to harm his wife and the child she carried. She had been wrong before, but for now he was innocent until proven guilty.

In an effort to lighten the moment, she said, "This is where you're supposed to say something to reassure me that I'm not in the presence of a killer."

Seated on the opposite side of the limo, he leaned back and stretched his arm along the back of the bench style seat that ran down the driver's side.

"Renée is alive so I couldn't have killed her. I believe I've shown you proof they're both alive."

An oil painting and his word were not proof.

"Some people have good reason to be scared of Detective Barletto. For whatever reason, let's hope you're not one of them."

"I assume you're referring to actual criminals?" He smiled. "One thing is for sure. I haven't misjudged how far you're willing to go to help me."

Her curiosity got the best of her. "What do you mean by that?"

"Asking me if I killed Renée was your way of really asking yourself what you should do. Go back to your desk in Dallas or continue to tag along with me to see this through."

She opened her mouth, but he raised his hand to stop her from speaking.

"Here's your answer. You've never once thought I killed my wife. If you had, you wouldn't have come to New York. And you certainly wouldn't have allowed us to go to the art gallery first, before we went to the police station to give my statement. So Detective Copeland, if you ever really want me to believe you have doubts about whether or not I killed the woman and child I would give everything I own to hold in my arms, you'll have to change your ways. "

Deciding to play along, she nodded. He didn't know her as well as he thought.

He leaned forward again. "Now where were we with this Barletto character?"

"If he's the detective Jessica was referring to in that note, there's a good chance she won't risk trying to contact you again."

"I can't let that stop me from going to Paris. I have to find my daughter and Renée."

She frowned. If this is a charade, he's going to try and play it to the end. Should she push him a little harder? "I think Barletto may have followed us to the apartment last night."

"We need to confront him and find out what he knows about Renée."

If Lewellan was willing to confront Barletto, he obviously was not worried about being charged with Renée's murder. She thought about another possible reason Barletto may have pulled the file. "I think it's better we not show our hand, until we talk to Jessica."

Philip's eyes opened wide. He appeared to have remembered something.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Chapman told me another man had shown an interest in the painting. I wonder if that man was Barletto."

She rubber her temples. "As much as I hate trying talking to Chapman, let's go back to the art gallery and see what we can get out of him."

Philip pressed the intercom button. "Take us back to the art gallery."

"The art gallery it is," Joseph replied.

* * *

The James Walker Chapman Art Gallery door had barely closed behind Philip and Sandra when footsteps coming from the rear of the gallery resonated off the tile floor. She and Philip made their way through the archway and met Chapman in the main display room as he approached.

"Mr. Lewellan and Detective Copeland, how nice to see you again."

"Hello, Mr. Chapman. How are you?" Sandra said.

"I'm fine, thank you. How may I help you?"

"Mr. Chapman, I'm not with the New York City Police. I'm a Dallas Police Detective." She removed her badge from her purse and showed it to him."

His smile faded as he glanced at Philip. "I see."

"Mr. Lewellan's wife and daughter are missing."

Chapman turned toward Philip. "That explains why you were asking questions about the woman in the painting. I can only assume you believe her to be your wife."

Philip nodded.

Chapman stepped over to a small painting on the west wall and straightened it twice. It appeared he was trying to make it blatantly obvious he was going to ignore them as if they were no longer in his presence.

She followed Chapman. "We're hoping you can help us."

He turned around. "I've already told you everything I know about the painting. I don't know how else I can help you."

"You told Mr. Lewellan another man had shown an interest in the painting."

Philip added, "A man you said was upset when you told him Rudolf Randellini died twelve years ago."

"Yes, he was. Quite upset, in fact." Chapman gazed at Lewellan. "He came in a few days before you did."

"Did he give you his name?" Sandra asked.

Chapman looked down. "If he did, I don't remember it." A moment later he looked up. "Actually, no he didn't as I recall. That's quite rude, don't you think, for someone not to tell you who they are?"

She glared at Philip. "Yes, I do and we apologize for deceiving you when we were here before." She turned and glared at Philip.

He placed his hand his over his mouth and stared at the ceiling as if he was an inspector looking for cracks.

"He doesn't appear to be all that remorseful," Chapman said.

"Oh, he is. I assure you. So much so, he's going to purchase the painting you straightened.

"What?" Philip said gazing at her. "Oh yes. Yes, of course. It's a lovely painting."

"Wonderful." Chapman almost clapped, but it appeared he decided against it an inch before his hands met. "It's an original Nadal Sal, but you probably knew that I'm sure."

Who was Nadal Sal? It didn't matter. Having placed Chapman back in her court, she removed a notepad from her purse. "Can you describe the man?"

Chapman glanced at the pad. "Oh my, I'll try. He was taller than me and heavier than me. Actually, he was quite a bit heavier than me."

Well, that certainly narrowed it down. Only seventy percent of the men in New York over the age of eighteen were taller and heavier than Chapman. She didn't write anything down. "What about the man's hair color? By any chance do you remember it?"

"Oh yes, I could never forget his thick, black hair."

Now they were getting somewhere. Barletto had a big head of black hair. She nodded at Philip, and then smiled at Chapman. "Can you estimate his age?"

"He was young, I think. At least his eyes looked young. I can't be certain about his age. His face was covered."

Her eyebrows when up a quarter of an inch and she lowered the pad.

Chapman apparently picked up on her reaction. "He had a mustache and a heavy thick beard, black, like the hair on top of his head."

She wrote that down. "You said he was taller than you. Was he as tall as Mr. Lewellan?"

"No, but he was as tall as you."

The man couldn't have been Barletto. John's six-eight, a half a foot taller than Lewellan. She shook her head at Lewellan and closed her notepad.

Chapman frowned. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, Mr. Chapman, on the contrary, you have been quite helpful. Thank you for your time."

"You're welcome, Detective." He turned his attention to Philip. "Mr. Lewellan, would you like to take the painting with you or have it shipped to your home."

Philip removed both a business card and a credit card from his wallet. He passed them to Chapman. "Please ship it to my office. Detective Copeland and I have a flight to catch."

She was getting paid back for forcing him to buy that horrible painting. She was running out of time. She would have to tell soon.

Once Philip and Sandra were settled in the limo and on their way back to the hotel, she brought up the painting apparently feeling she needed to justify her actions in the gallery.

"It was nothing, really. There's no reason to bring that up as far as I'm concerned."

"I wanted to get Chapman out of his funk and back on our side. I had no idea it was an original Nadal Sal. How much was it?"

He shook his hand to let her know it was not a big deal to him.

"No really, I want to know."

"Well, if you must, it was a few hundred—"

"Oh, that's all. For some reason I thought it might be a lot more than that. Chapman acted so excited over it."

She settled into her seat and dropped the matter.

He was glad she hadn't let him finish. There was nothing to gain by telling her the painting was a few hundred over five thousand. There was a good chance Nadal Sal was a drunkard with poor vision and a shaky hand. At least that's the impression he had from looking at the painting.

On the ride back to the hotel Sandra replayed the missing-persons case over and over in her head. The official file contained copies of e-mails from Renée, the ones Philip had turned over to her during the initial investigation. Some of them did have postscripts and might shed light on his encoded message claim, but Barletto had that file now. Renée's last e-mail had been sent to Philip while he was in London the day before she quit answering her cell phone. At the time, the postscript didn't seem important, and she never asked Philip about it.

Upon Philip and Sandra's returned to the hotel they learned a brown envelope addressed to Detective Sandra Copeland had been delivered while they were out. She asked Philip to step into her room, before she opened it.

The envelope contained travel documents including a replacement passport and a letter addressed to her specifying she would not be authorized to carry a weapon outside the borders of the United States.

"Is everything in order?" Philip asked.

"It appears to be." Lewellan was connected. There was no doubt about it.

"There's nothing more we can do here. Are you ready to go to Paris? Philip asked standing near the door.

She recounted the information they had. An oil painting of a woman who looked like his wife, a hotel address in Paris, and the name of a woman who purchased the painting, which according to Lewellan, was a code. It wasn't much.

"All we have is a picture of a painting, an address of a hotel in Paris, and a name you claim is an anagram."

"It's more than twenty-eight private investigators searching around the world at a cost of three million dollars have come up with."

She had no idea his search efforts had gone to that extent. Lewellan was truly a man of his word. He had never given up hope.

"You've spent three million dollars searching for your wife?"

"Actually I've spent more than that. A young computer whiz contacted me a couple of years ago and told me he could search databases worldwide. I hired him to write a computer algorithm that searches for women whose physical description and age match Renée's. The program checks drivers license data bases all over the world, including photo IDs, against the information I gave him about Renée. If the program gets a hit, and a photo is available it uses pattern recognition. So far, none of the hits panned out. Most of the twenty-eight investigators quit taking the young man's calls and mine. They all told me it was a waste of time and money, but I keep him on the payroll, while he continues to hone his search algorithm."

"I'm not sure that's legal." Sandra said. "Searching through government databases? It sounds fishy to me."

"He assured me he wouldn't violate any laws or privacy agreements."

If twenty-eight private investigators haven't been able to find her, what makes him think the two of us can? If she's alive, how has she been able to hide so well? She rubbed the back of her neck. Why was Barletto after Jessica? What does she know about Renée? So many questions and no answers yet. The more she debated with herself the more she realized going back to Dallas was her better option.

"We'll be traveling first class," Philip said. He pulled the door open. "I going to my room and pack my bags. I suggest you do the same."

She looked at her cell phone and tried to act as if she hadn't heard him.

The door latch clicked. She looked up. He was gone.

What woman wouldn't want an all expense paid trip to Paris, but her two vacation days were spent. Leaving the country without official authorization could be career suicide. Without something solid to go on, the smart move would be to return to Dallas. A painting and Philip's word would not be enough to convince her lieutenant, much less the captain she was justified in going.

There was no need in putting it off any longer. She picked up the hotel phone on the nightstand to call Philip's room to tell him she'd be going to the airport with him, but from there she would catch a flight back to Dallas. Surely he would understand why she couldn't go to Europe with him.

She needed to dial one more digit, but paused. She remembered the text of Renée's one line postscript in her last email to Philip. _Mrs. C. Belah sends her love_.

The phone rang. She jumped and then grabbed for it.

"I'm packed and my watch says it's time to leave for the airport. What does yours say?" It was Philip.

"Mine says I'm ready to go and I'll be right out."

## Chapter 24

By the time the plane reached its cruising attitude, Philip could sense from the way Sandra had been funneling wine she was having second thoughts about going with him. What could he say to ease her concern? If she was still unsure about him, there wasn't much else he could tell her that she didn't already know.

She took another sip of the wine. It was her second glass in twenty minutes.

Better do something quick or she was going to be smashed before dinner.

"Sandra, there's something I need to ask you. It's rather personal, but I really want to know before we sleep next to each other tonight."

She turned toward him, tilted her head, and lowered her chin.

With as serious a look as he could muster, he asked, "What's your all time favorite movie?"

"Well that's one personal question no man has ever had the guts to ask me."

Too late, she was passed tipsy.

"Why do you care?" she asked before turning her wine glass up and draining the remaining drops from it.

He lifted his glass of wine, his first, and took a sip. "I think a person's favorite movie tells a lot about their priorities in life. So what is it?"

"Okay, I'll play along. It's Casablanca." She held her glass up trying to catch the flight attendant's attention.

After an excellent meal fit for a King and Queen—her words, not his—Sandra fell asleep. The two of them slept through the night in their First Class seats. He hoped she didn't have a headache as a result of two glasses of wine before dinner and one during.

Over French airspace, Sandra awoke and immediately headed to the restroom. Upon her return, she appeared pale, and almost fell into her seat.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Leave me alone."

Nothing else was said until the plane landed and the two of them departed from the gate. After gathering their bags, he hired a taxi. The Paris taxi driver stopped the van in front of a small hotel. He glanced out the car window and then turned back toward Sandra. She appeared to be feeling better and her color had gotten better. "This is it."

The driver exited the van and opened the rear passenger door.

Sandra exited the van first and gazed at the hotel, shading her eyes from the sunlight. "It's a lot smaller than I imagined."

He stepped out next to her. "It has thirty-six rooms. It's a lovely place and will always be my favorite hotel."

A young bellman made his way out to the van. "Bonjour."

The driver removed two bags from the rear of the vehicle and handed them to the bellman. Philip tipped the driver.

"Merci, monsieur," the man said taking the Euros.

Leading the way, the bellman opened the white French-style glass-paned door for them.

A registration desk took up a good portion of the small lobby.

He and Sandra approached the desk. "My name is Philip Lewellan."

"Ah yes, Monsieur Lewellan. Welcome to Paris. We have your reservation."

Before the clerk could finish getting them signed in, he said, "I'm looking for a woman who's staying here, a Mrs. C. Belah. I believe she's in room twenty-six."

The young woman behind the desk looked up. "She was, but she checked out yesterday afternoon."

Sandra stepped up beside him. He glanced at her, and then turned his attention back to the clerk. "It's extremely important I find Mrs. Belah. Do you know how I could contact her?"

"No, monsieur. She did not leave a forwarding address."

"Did she indicate her travel plans?" Sandra asked.

The clerk gazed at her. "She requested a Eurostar schedule and mentioned London. She may have made reservations on the train, but I cannot confirm it."

"Did she leave a message or a note?" Philip asked.

"A message for you? No, Madame Belah left no message for you."

"Did she have a young girl with her?" Philip asked.

"Yes, her daughter, Rachel was traveling with her."

His eyes lit up. His heart felt like it was racing. Barely able to control his excitement, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph of Renée taken a few weeks before her disappearance. He handed it to the desk clerk.

"Is this Madame Belah?"

The young lady studied the photograph. "That looks like her."

He removed the art gallery brochure from his pocket and placed it on the desk with the picture of the oil painting face up toward the clerk.

The clerk smiled. "Yes, that is Madame Belah and her daughter, Rachel."

"Thank you." Confirmation at last, overwhelmed with emotion, his veins felt like they were swelling from blood thrusting through them. His rapid heartbeat intensified even more. After wiping a tear from his eye, he turned and gazed at Sandra.

"They're alive."

She placed her hand on his arm, but didn't say a word.

After returning his attention to the clerk, Philip asked, "Is room twenty-six available?"

"Oui, monsieur."

"I would like it, and if possible please put Mademoiselle Copeland in a room nearby."

"Do you have a schedule for the Eurostar train to London?" He removed a credit card from his wallet and handed it to her.

"Oui, I will get one for you." She pushed a computer printout toward him and pointed to a line for his signature. "Do you have any other questions or requests?"

"Did Mrs. Belah pay by credit card?" Sandra asked the clerk.

The young lady glanced at her, then back at him. "No, Madame Belah paid her bill in cash. One moment please. I will get the train schedule for you."

She walked from the behind the registration desk to a small table on the other side of the lobby. She opened the center drawer, retrieved a train schedule, and gave it to him.

"Thank you," Philip said. He reached in his pocket, removed some Euro notes, and gave them to the young woman. "You've been very helpful."

She smiled. "Merci. Laurent will show you to your rooms." She gave two room cards to the bellman. Laurent stuck them in his pocket and picked up their two bags.

"Does Alasdair still work here?" Philip asked the clerk as she walked past him on her way back to the registration counter.

The young woman frowned and looked down. She wiped her eyes and appeared to be struggling to regain her composure.

Sandra stepped closer. "What's wrong?"

The clerk ignored the question, and said nothing.

Laurent set the bags down and came back to the clerk's side. She held out her hand and said something to him in French. He stepped away from her and turned around.

"Alasdair was on his way home from the hotel. A car hit him when he attempted to cross the street."

The young woman wiped her eyes again.

Sandra placed her hand on her shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

The bellman moved away from the two women. "He was like a father figure to Marie and a great loss for all of us."

"Why don't you stay here with Marie," Philip said. "I've been here before. I will show Miss Copeland to her room."

Laurent shook his head. "Sir, it is my job to carry your luggage. Please allow me that privilege."

Insisting, Philip held out his hand for the room keys.

Laurent relented and handed him the cards.

"Thank you. You may bring the bags up in a few minutes, but don't leave her side until she is okay."

Sandra reluctantly left the lobby with Laurent by Marie's side. At Philip's direction, she walked with him up two short flights of stairs to the second floor. He pointed to his room, the first one on their left, and then followed her down the rust colored carpeted hallway to the next room. Inserting the card, he opened the door for her. The room was dark until he pushed the plastic card into the slot inside the doorway. Table lamps and a ceiling light came on. The interior of the room lit up exposing a mahogany headboard between two matching night stands with table lamps giving the room a warm glow.

"The lights go off when you pull the room key from the slot," Philip said. He held the door open for her and showed her how it worked, then pushed the card back in.

Stepping in front of him, she entered the room. "Thank you."

The door closed behind her.

"Sandra?"

She whirled around and asked, "What are you doing?"

"Please, I'll only take a minute of your time. Marie identified the photo. Surely now you believe everything I've told you."

Why was she so jumpy when she realized he had stayed in her room? Many things swirled in her head besides a lingering headache.

"Unless you want to watch me get undressed, I suggest you leave now."

The sides of his mouth turned downward.

"Let me know if you find anything of interest in your room." She waved him out.

Without comment, he turned around, opened the door, and left her standing there.

Closing it behind him, she couldn't believe she had let him talk her into coming to Paris with him. Her heart told her one thing, her head another. What was she afraid of? Certainly not Philip, losing her job, absolutely, however, she regretted being so abrupt with him.

She opened the curtains to let the sunlight in. Her room overlooked the small courtyard and entrance to the hotel. A wrought iron fence with ornate gates bordered the hotel property. She hadn't noticed the gates upon their arrival. Maybe they were always open.

Kicking off her shoes, she fell back on the bed and looked at the white ceiling trying to decide what her next step should be. The identification by Marie gave her hope she wasn't completely crazy going to Paris to look for a missing person twenty-eight private investigators couldn't find, but several things continued to bother her. The note from Jessica, the word game, the same hotel, and now she had learned even the same room number. If indeed Renée was alive, that brought up a new question. What kind of pregnant woman leaves a man like Philip Lewellan? From everything she had seen, he was a woman's dream. What was really going on here? And to top it all off, it might be helpful to know what Barletto was up to.

## Chapter 25

Philip went to his room, hoping he hadn't done something to offend Sandra. Surprised to find the door open and the lights on, he looked through the doorway. A man pulled the drapes back and the bright sunlight illuminated Laurent's face.

He stepped into the room. "Is Marie all right?"

Laurent turned around. "She is fine and demanded I bring your bags up immediately. Where would you like them?"

"The black bag can go there in the corner." He pointed toward the closet door.

"The other one goes to Miss Copeland's room."

"Yes, sir. Do you have any questions about the room?"

"No, I believe I'm fine."

"I hope you and Madame Copeland enjoy your stay with us."

He handed Laurent a tip.

"Merci." Laurent closed the door on his way out.

After making a quick scan of the room, he realized it didn't look much different from ten years earlier. The drapes had been changed and were a lighter beige. The bed cover and pillow shams were crimson with yellow flowers, different from before, but more importantly, the mahogany furniture itself had not changed at all. He grabbed the top center drawer of the night stand nearest the door and removed it. When he turned it over, his graffiti was still there, the initials P + R in the center of a heart drawn in red magic marker. He had written it after meeting Renée. From the first moment he saw her, he knew they were meant for each other. After a few moments of reminiscing about their days together in Paris, he put the drawer back and did a thorough search of the room in hopes of finding something left by her.

There was a knock at the door. Sandra rose from the bed, walked over and opened it.

"I have your bag," Laurent said. "Where would you like it?"

"On the bed, please."

He placed the bag down gently on the foot of the bed. "Do you have any questions about the room?"

"Yes, I do. Can you tell me who cleaned room twenty-six after Mrs. Belah checked out?"

"I'm very sorry. I can have Mr. Lewellan moved to another room immediately."

She held up her hand. "No, you don't understand. I'm sure the room is fine. I just want to know who cleaned it."

"Marie."

"The woman at the front desk?"

"This is a small hotel. One of the maids called in sick. Morning sickness, she's expecting her first child. Marie did not want her to get reprimanded so she covered for her, while I watched the front desk."

She removed a ten dollar bill from her purse. "Thank you. All I have are American dollars."

He waved off the money with both hands and shook his head. "Mr. Lewellan was very generous." He left the room and closed the door.

Turning down a tip. That's got to be a first for a bellman. The one in New York accepted her five-dollar bill and frowned as if she'd insulted him. She glanced at her watch, 12:20. Less than four hours of sleep during the seven-hour flight on the Airbus. A shower and a fresh change of clothes would help immensely, but her curiosity overruled.

After dialing Philip's room, she let the phone ring several times. Finally, he answered.

"Did you find anything in the room?" Sandra asked.

"Like what?"

That was an odd tone for him to be taking. "I take it she didn't leave anything."

"No, she didn't. Hold on.

"I hope you didn't get the wrong impression when I asked you to leave my room."

Silence.

"I needed a few minutes alone to collect myself."

A few seconds later, Philip asked, "Sandra, did you say something?"

She pulled the receiver away from her head and looked at it. Why is he acting like he hadn't heard a word she'd said? Men, they try to act so macho.

"Sandra, are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here."

"I had to lay the phone down for a second to dry myself off."

"You were in the shower when I called?"

"I confess."

An image of him standing by the phone completely naked flashed through her mind. That was the last thing she needed. "Goodbye."

She put her shoes back on, picked up her purse, and pulled the card from the slot in the wall. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she glanced at the registration desk. Marie, alone in the lobby, stared at a computer screen.

"Hi, Marie. Are you feeling better?"

"Oui, merci."

"I understand you cleaned Mrs. Belah's room after she checked out."

Marie's eyes widened.

Sandra held her hand up. "The room is fine. I was wondering if Mrs. Belah left anything in it that you might have found."

Marie moved her hands away from the computer and folded them in her lap. "Why are you asking me all these questions about one of our guests?"

"I'm a police officer from the United States. Mr. Lewellan's wife has been missing for seven years. We need to talk with Mrs. Belah and her daughter."

Marie looked toward the entry into the lounge where Laurent stood straightening several newspapers. He nodded. She looked back at her. "Oui, Madame Belah did leave one thing in her room, but it is nothing of value."

"What is it?" Sandra asked.

"A hairbrush."

Fingerprints could solve the mystery of who the woman is. Her headache eased. "What did you do with it?"

Marie stepped down from the raised chair and bent down. She removed a plastic bag from a box behind the counter and held it up. A card with the number 26 and a date written on it was attached to the bag, inside a woman's plastic hairbrush. "We tag everything found so it can be returned, but when there's no forwarding address or contact information, it usually stays in the box for a few weeks, before it is discarded."

"Did you place the brush in the bag?"

"Oui."

"Marie, I really need that brush. Do you think I could take it with me?"

Laurent walked into the lobby, from the lounge area, and stood next to the desk. Marie gazed at him. He nodded at her.

Marie handed the bag to her. "You may have it. Madame Belah told me she didn't want it when she called the hotel this morning."

"Mrs. Belah called you this morning?" Sandra asked, her voice firmer.

"Oui. She called to inform us she was sending a man to pick up a package for her. It arrived around ten o'clock."

"Is it still here?"

"No, the man picked it up at ten thirty."

"If Madame Belah should call again, would you please let me know as soon as possible?"

"Oui, Mademoiselle."

"Do you know if the package was a painting?"

Marie almost laughed. She put her hand to her mouth and glanced at the bellman.

Sandra turned to him.

"Marie told me it was a painting," Laurent said. "The way it was packed, I told her she had no way of knowing what was inside."

Sandra turned and rested her hand on the top of the counter and faced Marie. "Do you know who came for it?"

"A courier," Marie replied. "He had a note from Madame Belah like she said, so we let him take it."

"Could you describe his appearance and what company he worked for?"

Laurent held his hand just above his head. "About my size. He had thick black hair and a heavy black beard." He made a gesture with his thumb and index finger to indicate the beard was less than an inch in length. "I never saw his eyes because he was wearing sunglasses."

Chapman's description of the other man interested in the painting was similar.

"What about a uniform? Who'd he work for?"

Marie shook her head. "He only provided the letter from Mrs. Belah."

"No uniform," Laurent said.

"Thank you, Laurent." She turned back toward Marie. "And thank you, Marie. You have both been a great help."

She went back to her room to make a few notes and examine the brush. Her headache was completely gone. If there were prints, hair, or DNA on the brush, she could easily verify Mrs. Belah's identity.

* * *

After hearing a knock, Philip opened the door to his room.

"You were wrong," Sandra said as he swung the door to one side and stepped back to motion her inside.

Dangling the plastic bag in his face, she stepped into the room.

He closed the door. "Where did that come from?"

"Marie found it in the room after she checked out."

His eyes widened. "Are you telling me that's Renée's hairbrush?"

"I hope so. I've lifted several clear prints from it."

"How? Are you a traveling forensic lab?"

"Not hardly, but I carry Gellifters with me. They're great for lifting prints from hard surfaces and they leave the original print undamaged. Like they say in the commercial, I never leave home without them."

"How soon can we get an answer?"

"I'll have to compare all the prints to be sure. But hopefully, one or more of them will match." She held up the fingerprint card she had pulled from her desk file in Dallas and waved it in the air.

"So what's our next step?" he asked, pulling his cell phone from the charger.

"I want to send one set of the prints to Kevin and also get a DNA analysis of the hairs intertwined in the bristles. I could send the brush to our state lab, but we might not get results for weeks or months the way they're backed up. There's another option."

Focused on the brush, he stepped closer to her. "Time is precious, money is not. Tell me what I need to do."

"I'd like to get a private lab to process the DNA as quickly as possible. Along with yours, if any of the hairs belong to Rachel, we could check for paternity."

"I'm way ahead of you." He looked up and smiled. "Renée's DNA is already on file."

She knitted her brow. "I wasn't aware of that."

"You told me not to contact you again unless I had physical evidence she was either dead or alive. I was trying everything possible to find that evidence, but until the painting showed up, I had nothing to show you."

She looked out of the window for a moment, and then turned her attention back to him.

"I know I was a pain, to you and everyone else in the department." When her gaze returned to him, he said, "When I read DNA could be extracted from human hair, I sent samples from one of Renée's brushes to a lab for analysis. I provided mine as well. All of the information is on file for comparison to any unidentified remains, or any DNA on record as far as that goes. Not only do I know a good private lab, I personally know the man who manages it."

She gazed at him. "Are you sure you needed me on this trip?"

"Since you came up with Renée's hairbrush and those lifter things, I'd say you're not too bad to have around."

After a quick glance at her watch, she appeared to notice a piece of paper he had placed on the nightstand.

He reached down, picked it up, and held it out.

She took it from him and studied at it.

"I've checked both flight and train schedules." He pointed to the note in her hand where he had written departure and arrival times. "We can leave tomorrow for London. I'll reserve two tickets on a flight, or we can take the Eurostar, which might actually be faster. Which do you prefer?"

As if to push him back, she held out her left hand. "Wait, wait, wait. We don't have any idea where she went. Without an address, it'd be like looking for a needle in a haystack."

He stepped away from her. "Okay, so what do you recommend we do?"

"First, I'll contact the local authorities, tell them what we're doing here and request their help. I'll try to get them to check the reservations for a Mrs. C. Belah and see if they will tell us her destination. Maybe she lives in London. If we get really lucky, they might be able to give us an address." She placed the plastic bag into her purse, grabbed the strap, and looped it over her shoulder. "That's what I plan on doing." She tossed the paper on the bed.

Holding his palms up, he said, "Okay so what am I supposed to do?"

On her way to the door, she said, "Call your contact at the lab. Tell him what you have, what we need, and get a shipping address. I'm going to my room, check my messages, and then take a shower. When I return, we'll take the hairbrush to the nearest FedEx facility and ship it to that private lab. I'll send a set of prints to Kevin." She grabbed the doorknob. "You'll get the rest of the plan when I come back."

"See, I do need you." He paused. "Sandra, thank you for coming with me."

Before turning around, she hesitated and stared at the door. "I want to know what is going on here. Hopefully, we're going to find out."

With that, she opened the door and left him standing there.

So did he. What possible reason would Renée have for leaving him? Even more puzzling, why keep Rachel from him? For the life of him, he couldn't come up with one plausible reason Renée would have for hiding from him and everyone else. Evading both police and private investigators for years, how had she been able to do it?

He walked over to the window and peered out. A man walked past the front of the hotel in the direction of the river. A small yellow two-seater Smart car went by going in the opposite direction of the man.

## Chapter 26

Lebu Raudin placed the wireless earpiece into his ear and strolled past the Corbert Hotel toward the Seine River waiting for the call to go through. When Barletto answered, he said, "She purchased two tickets to London and checked out of the hotel yesterday."

"What about the problem."

"It's done, but I think it was a big mistake."

"Quit having second thoughts." Barletto tone was firm as usual. "Maybe someone else who works there will remember her."

He stepped onto the bridge. "I told you he was the only one."

"If you know so damn much, why don't you know what the kid told the old man?"

Arguing with Barletto was useless. Sensing the detective's temper ramping up, he decided to back off. "She dropped the kid off. There won't be any more mistakes on my end."

"There had better not be, because as you have already learned, you're the one who has to clean them up."

He hated the way Barletto talked to him as if he was just an errand boy. He was the person who found her. She trusted him, not Barletto. He had to keep the detective away from her.

"Look, I didn't count on her leaving the little girl alone with him. It couldn't have been more than five lousy minutes. All he did was take the kid across the street and buy her a bowl of ice-cream."

"Forget about it," Barletto said, raising his voice. "What's important now is what he does. You better not be wrong about that."

"I'm not. Once he's confirmed her identity, I know exactly what he'll do. I'm absolutely sure of it."

"A little help you said. Hell, you'd probably be in jail by now, if it weren't for me."

Telling Barletto that Lewellan would pay a lot more than a million to get his wife and daughter back had turned out to be a gigantic mistake, but it was the price he had to pay to get his hands on the official case file. He paused in the middle of the bridge and gazed at the water below. A boat eased along the water from beneath the bridge creating a wake behind it. "I cleaned up my mess, how about your end?"

"Everything is in order as long as no one can trace that little hack job you did."

"Which one?"

"All of them, dumbass."

"Don't call me dumbass. Who's the woman with him?"

"That's the detective he nearly drove nuts with false leads. After he boarded the plane, she waited at the gate. At the last minute, she ran up to the gate agent and gave her the boarding pass. I bet he was as shocked as I was she got on the plane."

He shook his head. The last thing he needed was another detective to deal with. "I don't like it."

"Shut up. You're in too deep to quit now. Pull yourself together, unless you prefer the prisons in that country."

"Okay, but your plan gets more complicated each day. Mine was simple."

"My plan keeps us out of prison."

"Maybe you'd better do the rest of them. I can still see the old man's eyes looking at me when his head hit the windshield." Raudin distorted his face at the thought of the dead man.

"Shut up with the details."

Arguing with Barletto was a waste of time. He rested his hand on the bridge. A French river cruise vessel motored down the channel. "You're right. We can't turn back now." He caught a whiff of exhaust fumes for a moment until a breeze carried them away. "They haven't left the hotel since they arrived."

"Where's the kid?" Barletto asked.

"I've already told you. I didn't see any need to keep her with us any longer. We took her back to her home where she can't cause any more problems. Now what?"

"If you're right about him, and you damn well better be, I'll take care of the rest."

"What about the detective?" Raudin asked, looking down the river.

"What about her?"

"She's going to want to talk to her."

"What did you expect? She was assigned to the case. If the detective wants to talk to her, she can. Your lady friend can explain everything to her like she explains it to everyone else."

The sunlight shimmering off the water impaired a clear view of the boat, but he could still hear the engine in the distance. "Okay, but I still don't like it."

"Keep an eye on them," Barletto demanded.

"I will. They'll never know I'm watching their every move."

"They'd better not."

Might as well break the news now. "The police found the car."

Barletto felt the heat climb up the back of his neck. "You didn't burn it did you?"

"The windshield was smashed. There was blood all over it. What if a cop had stopped me before I got out of town? I was afraid to keep driving it. I ditched it in a parking lot and wiped the interior clean."

The dumbass just signed his death warrant. What he deserves for not following instructions. "Forget about it."

"Are you sure?"

"Hell yes, I'm sure, but get rid of the clothes you were wearing. We don't want any of those fibers matching up later."

"I already have."

"Great. Then you won't have a thing to worry about." That is, until he puts a bullet in his head.

"Good, that makes me feel a lot better."

"I want to know when they plan to leave town, and where they're going."

"That won't be a problem. I'm monitoring his credit card purchases and bank accounts. I can track every transaction he makes."

"Hold off on London. Call me back when you have something."

"Got it."

He terminated the call. He had to act fast before that dumbass messed the whole thing up. He knew just the woman for the job. He placed another call.

## Chapter 27

Philip paced the room waiting for Sandra's call. The phone on his nightstand rang. He answered it on the first ring.

"Did you talk to your man at the lab?" Sandra asked.

"I caught him before he had his second cup of coffee. He said it's going to cost me."

"Do you really care how much?"

"I wasn't being serious, Sandra."

"You ready to go?"

"Waiting on you," Philip replied.

"I'll meet you downstairs."

Upon reaching the lobby, Marie pointed toward the lounge doorway.

He walked over to the doorway and looked in.

Seated in the lounge, Sandra flipped a page of The New York Times. She looked up.

"I didn't realize they'd have American newspapers here." She placed the paper down and met him at the door.

Laurent opened the French doors to let them out.

He and Sandra reached the iron gates that framed the entrance to the hotel and turned onto the sidewalk.

"Did you talk to Kevin?" Philip asked.

"For about thirty minutes. He gave me an interesting tidbit on Jessica."

He pointed toward the cross street. "Let's go this way. We can get a taxi at the next corner." He glanced down the street in the direction they were walking. "What was it?"

"She's spent time in the Dallas jail."

"What was she charged with?"

"Assaulting a police officer." She stopped walking and stared at a pair of shoes in a store window. "Are you kidding me? Twelve hundred Euros?"

A black car came toward them.

"Here comes one." He raised his arm and waved at the taxi driver.

When they were both seated in the taxi and the door was closed, the driver turned toward them. "Bonjour."

"Bonjour," Philip replied and handed the man a piece of paper with an address written on it. The driver looked at it, placed the car in gear, and then sped away.

"Would you like to know which police officer?" Sandra asked.

He rolled the window down to let in some fresh air. "Does it matter?"

"In this case, it does. She allegedly struck Detective John Barletto over the head with her purse."

"Why would a ninety-pound petite woman—"

"Barletto was attempting to arrest her for soliciting. According to the police report, she tried to seduce him outside a bar."

His mouth dropped open.

"Jessica is a prostitute?"

"According to Barletto's arrest report."

He shook his head. "I never would have believed it. She looked like a college student to me."

"The charges were dropped the following day. Barletto claimed he was giving her the benefit of the doubt, and maybe she hadn't actually meant to hit him."

"He could do that?"

"Once he told the assistant DA handling the case it could have been accidental, she walked."

"What about the soliciting charge?"

"A case of mistaken identity."

"He attempts to arrest her. She hits him, and then later Barletto decides it was all a mistake?"

"Pretty much sums it up," Sandra said, leaning against him when the taxi driver accelerated around a corner to beat a traffic light then had to brake hard when another car cut in front of them and stopped at the intersection.

The driver honked his horn and hit the brakes. Philip rolled his window down and looked out. All vehicles had come to a standstill. A woman and child walked along the sidewalk toward the intersection. He turned back toward Sandra.

"So it's your opinion the dirty cop Jessica referred to in the note is Barletto?"

"That's my bet." Sandra eased her grip on the armrest.

The driver glanced over his shoulder. "Probably a traffic accident at the intersection. Nothing I can do until they let us pass."

She released the armrest and opened and closed her hand a few times.

"Does everyone drive like this in Paris?"

"It's okay," Philip said to the driver. He rolled the window back up to help keep the exhaust fumes out of the car. "We're not in a hurry. Take it nice and slow the rest of the way."

She leaned back in the seat. "Thank you."

"If they dropped the charges, why would Barletto still be after Jessica?" he asked.

"That, I don't know." She hesitated. "The fact that Barletto signed out the hardcopy file, and it was Jessica who gave you the art gallery brochure is a major concern I have."

"How so?"

"Barletto has a gambling problem, one of the reasons his wife divorced him. Kevin thinks he's in over his head and desperate for money. He asked around. One of our contacts told Kevin that a month ago Barletto borrowed another thirty thousand, with a promise he had a sure thing going that would clean the slate. Word on the street is Barletto owes Leo Thurston a quarter million in debts."

"Who is Leo Thurston?"

"He doesn't accept excuses for not being paid what's owed him."

He gazed at her. "What does all of this mean?"

"It may have something to do with the million dollar reward you offered for the recovery of Renée and never withdrew. You didn't, did you?"

"No, I never withdrew that offer. I'd gladly give Barletto a million dollars, if he could produce my wife and daughter alive. Should I be concerned about that?"

She placed her hands on the seat. "If he could produce them, why hasn't he done it already, if he's desperate for money?"

He stared out the window. How could she still believe they are dead after Marie identified them?

"I'm not going to hold anything back. Surely, you know that by now."

"What's it going to take to convince you?"

She shook her head. "I didn't say they were dead. Barletto may be searching for Renée and Rachel, like we are. If that's the case, he'll do whatever it takes to get to them before we do."

He understood and nodded. If he and Sandra found Renée and Rachel before Barletto, there would be no need to pay out a reward. Barletto would then have a loan shark to deal with instead of the reward money. The million dollars was insignificant, but the thought of Barletto being desperate enough to do whatever it took to get to them first was not.

A policeman blew a whistle, and the traffic began moving. Several blocks later, the driver pulled the vehicle to the curb and pointed to a narrow building in the middle of the block.

Philip looked through the window. "This is it." He turned toward the driver. "Will you wait for us?"

"This space is for loading and unloading packages," the driver replied. "I'll be over there across the street." He pointed toward a men's clothing store where a couple of empty parking places remained.

Fifteen minutes later, they walked out of the FedEx office.

The taxi driver tossed his cigarette to the pavement, put it out under his shoe, and waved at them.

When a break in the traffic gave them an opening, they hurried across the street. He stayed between her and any oncoming traffic. Once safely on the sidewalk, Philip said, "Thank you for waiting."

The driver nodded and opened the door for them.

Philip gazed at her. "Are you hungry?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

## Chapter 28

Sitting in a parked car, Raudin glanced at his watch. It was 3:18. A large cloud moved across the western sky allowing sunlight to glisten off the side view mirror obstructing his view of the restaurant entrance. He placed another call to Barletto.

"Yeah, what is it?" As usual, Barletto sounded irritated.

"They're in a restaurant." He decided not to mention their stop at FedEx. With Barletto's paranoid personality, the less said to the detective the better.

"Do you want me to stay here and keep an eye on them?"

"Have they made travel plans?"

"Nothing yet."

"That means they're probably not leaving for London tonight. You better stay with them. This is going too damn slow to suit me. I'm working on an idea to speed things up. Call me when they're all tucked in for the evening."

"Got it."

* * *

"How is your food?" Philip asked, sitting across the table from Sandra. The two had selected a booth in the small restaurant on a side street.

"Delicious."

"When do we contact the French police and request their help?"

"I've already called them. The first thing I did when I went back to my room. They weren't receptive at first, but after I mentioned the sighting at the hotel and the painting, I was told one of their top inspectors would meet with us tomorrow morning at nine."

"Why couldn't the inspector meet with us this afternoon?"

She raised her hand in the air. "This is my first trip to Paris. You know the French better than I do. You tell me why Paris taxi drivers are in a hurry and the Paris police feel free to take their time."

"I shouldn't be critical. Nine o'clock in the morning is better than not meeting with us at all."

"Once Kevin has the prints entered into the system, he'll run them against the ones I entered seven years ago."

"What about the French police? How much help can we expect from them?"

"I'll ask the inspector to scan the copy of the fingerprint card I have with me so they can place the prints into their system. If her fingerprints are on file in France, we may know something in the morning."

"That would be great," Philip said.

She reached into a small basket and chose a piece of bread. "How long did they tell you it would take to get the results on the hairbrush?"

"They'll need at least a couple of days I guess. That's the best money could buy. They have to process the hair, or whatever they do to get the DNA extracted from it."

"Do you have any idea how long I've had to wait for DNA analysis on the cases I have opened? It's even worse on inactive cases."

"Obviously, a lot more than a couple of days."

"The state lab is overloaded, and backlogged to the point of being ridiculous. How much is this costing you, anyway?"

"The manager at the lab said they've made a lot of improvements in the process. To be honest, I didn't ask him how much. I told him I needed it as quickly as possible."

She placed a small bit of butter on her roll. "I need to ask you a personal question."

He put his fork down and pushed his plate away. "What would you like to know?"

She glanced at down at her plate. "Do you have a close friend?"

"You're asking me if I have a woman friend."

She looked up and nodded

He smiled. "Yes, I do."

She froze for a moment hoping the look of disappointment didn't register on her face. What had she expected him to say? Women have been off limits for seven years. At some point people decide to move on with their lives?

"I consider Angela to be a close friend." He paused, gazed at his plate, and pulled it closer to him. He picked up his fork and took a bite of potatoes. Then he took a second bite.

_That was it? That's all he was going to tell her about Angela?_ She wanted to reach across the table and strangle him.

"I've never met her in person," He set his fork down. "And I've never spoken to Angela."

Her face felt warm. She glared at him.

"Wait, there's one more thing. I made preparations to meet her in Boston, but then I found the painting. I think that covers my relationship with Angela."

After getting on a plane with him, against her better judgment, traveling halfway around the world, finding a clue he probably would have never found himself, he thinks it's all right to toy with her? She took a deep breath, and then said, "Why did you do that?"

A waiter, after placing a basket of brioche between a couple seated two tables away, turned and looked in her direction.

The aroma of brioche, crepes, and souffles had a calming effect, and reminded her she was not interrogating Philip in a police station conference room. Before turning her attention back to Philip, she smiled to let the waiter know everything was fine.

"Angela is a friend I met online in a sailing forum. She lives alone in Atlanta. She knows me as Philip. No last name, no address, no personal history, except for the fact I'm married. I thought that would be best, considering my situation."

She hadn't come to Paris to play games. He could have mentioned the online forum part first. With a frown, she folded her soft linen napkin and placed it under a delicate, gold-rimmed plate.

No longer smiling, he raised his glass of wine and took a sip. He placed it back on the table.

"I'm not romantically involved with anyone, Sandra. It hasn't been easy. I get lonely when I take walks in the park, go to a movie, dine out at night, and lie down to go to sleep. I miss holding Renée's hand along the walkways, hearing her soft voice in my ear in a theatre asking me to explain what the character said, sharing a glass of wine on an evening out together, and the warmth and love from her snuggling next to me. Every waking moment, I wish she was with me. Whenever I see a couple with a child, thoughts of our baby and what could have been, tear my heart apart. I've tried to do whatever I could to hang on."

Now he was pouring his heart out, probably his way of apologizing for toying with her. She eased her hand forward wanting to touch his, but he pulled his hand back towards him.

"That first e-mail from Angela sat on my computer for days, unanswered. I read it over and over. It was obvious from her message she knew little, if anything, about sailing and probably had never been on a sailboat in her life."

He rubbed his fingers on the white cotton tablecloth, in what appeared to be an almost unconscious motion. "Finally, one night I awoke from a restless sleep and decided to respond."

He glanced up. She nodded once, hoping he'd continue.

"Angela replied with another question about sailboats. That time, I responded immediately. Then a month later there was another question from her. She appeared to be genuinely interested in learning about sailing. She never once asked a single question about my personal life, but I decided it best to let her know I was married in a way she wouldn't perceive as telling her to back off. Exchanging e-mails with her gave me a feeling of closeness, in a safe sort of way.

"Angela was different than other women who thought I might be available. She didn't care who I was, or what I did as long as I answered her questions about sailing. Over time, she started telling me about her best friend and other things going on in her life. More or less, I became her sounding board. After three years, I recently decided to take the next step, but then I found the painting. Of course, that changed everything."

The waiter came to their table and refilled their wine glasses. Staring across the room, Philip picked up his glass and took a sip, then another.

She remembered Joseph's comments. 'He's lost everybody he's ever loved. I think Mr. Lewellan is afraid to love anyone else.' No longer upset with him, it was time to change the subject.

"I've never seen you drink more than one glass of wine. You never touched yours in New York."

"There are several French wines I like." He put his glass down. "This is one of them."

"The wine you ordered in New York was French. Wasn't it?"

"Yes, but this particular one is probably my favorite, lower in sulfites. They have a tendency to give me a headache."

She held the bottle up and read the label. _Romanee Conti_

He pointed to it. "I have that particular one shipped to me on occasion."

She placed it back on the table. Sulfites? No need to kid herself? She drank nearly a whole bottle of champagne on the flight over. That much wine would make anyone feel bad, sulfites or no sulfites. Especially, someone who barely has enough free time to enjoy three bottles of wines a year at most, and that was alone in her own home. She took another sip. "It's very good, probably too good."

"I did well then?" He raised his glass and held it out toward her.

"You did." She held her glass up. "Is it expensive?"

"That's relative."

"You mean expensive for me and inexpensive for you."

"Does that hurt your feelings?"

"No, why? Do you think I'm keeping score?"

"Yes, everyone keeps score. I can order another bottle."

"That would be wonderfully generous of you, but only if we can take it back to the hotel."

He pursed his lips and rubbed his chin. "That might not be the best idea."

Surely, he didn't think...why have you changed your mind?"

"Why purchase it here and carry it with us when we can purchase it at the hotel?"

She couldn't let that possibility stand. "I had no intentions of sharing it with you in your room, or mine, if that's what you were thinking."

On the verge of frowning, he picked up his glass and swirled the red wine around in it. "I wouldn't expect you to. The corners of his mouth then moved upward. "But then again, you'll never know, for sure, what I was thinking."

No way would she let him off the hook after he made that remark. She waved at the waiter. He brushed something off his black tie and approached their table.

"May I bring you something?"

Holding up her glass, she gazed up at the waiter. "Is this particular wine readily available at hotels and restaurants throughout the city?"

He shook his head. "No, Madame. Each year, a limited number of bottles are available. It is only sold in a few of the best restaurants in Paris."

"Thank you."

"Will there be anything else?"

She stared at Philip. _Gotcha_. "No, we're done here."

The waiter placed the bill on the table discreetly and moved towards a table nearby.

Calling Philip's buff, she said. "Let's go to the hotel and see if we can get the wine there."

"You think you've got me this time." He sounded more confident than ever.

The man is toast and he knows it. "Yes, I do, and if they don't have this exact wine, I'll─"

"Pat me down again?"

"Very funny...I was going to say, I'll be expecting an apology and I'd prefer it on your hands and knees."

He leaned back in his seat. "What do I get, if the hotel has the wine?"

"You get to buy it for me, so I can take it back to the States, where I will enjoy it with someone else." Kevin came to mind.

He removed his wallet and placed a stack of Euros on top of the bill.

They both stood.

"You know, Sandra, you look beautiful when you wear your hair down."

He'd be on his hands and knees soon. "I can't wait for your apology." She turned away from him and strolled towards the door with a quick stride.

"I'm right behind you, mon amour."

Having read enough romance novels to know those words meant my love, she stopped and turned around. She'd never seen him act in such a manner.

He winked at her.

Philip appeared to be extremely confident. What if her sharing the wine with him, in his hotel room, had never actually crossed his mind? She would feel foolish, if the wine was available at the hotel. Oh well, he'd still have to buy it for her.

## Chapter 29

The taxi driver weaved through traffic. In the back seat of the vehicle, Philip, seated to Sandra's left leaned close to her and pointed at an object off in the distance on her side of the car. "The Eiffel Tower," he said, his mouth inches from her ear.

She recognized the shape and nodded. "Yes, you pointed it out to me on the way from the airport." At least she could say she had seen it from a distance. "It's beautiful. Thank you for pointing it out again." She continued to stare out of the window, not turning to face him.

As soon as her cell phone started ringing, Philip moved away from her and leaned back in his seat.

She checked the caller Id before answering. "Hi, Kevin."

"Sandra. Can you talk?"

She glanced toward Philip. He appeared to be staring at a street vendor pushing a cart down the sidewalk. "I'm in a taxi. What do you have?"

"Guess who just walked in looking for you."

"Barletto?"

Philip jerked his head around. She shook her head at him. He turned away and gazed out the window again.

"No, the lieutenant." Kevin said.

"He's already back from his vacation?"

"Yes."

"Did you tell him what I'm doing?"

"No, he assumed you hadn't made it into the office yet. 'When Copeland comes in, tell her I need to see her as soon as possible.' Those were his exact words. What do I tell him when he comes looking for you again?"

"The truth, of course."

"When he finds out you didn't log the trip to New York, he could come down hard on you. It's a good thing he likes you."

More often than not, the lieutenant had been lenient with her. She didn't like it when that was brought to her attention. Everyone thought it was because she was a woman, but the reason went much deeper.

"I'll take my lumps."

"Have you found out anything in Paris?" Kevin asked.

"Other than the hairbrush, no. I sent a copy of the prints to you. They may have been compromised. Before I got it, the brush was handled by a maid. I'm hoping we can get a DNA analysis from the hair."

"When are you coming back?"

"I don't know yet. We're meeting with a French inspector in the morning. I hope he'll offer to help. We may have to go to London."

"London?" Kevin said.

She glanced in Philip's direction. He appeared to be gazing through the window on his side of the vehicle. "Maybe."

"What else can I do to help?"

"Any news on Jessica?"

"Not her location as yet. She and her friend split. Her mother claims she hasn't heard from her daughter in days. The message Lewellan left must have scared them off. I'll let you know when I find her."

"Let's hope it's soon." She glanced at Philip. He was either ignoring her conversation, or listening intently while pretending to ignore it. "What about the other thing?"

Philip turned his head around and gazed at her.

"The boat accident?"

"Yes."

"It's quite a story. Do you want to hear the long version or the short one?"

"Email the long one and give me the short one now." She leaned back in her seat and gazed through her side window.

"Derek Dawson and his wife, Sarah, were boating twenty-eight miles off the northeast coast of Maine when they noticed a boat, sitting low in the water, with shredded sails flapping in the wind. They found a ten-year old boy on board, alone. The boat had been adrift for seven days.

"Philip and his parents had encountered a severe storm. In an attempt to go below deck, their son, Philip was knocked semi-unconscious, after a falling down the stairs. His mother strapped him in a bunk below deck, and stayed with him until Philip's father cried out. His mother struggling to climb the stairs was Philip's last memory of his mother. He apparently lost consciousness at that point.

"The following morning, when Philip awoke, he realized his mother and father were gone. Within a couple of days, the boat ran out of diesel fuel, and he was adrift. He tried to rig a makeshift sail from what was left of the fabric so he could continue the search for his parents.

"A reporter, who interviewed the Dawsons, wrote an article about the incident. Dawson's wife claimed her husband had to literally drag Philip off of the boat. According to her, young Philip pleaded with them to let him continue searching for his parents. Their bodies were never found."

The taxi driver made a right turn and slowed.

She was beginning to understand why Philip had been unwilling to give up on Renée and Rachel. They were out there somewhere, and if he kept searching, he'd eventually find them. That's what he thought at age ten, and what he thought when Renée disappeared.

What street were they on. She leaned forward and glanced through the windshield.

"I've got to go. I'll call you back."

## Chapter 30

The taxi stopped in front of their hotel. Philip paid the driver and walked alongside her toward the entrance shading their eyes from the sun.

"I take it Kevin hasn't been able to find Jessica?"

So he was listening. "Not yet, but he will."

The bellman opened the door for them.

"Thank you, Laurent," she said, as they walked past him toward the stairs.

Side-by-side, they climbed the stairs to the second floor, their heals clicking on the hardwood. Instead of continuing down the hallway, she stopped at his room.

He glanced at her. "Were you serious about the wine?"

"No, I'm going to let you off the hook this time." There was no need for either one of them to be embarrassed. She reached in her purse and pulled out her room key. "Would you mind if I come back to your room later?"

"Not at all, give me a couple of minutes." He pulled out his room key and opened the door.

On the way to her room, she looked at her phone. There was an e-mail from Kevin with an attachment. It was the long version of the boat accident.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Philip heard a knock. He opened it.

"You said a couple. I gave you fifteen."

"Was I supposed to call?" he asked, holding the door open for her.

She shook her head.

"Is something wrong?"

She went straight for the bed. "Do you mind if I sit here?"

"Please make yourself at home." He moved to the other side of the room, turned and walked back to where he'd started.

"Thanks, I will." She tossed her purse on the bed and removed her shoes. "Why don't you sit down and quit pacing." She pointed to the only chair in the room.

He remained standing. "I thought about making reservations on the Eurostar. After we meet with the French inspector in the morning, we could then leave for London around one o'clock."

"Please, Philip." She signaled with her hand for him to sit down.

He walked by her and pulled the chair closer to the bed before sitting in it, placing both hands on his knees. "What do you want to talk about?"

Her cell phone chimed. She glanced at him. "Do you mind?"

Shaking his head, he leaned back in the chair.

She reached into her purse for her cell phone and answered.

"Where are you, Sandra?"

"Lieutenant." She raised her eyelids. "I'm in Paris."

"Good answer. I've already gotten that much out of your partner in crime, but I wanted to hear it from you."

"Lieutenant, Kevin had nothing to do with this. It's entirely my fault."

"I'll deal with both of you when you get back here. When would that be?"

"I don't know, sir. I'm following a lead that may solve the Lewellan case."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. When I got back in the office this morning, I had a note on my desk from the captain."

Three years ago, after four years of chasing one false lead after another, top brass came down hard on her for continuing to waste taxpayers' money on the case. "Shut it down or she'd be working parking tickets until retirement." She couldn't say she hadn't been warned. This time she'd be lucky if they let her back inside the building to gather up her personal items.

"Do you know who William Tomes is?"

"Of course, sir. An attorney in Dallas."

"Almost right. William Tomes is a good friend of the Captain's. Did you know they go on fishing trips together in the Gulf?"

Why was he telling her this? "I'm not following you, sir."

"A computer hacker got into the law firm's computer network and downloaded a bunch of confidential files. Tomes is upset about it and called in a favor."

Her job was to find missing persons, not computer hackers.

"You want me to find out who did it?"

"No, Johnson is working on that. What I want you to do is ask your traveling buddy who he thinks would be interested in his legal documents."

"The hacker got into Lewellan's files?" Who would have a reason to do that? She gazed at Philip.

With eyes wide, he leaned forward in the brocade chair.

Noticing his expression, she held up the palm of her hand to signal him not to speak.

"Lewellan's corporate tax returns and his will were downloaded by the hacker. He tried to make it look like he was after other clients' information as well, but it appears Lewellan's will was the primary target."

She turned away from Philip. "When did this happen?"

"A couple of months back, but the firm just recently discovered it."

"That's interesting." It was around the time frame Barletto checked out the Lewellan case file.

"I'll tell you what else is interesting. I come back to the office and find out you and Lewellan are gallivanting around the world looking for an oil painting."

"That's not exactly true, sir. We're looking for his wife. A hotel clerk identified a recent guest in the hotel as looking like Mrs. Lewellan."

"Do you really think it could be her?" There was skepticism in his voice.

"I haven't ruled out the possibility. We're waiting on a DNA analysis and a comparison of the prints I lifted from a hairbrush the woman left in her room."

"You better hope for a match on the prints, because DNA analysis may take a while. I've got a stack of complaints on my desk about the backlog we're dealing with."

"It shouldn't take more than a couple of days. Mr. Lewellan has a lot of friends as well as other resources."

"Tell me something I don't know," the lieutenant said his tone tense.

At this point, she might as well at least broach the subject. "I think Barletto is involved in this."

"What do you mean involved in this?"

"He checked out the Lewellan case file and never returned it to the record's department."

"Detectives check out case files all the time."

"That's not all, sir. It appears he coerced a young woman, charged with assaulting a police officer, into helping him set up some type of sting operation involving Lewellan. I think Barletto has something to do with those stolen files."

"You're making serious accusations about a fellow officer."

"Yes, sir, I realize that. Kevin is trying to track down the young woman and get in touch with her. She left Lewellan a note trying to warn him, but we think she got scared and skipped on us."

"I'll reserve judgment until we have the facts. If word gets out you've re-opened the Lewellan case, this isn't going to sit well for either of us. In the meantime, I'll give you a little more rope. If you try yourself up in a knot, I'll be forced to cut you loose."

It was his way of telling her top brass hadn't been told. The lieutenant was putting his position in the department on the line for her.

"Thank you, Lieutenant. I really appreciate your confidence in my judgment." Her voice broke. She struggled to hold it together.

"Don't get the big head, Sandra. I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this for Paul. Partners take care of their own, even after one of them is gone. Your father set a high standard for all Dallas officers. If any of us can ever hope to get close to that standard, it'll be you."

Why did he have to bring up her father? Tears started to form. She wiped her eyes.

Philip rose from his chair and took a step toward her. She pushed the air with her hand, motioning him away.

"My father thought you were the best, Lieutenant."

"I wasn't good enough."

She understood what he meant. He had been the rookie policemen sitting in the air conditioned patrol car, listening for dispatch calls, when the drive-by shooter fired four shots into her father's chest. The rookie jumped out of the unit and emptied his service revolver at the car as it sped away, too late to save her father.

"No one blames you, sir." It was true. She knew the Lieutenant still harbored feelings of guilt.

"Sandra, get me something I can use, or I won't be able to save your job this time."

His voice and the way he said it told her he would fight as hard as he could to save her hide, but he'd be shooting blanks, unless she was able to deliver his ammo.

"Yes, sir, I understand." She terminated the call and tossed her phone on the bed, before reaching into her purse to remove a tissue to wipe her eyes.

Philip approached and placed his hand on her shoulder. She pushed it away, keeping her head down. "I'm fine. Leave me alone."

He backed off.

She stood to leave.

He stepped in front of her. "Look at me, Sandra."

She raised her head.

"I know what it's like to lose a parent. Your father gave his life to save those kids.

He would be proud of you."

First the lieutenant then Philip brings up her father. Can't he see he's making it worse not better? She struggled to hold back more tears, but the fatigue, the stress, fifteen years of trying to hold it all inside were too much. She leaned into him and placed her head on his shoulder.

Philip placed his hands on her shoulders.

"I miss him so much," she sobbed.

"I know, Sandra. I know you do." He held her gently, knowing what she was going through. Adults expect to one day lose their parents, but kids never do, and when it happens to a kid, there's no way of getting over it. There would always be something that would bring back the memories of that painful event, causing them to relive it all over again. This time, it was Sandra's tears on his shoulder.

***

" _No, Philip, stay below until I can get us out of this storm," His father yelled, from the top deck of the thirty-six-foot sloop they had sailed out of Boston Harbor._

Another large wave rocked the boat. Sea water and cold rain poured onto the upper deck.

His mother pulled on his arm. "Come back. Listen to your father," she pleaded.

" _I have to help Dad!" Philip screamed._

" _Your father knows what's best for us. He'll get us out of this storm."_

" _No, no, I have to help him!" Philip yelled in defiance as he tried to pull loose from her grip._

The boat rolled hard in the opposite direction throwing him and his mother down the stairs to the lower cabin floor.

" _Charles, Philip's hurt!" she screamed, struggling to get back up._

The boat rolled again. This time to the starboard side nearing an eighty degree angle. His mother tried to hold onto him, but they both rolled with the boat. She cradled his head in her hands and brought her face close to his.

" _Oh God please," she prayed. Tears flowed down her cheeks onto his face._

He was able to open his eyes briefly. He wanted to tell her not to cry, but the words wouldn't come. His mother strapped him into his bunk. The last thing he remembered about that night was his father crying out, and his mother going topside to check on him.

The following morning, he awoke, strapped in his bunk. When he realized his parents were not onboard, he began searching for them in the waters off the Northeast coast. With shredded sails, a flooded engine compartment, and a dead battery, he climbed the mast and rigged what was left of the main sail as best he could. He had a food supply and fresh drinking water, enough for three or four days. He spent the daylight hours, halfway up the mast, scanning for any sign of his parents. He did it for eight days, until he saw a boat in the distance coming toward him.

* * *

Sandra pulled her head up from his shoulder, his blue pin-point-cotton shirt wet from her tears. Their noses were inches apart. Philip's eyes appeared vacant and lost beneath their redness.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

He blinked a couple of times and pulled his head away. "I'm fine." He released her.

She wiped her cheeks with a tissue. "Do you want to tell me why your eyes are red?"

"There's nothing to tell." He backed away.

She slipped into her heels and grabbed her purse and phone from the bed. "I'm going to my room."

"I heard you mention something about my files. I couldn't help but overhear."

Couldn't he see she needed to be alone now? "Would it be okay if we talk about it later?"

"Of course." He stepped aside.

She moved toward the door and grabbed the handle, but then turned back. "I'll call you in an hour. That should give you enough time to make those reservations for London."

He nodded. "I'll try to get first class."

If anyone understood her pain, Philip certainly would. At the age of ten, he'd lost both of his parents. Even if she lost her job over it, she was glad she had come with him.

"You don't think I would travel economy class at this point, do you?"

"Sounds like you've recovered." He smiled.

She hated to cry, especially in front of a man. She'd never let Philip see her cry again. Her gaze met his. "My crying on your shoulder will be our little secret."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

## Chapter 31

Raudin made his way along the narrow sidewalk in front of the hotel in a quick stride, headed south crossing Boulevard Saint Germain, then continued a short distance down Rue Monge Descartes which brought him to an outdoor restaurant. A table outside, on the end, away from the other people offered enough privacy for his tasks.

A waitress arrived to take his order.

"A glass of Acacia Pinot Noir Carneros,"

She held out a menu.

He waved it off. "Just the wine." His reason for stopping there was to use their wireless Internet, not to eat their crappy food.

She lowered the pad and left to get the wine.

He set up his computer to better see the screen in daylight as the sun hovered low in the western sky. After establishing a connection, he logged into the credit card accounts he had been monitoring. So far, Lewellan had used his American Express card for the airline tickets, hotel, and restaurant. None of his other cards showed any activity. If he and the detective were going to leave Paris, Lewellan had not yet made arrangements to do so.

The waitress returned with a glass of wine and placed it on the black wrought iron table.

He nodded and waited until she walked away to pull out his cell phone. Barletto would be expecting an update. A slight breeze felt good against his face as he dialed the number.

"It's only seven o'clock here, but they may be tucked in for the night," Raudin said.

"Don't count on it. I don't care if you have to up stay all night. Keep an eye on them." His tone was that of a drill sergeant speaking to a buck private.

The abrasive tone irritated him, but not enough to confront him over it. "I'm checking everything now."

"Is there anything you can't check?" Barletto asked, still harshness in his voice.

"Yeah, plenty, but hold on a minute. One of the accounts just changed. He's booked two first class tickets on the Eurostar. They're leaving for London tomorrow afternoon."

"Those two are as predictable as the sunrise." Barletto had lightened up a bit.

"Do you want me to leave early in the morning and be at the station tomorrow when they arrive in London?"

"They're not going to arrive in London. There's been a change of plan."

## Chapter 32

Sandra patted her face with a wet cloth and walked out of the bathroom. She went to the nightstand where she had laid her purse. She removed her phone, sat on the bed, and kicked her shoes off. She dialed Kevin's cell phone.

"Hi, Sandra. I guess the Lieutenant got a piece of you, too?"

"I'm sorry I got you in trouble, Kevin. I told him it was all my fault. I'll straighten the whole thing out when I get back."

"Are you on your way home?"

"Not yet. We're leaving for London tomorrow." She closed her eyes and rubbed the back of her neck.

"Why London?"

She opened her eyes and stopped rubbing. "Unless I can get help from the French police in the morning, it appears to be the next best option."

"You're pushing it; so much for this taking a couple of days."

"If we don't find her there, I'll come back right away."

"Be careful. I'm beginning to have a bad feeling about all of this."

"Did the Lieutenant mention anything to you about stolen files at a law firm?"

"Yes, it's a big deal. He gave me a story about his wife getting sick, and that's the reason he came back early. But the scuttlebutt I heard was the captain called the lieutenant back in from vacation."

"That explains why he came back early."

There was a moment of silence before Kevin asked, "What did the lieutenant tell you?"

"The hacker's main target appeared to be Lewellan's will."

"I bet he's pretty upset about that." Kevin said.

She glanced at the doorway. "He doesn't know about it yet."

"Why not?"

"I haven't had time to tell him. I'm meeting with him again in twenty minutes. I assume you haven't found Jessica?"

"Nope," Kevin said. "She has three credit cards, but they're tapped out so she's not using them. Her friend Jodie hasn't shown up for work the past two days. I'm thinking they're together."

"What about Barletto?"

"He told everyone in the office he was going to Georgia to visit his sister. A guy from Internal Affairs left the Lieutenant's office a few minutes before I called. Hank came out afterward, looking like he'd been through it. Do you think he knew Barletto went to New York City?"

"Better play it safe. Be careful what you tell him."

"I'm not telling Hank anything," Kevin said.

"I know." She rubbed her eye. "I'm just a little tired."

"You sound like it. Is he keeping you up all night?"

That question didn't deserve a response. What had gotten into Kevin? He knew better than to say something like that.

"What can I do to help you?" he asked.

She looked at the clock on her nightstand. "Find Jessica. We need to know what she knows."

"Her last name is actually Riddling. You'll be the first to know when I find her. Uh-oh, I need to get off the phone. The Lieutenant is coming down the stairs and he's staring a hole through me."

"Bye, Kevin, and thanks for your help."

"That's what I'm here for. Be careful."

## Chapter 33

There was only so much hotel time she could stand. Sandra had showered again and changed into a dress. If Philip was the gentleman she knew him to be, he would offer to take her out and show her a little of Paris. She grabbed the phone on the nightstand and dialed his room.

Philip answered.

"When are we leaving Paris?" she asked.

"I've reserved two first class tickets on the train leaving at one o'clock tomorrow afternoon. We'll arrive in London at two fifty-four."

"That should give us plenty of time to come back to the hotel after our meeting with the inspector and pack before going to the train station."

"I know another quiet place. Would you like to go for dinner?" Philip asked.

She wanted to see the sights, not spend two hours in a restaurant. "I'm still full from this afternoon."

"Well then, I guess I'll see you in the morning."

She had blown it. Now she'd have to come right out and ask him. "Would you mind spending a little more time with me, before we call it a night?"

"My room or yours?" Philip asked.

From any other man, she might have taken his response the wrong way, but not from Philip Lewellan, the living definition of a perfect gentleman. He was probably assuming she wanted to talk to him about the files.

"Neither. Take me out and show me a little of Paris."

After a few seconds of silence, he said, "Does your room have a window?"

_Funny man_. "Oh, come on. I may never get to see this city again."

"Sandra, if you wish to see Paris, please look out your window."

Obviously, he had other plans. "Well, if you're going to be that way about it, I'm sorry I asked." She hung up the phone.

She grabbed it again and called the front desk.

"Yes, Miss Copeland. How may I help you?"

"Oh, Marie, I'm glad it's you. I'd like to see a bit of Paris tonight. I have a limited budget, but I'll need transportation." She felt a bit of excitement at the thought of being in Paris and getting a chance to do some sightseeing before dark. "What do you recommend?"

Marie hesitated. "I am afraid I don't understand."

"Something simple will be fine. How about a mass transit system?" Surely they had one in the city.

"So, you won't be going with Mr. Lewellan tonight?"

"No, he apparently has other plans. He told me if I wanted to see Paris, to look out my window. I had a little more than that in mind."

"That's what he said?" Marie asked.

"Yes, that's what he told me to do." Obviously, Marie couldn't believe a man would say something like that to the woman he'd drug halfway around the world.

"My recommendation would be to do as Mr. Lewellan suggested." Marie said.

Completely stunned, she asked, "Excuse me? Did you say you want me to do as he said?"

"Yes, ma'am. I believe that would be your best option."

"Fine, I'll handle it myself." She hung up the telephone even harder that time.

When the phone on his nightstand rang, Philip grabbed it. "So you finally looked out of the window?"

"This is Marie. Miss Copeland called the front desk requesting recommendations for transportation."

"Thank you. I was about to call her."

He clicked off the phone with Marie and dialed Sandra's room.

"Sandra, please forgive me for pulling a little joke on you."

"I'll think about it. Did you come up with something better than telling me to look out of my window?"

"Not really. I still strongly recommend that you look out front, right now. I assure you, you'll not be disappointed. Please do it."

She grabbed the telephone base and carried it with her around the edge of the bed. The cord barely reached. She gazed through the window to the street below. On the other side of the wrought iron gates was a limousine parked on the street, in front of the hotel. A driver leaned against the car, his arms folded.

She lifted the telephone receiver to her mouth. "You didn't?"

"I did. Whenever you're ready."

"How long has he been waiting?"

"About forty minutes, but he'll wait as long as it takes."

"Great. Let me put on makeup, change my dress and shoes. Oh, wait, I better take a shower and do my hair first."

"Are you playing a joke on me now?"

"Yes. Give me ten minutes. I'll meet you in the lobby."

## Chapter 34

Hearing footsteps, Philip stepped closer to the stairway.

Sandra entered the hotel lobby.

He held out his right arm. "Our carriage awaits us."

Marie and Laurent smiled at each other. Laurent opened the door, before he and Sandra stepped through it.

"What, no tip this time?" Sandra said. "Since we've been here you handed out more cash than a Brink's security guard carries to a neighborhood branch bank."

Deciding not to be so obvious with his tipping, around her, he'd already taken care of Marie and Laurent for making all the arrangements for their evening in Paris.

Keeping a straight face, he said, "I'd better save it until I see how much this night is going to set me back."

Walking toward the car, her arm around his, she gazed at him. "I hope it cost you plenty, in more ways than one."

The driver straightened and opened the rear door of the blue limo.

After stepping inside she rubbed her hand along the cream-colored leather seats. "Nice."

He sat beside her. "Not as large as the one in New York, but this car will do."

The driver pulled away from the curb.

She turned toward him. "Okay, I owe you an explanation. It appears someone got access to your files at Tomes, Castle, Hall, and whoever else law firm."

He raised his index finger to his lips to silence her. "Not tonight. I've already spoken with Helen Castle. I know about the files; it's nothing to worry about. There will be no talk of them, encoded messages, or oil paintings tonight."

The limo driver made a right turn at the first intersection.

"Okay." Her eyes beamed with delight. "Where are you taking me?"

"You told me to show you Paris, that's exactly what I plan to do. First, I want to take you to the top of a structure built for the Paris Exposition in 1889. We'll visit it twice tonight. Once in daylight, and then we'll return later, for a night view. It was designed by a man name Gustave Eiffel."

Hoping to make it a night she would remember, he decided to wait and surprise her with the rest of it. A Champagne and dinner cruise, the private kind with a crew to see to their every need. There were several popular sites along the way he hoped she would enjoy visiting.

"It sounds wonderful." She almost reached for his hand to let him know how much she appreciated the trouble and expense he had gone through to take her out, but she decided that would be inappropriate. No way either of them would consider their night out together a real date. Especially, not in Paris, the city of love. The place she'd dreamed about seeing since she was a young girl.

## Chapter 35

Barletto sat at a small table in an out of the way coffee shop in Brooklyn. He wrote notes on a piece of paper. Raudin had the real McCoy, but there was not enough time to fly her in. He had been forced to improvise. He grabbed a woman's wide-brimmed white hat and a pair of sunglasses from a shopping bag.

"When you leave here, put these on, and don't be seen without them."

Placing her coffee cup down first, the woman seated at the table with him took the items and placed them on an empty chair beside her. "Whatever. It's your show."

He stared at her. "Don't forget it." He slid the note across the table. "Once more now, get it right this time."

"I'm supposed to take a taxi to the address of the apartment building written on this piece of paper. Ask the doorman for directions to an apartment."

"Damn it! You forgot the apartment number." He grabbed the note from her hand and wrote the number down, then shoved it back in her face. "Then what?"

She took the note from his hand. "I take the elevator up to the apartment and knock on the door until someone notices me."

She paused to pick up her cup of coffee.

"Go on," he said, leaning forward and grabbing her hand.

"Please, John. You made me take a red-eye flight. At least let me have my coffee."

He released her hand and gritted his teeth.

She finished off the coffee and the empty cup rattled into its saucer. "Then I leave the building and take a taxi back to the airport."

She paused.

"And the rest of it, I want to hear it." he said.

"I get on a plane, fly back to Dallas, and never tell anyone you asked me to do this."

"Finally. You know what happens to my girls when they disappoint me?"

"Yes, too well."

Her task was too important to let fear be her only motive. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out an envelope and said, "Here's a little gift for you, your plane ticket and some cash."

"You're giving me money? That's a new one."

He placed his hand on her leg above the knee and squeezed hard enough to wipe the smirk off her face.

"Don't screw it up."

She winced and grabbed his hand. "You don't have to get rough. I understand." As soon as he released her, she started rubbing her leg. "You know you can always count on me to deliver the goods."

"Don't break your record today."

She continued to rub her leg. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Make it short." He looked at his watch.

"Why did you have me fly up here and buy me a new dress? Surely, you could have found a hooker in New York City who could knock on a door."

"I like the way you look."

"How about that? All this time I thought you liked the younger girls."

He glared. "That's enough talk for today."

"You sure there's not going to be anyone behind that door?" she asked, putting the envelope in her purse.

"I'm sure. Now get the hell out of here. Do it exactly like I told you and everything will be fine, or I'll have some constructive criticism for you later."

"How hard can it be to knock on a damn door?"

## Chapter 36

Philip had his arm around Sandra when the limousine stopped in front of the hotel. Sandra, asleep on his shoulder didn't move. He gently touched her face.

"Wake up. We're back at the castle."

She opened her eyes and blinked. "I'm so sorry I fell asleep on you."

He removed his arm and leaned forward in the seat.

"I shouldn't have kept you out so late."

"What time is it?"

He glanced at his watch. "It's a few minutes after twelve."

The driver opened the rear door.

He exited after Sandra.

"Thank you," Philip said before stuffing a wad of money in the driver's hand.

Sandra stepped away from the car. "Are you sure it's that late? It doesn't seem like we'd been out that long."

"You appeared to be having fun."

"Oh, I really did. I'll remember this night for the rest of my life."

"I really enjoyed it too. It's been a long time since I've done anything like this."

She took a step forward to get close. Inappropriate or not, she had to let the man know he was her prince tonight. She reached up and placed her hand around his neck. Pulling his head downward a bit, she lifted herself up on her toes and gently kissed him on his cheek.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening."

He gazed at her. "Thank you for making me smile and laugh again. For making me feel alive for the first time in quite a while."

She used her thumb to wipe the lipstick off his cheek. "Goodnight, I know how to find my way home from here."

"Goodnight." He stayed in place as she approached the entrance to the lobby.

She stopped and turned back to face him. "I'll see you downstairs at seven o'clock for breakfast."

He waved. "Seven o'clock it is."

After she was gone, he looked up toward the cloudless night sky. A sliver of moon hovered above. Bright stars blanketed the entire sky. More than he could ever remember seeing. How long had it been since he had taken the time to admire the stars? It was as if the world had re-awakened. What was happening to him? He had to find Renée and Rachel. Then, and only then would he know what to do.

Sandra entered her room, walked to the window and peered down to the street level. Philip was still standing where she had left him. She moved away from the window and unbuttoned her dress. Why was he staring at the sky?

Raudin checked the time on his watch as he turned onto the street fronting the hotel. He dialed Barletto's number as soon as Lewellan went through the French doors that led into the lobby.

"It's about damn time," Barletto shouted.

"They're in for the night."

"What the hell have they been doing?"

"Sightseeing, as best I could tell."

"I want you at the hotel early in the morning," Barletto said.

"Why early? Their train doesn't leave until one o'clock tomorrow afternoon."

"Don't interrupt me, dumbass. I'm not finished. Get her to lay down a trail back to the drop address. Have her use your phone. Then I want you to keep out their sight until I give you the go ahead to bring her here."

What did Barletto have in mind? "Why the change from London?" Raudin asked.

"You don't have the stomach for it. It'll be easier here. It happens all the time in this city. Far too rare in London. Like you said, you wanted me to do the rest of them. Besides, those Scotland Yard guys might be better than the donut-eating clowns here."

Whatever Barletto had planned, he wasn't going to tell him yet. That concerned him, but he'd learned not to cross the detective, who based on recent events appeared to think killing people was more a sport than a business.

He faked the sound of relief in his voice. "I think it's a good idea."

"Yeah, I thought you would."

## Chapter 37

Philip rolled over and peered at the clock. It showed 5:30. That was a half hour before the alarm was set to go off. Pondering the question of who wanted to get a look at his will had kept him awake a good portion of the night. There were charities and individuals listed as beneficiaries, but the list wasn't all that long. His office staff had only been with him three years. Could it be one of them?

He recalled the first meeting with his personal assistant, Cody Smith. Cody was the last college student interviewed that day. He sat patiently outside the conference room waiting his turn.

All the seniors who applied for the job had excellent grades and would graduate that Spring. It wasn't about grades or experience. It was about attitude and the individual's approach to life itself, something Philip's grandmother instilled in him.

When it was Cody's turn, he called him into the conference room and asked him the same three questions he had asked the other candidates.

"Have you ever taken anything that wasn't yours?"

"No, sir, I never have and never will."

"What do you think is the single most important thing you can have in your life?"

He remembered Cody hesitating. It was the question that had tripped up the other students. He told Cody to take his time. There was no hurry. Finally, Cody responded.

"Happiness. Yes, sir, I think happiness is the single most important thing a person can have in their life."

Then he asked him the last question. "What do you think will make you happy?"

It didn't take him long to answer. "Marrying a woman I love who also truly loves me and raising a family with her would take care of ninety percent of it, sir."

He looked Cody straight in the eye and said, "I'll take care of the other ten percent."

Cody had been true to his word. After graduation with a job in hand, he married his long-time girlfriend, Anna. A year later, she gave birth to a little girl. The ten thousand square-foot Lewellan home in Dallas was no longer a lonely place. They accepted Philip's invitation to let them live in the west wing, rent free, for as long as they wanted to live there.

Could Cody be behind the theft of his files? No, of course not. Cody, Anna, and their young daughter were like family to him.

There was his receptionist, Joyce. She had the kindest of hearts. It couldn't possibly be her either. Besides, neither of them had any way of knowing they had been named as beneficiaries.

All during the night he had eliminated the individuals named in his will, one by one. It was morning and there was no one left to consider.

He had to get his mind on something else. He reached over and grabbed his Blackberry from the nightstand and checked his e-mail. Of dozens of messages, one stood out. It had been sent at 2:42 AM Atlanta time the previous day. He opened it.

If you still want to meet me, tell me when and where. I'll be there. I miss you.

Angela

That was an improvement over her last message to him. When he had sent her an e-mail requesting they meet, her response had been one line. _I can't imagine for what reason_.

His plan was already in motion and there was nothing he could do about it now. He decided not to respond. Finding that painting had changed everything. Whatever it took, he had to find his family, or there could be no moving on with his life. He had a daughter and she was his first priority.

After he showered, shaved and got dressed, he found Sandra downstairs in the cozy brick-lined cellar that had been converted to a breakfast area. He approached the table she had picked out for them. There were two settings of china and silver on the white cloth-covered table. For a small hotel, they did everything first rate, even in what used to be a storage area.

"Good morning, Sandra. Did you sleep well last night?"

"I did. And you?"

"Wonderfully." A lie, but why tell her any different?

A waiter approached their table and explained the buffet-style breakfast. He pointed to the entrees, water, and juices available.

Philip and Sandra went to the buffet and filled their plates.

The waiter came back and poured the tea they had ordered.

Back at their table, he was still helping her with her chair, when Sandra said, "I want to talk about the stolen files."

He let go of her chair. "Later."

"Something about those files is bothering you. I can see it in the look on your face. What is it?"

Ignoring the question, he pulled his chair back. After sitting and placing a light blue cotton napkin on his lap, he said, "How long will it take Kevin to run the prints you sent him?"

"Not long. He'll scan them into the system and the computer will analyze them against the database. If any of the prints lifted from the hairbrush match Renée's, he'll get a hit."

He placed his left hand over his mouth and stared at the brick wall beside them while he fiddled with the handle on his tea cup, moving it back and forth in the saucer.

She leaned across the table. "It was just a little kiss on the cheek, Philip." She moved back. "Nothing more and nothing less."

He let go of the cup and lifted his head. "I'm sorry. What were you saying?"

"Nothing important. So what has your mind occupied this morning?"

He looked at his plate of food, and then picked up his cup of tea.

She leaned closer. "It's the will isn't it?"

The cup clinked when he placed it back in the saucer.

"We need to talk about it." She placed her hand on the table.

He pushed his plate away. "Helen Castle says my will appeared to be the hacker's primary target."

"That's also what my lieutenant told me. And it's why we need to talk about it."

"I was up most of the night trying to figure out who would want to steal a copy."

"You'd be better at figuring that out, but I have a hunch."

Staring at her, he said, "If you think Renée had something to do with it, you're wrong."

She shook her head. "Don't be so sure. Right after your arrival in New York, the artist who painted her portrait was murdered. You've had no contact with Renée in seven years, and the next thing we find out, your will has been stolen. What else would a detective think?"

He picked up his fork and stared at his food. "You're wrong. Renée would not be a party to murder, nor anything like you're suggesting."

"Okay, then answer this. Can she profit from your death?"

He tossed his fork onto the plate. It clanked against the china. A man seated across the room glanced at them.

"No, she cannot. Financially, for her, it is far better for me to be alive. She can have anything she wants as long as she tells me why she left. And she allows me to get to know my daughter, and my daughter gets to know me."

* * *

Sandra wasn't satisfied. He was holding something back. She could see it in his expression and in his actions. She held out her hand to let the man, sitting across the room, know everything was fine.

"From your tone, I think it's you who needs convincing, not me."

He took a breath and exhaled. He looked up and leaned back in his chair.

"Two years ago I changed my will. Renée and Rachel are no longer considered beneficiaries of my estate. Helen requested I either remove them from my will, or have a court of law declare them dead. I refused to have them declared dead; however I did have Renée and Rachel removed as beneficiaries."

She leaned forward again. "Why would your attorney advise you to do that?"

"To prevent my estate from getting tied up in a long legal battle. My other beneficiaries would have to go to court and have Renée and Rachel declared dead."

"Thank you for explaining it," Sandra said. So much for her theory that Renée had been the person most likely involved in the theft of Philip's files.

"I hope now you're convinced."

"Okay, if not her, then who?"

"I stayed awake half the night thinking about it. The only thing I could come up with would be identity theft. They must have been looking for account numbers."

"Are your account numbers in the will?"

He shook his head and frowned. "No."

"Who is your executor?"

"Helen Castle and four other people."

"Do you trust them with your life?"

"Yes, I would say I trust Helen with my life. My grandmother taught her in junior high school and thought the world of her. And as for the other four trustees, I would say the same."

"I think I'll take a walk." She stood.

He glanced at his watch. "We should have plenty of time for a walk. Our appointment with the French inspector isn't until nine." He stood and tossed forty Euros on the table.

Not budging from her spot on the other side of the booth, she stared at him.

"Is something wrong?"

"I would prefer to take my walk alone this morning, thank you."

"In that case, I'll go pull the foot out of my mouth and brush my teeth."

* * *

After she took a stroll and made a phone call, she returned to the hotel and freshened up. At twenty minutes to nine, she found Philip staring out the hotel lobby window. Something was eating away at him. What was he not telling her?

He turned around. "I've already made arrangements for a taxi. It should be here anytime."

Laurent pointed through the window. "Your taxi has arrived, Mr. Lewellan."

"Thank you." Philip smiled and gazed at her. "Our carriage awaits us."

She shook her head. What's with him this morning? One minute he's upset because I asked him a question. The next minute he wants to play Prince Charming again.

Laurent opened the door. Philip followed her out of the hotel lobby though doorway. Philip grabbed the handle and opened the rear door of the taxi.

* * *

As soon as the taxi passed, Raudin started the car and pulled away from the curb. He called Barletto to tell him Lewellan and the detective had left the hotel.

"You said their train doesn't leave until one p.m. Why in the hell are they leaving so early?" Barletto asked.

"They're probably going out for breakfast. They didn't have any luggage."

"Is she with you?" Barletto asked.

He turned and gazed at the woman sitting in the back seat. "Yes."

"Tell her to make the call now, while you follow them."

"Then what?"

"When you find out where they're going, call me."

"Got it."

Barletto hung up.

Raudin placed his arm over the front seat and handed the cell phone to her.

"Make the call and leave the message exactly like I told you."

She shook her head.

"Don't worry. I won't let him kill you." _or me_.

## Chapter 38

On the way to the police station, Sandra couldn't hold back any longer. "So what's with the gloomy face to happy face conversion this morning?"

"Whoever downloaded my will is going to be in for a big disappointment."

"How so?"

"No one knows who the trustees of my estate will be except me."

The taxi driver accelerated around a corner to beat a traffic light.

She grabbed the door handle to keep from being slung into Philip's lap. "Do you suspect one of them?"

"Four of them are already wealthy, and the fifth one wouldn't hurt me for all the money in the world."

"At least you hope not."

"You think all five trustees are conspiring to do me in so they can control the foundation for their own personal use?"

She gazed at him. "It's possible."

"The people I selected to be my trustees are not aware they were selected. In other words, they don't know who they are, and neither does the person who pilfered my files," Philip said, smiling.

"How is that possible? That the trustees don't know who they are," she asked.

"Their names are in a file in a lockbox at a bank. The special provision in my will doesn't list the individual names of the trustees. It only identifies the name of the bank where the list and number of the lock box are kept."

"What if someone has already gotten access to it?"

"That's highly unlikely. In any case, we'll know later this afternoon. Before we left the hotel, I called Dallas. I asked Helen to check with the bank."

"You woke up Ms. Castle? Do you realize what time it is in Dallas?"

"If you had any idea how much money she charges per hour, you wouldn't worry about what time she's awakened by her clients."

"I guess not."

The taxi slowed to a stop. The driver motioned toward a large white building directly in front of them.

* * *

Raudin found an empty parking spot and pulled the car over. He placed another call to Barletto.

"They just walked into the police station."

"She's going to ask the French officials for help," Barletto said. "Standard protocol, there's nothing to worry about."

He shook his head. Getting the local police involved was the last thing he needed. "Do you think they'll offer any help?"

"It doesn't matter," the detective replied. "The French police don't know a damn thing."

"I hope you're right." He looked over his shoulder at her again. Although she was pretending not to pay attention, he could tell she was listening to every word.

"Quit worrying about it," Barletto said. "When they hit a dead end with the French authorities, they'll probably go straight back to the hotel. Follow them until we know for sure they got the message. If they don't go to the train station, we'll know the plan has worked."

"Got it." Raudin tossed the cell phone on the seat beside him and started the car. Hoping she would cooperate, he drove to an apartment complex and parked in the first available space.

"We have to stay here a while longer. Don't let anyone see you without the hat and sunglasses on. I'll be back later with plenty of food."

"How long?" The woman gazed at the apartment building. "I hate this place."

"You'll only be in the apartment a couple of days at most."

"He is going to kill him, isn't he?"

"Don't worry about Barletto." Raudin turned to reassure her. "He's my problem, not yours."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, then counted out two hundred Euros and held it out for her.

"This should hold you for a couple of days."

She looked at the money in his hand. "That is nothing. You said there would be a lot of money, if I helped you."

"You're going to get more money than you could ever spend, but you have to trust me and do everything I've told you to do."

"I don't like any of this. I want to go home. I think you lied to me."

He didn't like her questioning him again. Her questions had been relentless ever since he pulled her away from the hotel and took the kid back to her cousin's home. He wouldn't be able to hold her off much longer. "It's just one more day. Then we'll leave."

"I will stay no longer than that, and only if you tell me the truth."

"I have to take care of something then I'll be back later. We'll talk then."

"No." She shook her head. "Now. You must talk now."

Time was running out. He had to get back before Lewellan and the detective left the police station. From the expression on her face and her demands, he could tell he had lost her trust. She was going to find out the truth anyway.

"When I get back, I'll tell you everything; why Lewellan and that detective are trying to find you, and why your life is in danger. Then you will understand everything and why you must trust me and only me. We're dealing with a madman. If you want to leave and go back home, you can, but if you do, and they find you, we're both dead."

## Chapter 39

After identifying themselves at the reception area on the first floor of the Paris Police station, Sandra and Philip were escorted to an office in the older part of the building.

"Thank you, Maurice." The middle-aged man with gray hair rose from his chair and walked to the front of a small wooden desk to greet them. "I am Inspector Renard Tremblay."

After the introductions were made, he pointed to two chairs in front of the desk.

"Please have a seat."

The office was small and not anything like she had expected. She and Philip barely had room to sit. Philip's knees rubbed against the front edge of the desk until he moved his legs to one side. A strip of white ribbon tied to a single air conditioner register in one corner of the room barely moved. The size of the office gave every indication Tremblay was at the low end of the totem pole. She hoped the disappointment didn't show on her face.

"May I get you some tea or coffee?" Tremblay asked.

She shook her head. "Nothing for me, thank you."

Philip shook his head.

Tremblay took his seat behind the desk, "I searched for the names you gave us. We found no listing in Paris, or in France, of a Mrs. C. Belah. Since you mentioned London as a possible residence, I took the liberty of contacting a friend at Scotland Yard. There are no residents listed as C. Belah in the city of London. I am afraid I wasn't much help to you on this matter." Tremblay maintained eye contact with her.

"Were you able to confirm a reservation on the Eurostar to London for her and her daughter, Rachel?" she asked.

"We confirmed two tickets for London were purchased in the name of Christina Belah."

"Christina," Philip blurted out. "They're in London, and we have her first name. Surely, we can find them."

She placed her hand on Philip's arm in an effort to quiet him. "What else?"

Tremblay gazed at him. "Every passenger's ticket is scanned at the terminal prior to the passenger boarding the train. The two tickets of interest have not yet been scanned, which means they may still be in Paris."

"You're thorough in your work, Inspector Tremblay." She glanced at Philip. She hoped he had gotten the message she knew how to handle the inspector, and he should let her do the talking.

Tremblay placed his hands together on top of the desk and leaned forward. "I've been in police work for twenty-eight years, and I've learned the smallest bit of information sometimes is the key to solving a case."

"We need more people like you, Inspector," she said, stroking his ego. She wanted all the help they could get from the French police.

"I understand you are thorough yourself, Detective Copeland. My research on you turned up several interesting facts."

"Would you mind sharing that information?" Philip asked.

Glaring at Philip, she said, "I don't think we need to discuss—"

"On the contrary, because of your credentials I've been willing to divulge the information you've heard this morning. If you ever find your work in the United States boring, you could come work with me. I believe you'll find the investigative work in Paris to be most intriguing. For example, I found it interesting that less than two days before you checked into the hotel, a man who had worked there for over thirty years was murdered only a few blocks away as he attempted to cross the street."

"Alasdair!" Philip appeared to almost jump up.

Tremblay turned his attention to Philip. "You knew him?

"Yes, my wife and I stayed at the hotel nine years ago. Alasdair was very kind to us."

"I see." Tremblay continued to stare at Philip.

"You said murdered?" she asked, regaining the inspector's attention. "A young woman, who works at the hotel, was under the impression Alasdair's death was accidental."

"The murder had been made to look like an accident. The car was stolen. It had been wiped clean of fingerprints, but we did find human hair on the driver's seat."

"A hit and run in a stolen car doesn't necessarily make it a homicide," she said.

"It was murder. There is no doubt."

Tremblay appeared to be overly confident to her. "How can you be so sure?"

He leaned back in his wooden chair. "We have a witness with a photographic memory."

"Really?" Whoever the French police had saddled her and Philip with was obviously trying to impress them. She had once seen a criminal defense attorney shred a prosecution witness's testimony. The witness had claimed to have a photographic memory, but couldn't recall the colors of the stripes on the defense attorney's tie when he turned around.

"How fortunate for the police." she tried to hold her sarcasm in check.

"The crime took place at 2:18 in the morning. At the exact time of the murder no one was near the scene other than the murderer and the victim."

"I thought you said you had a witness," Philip said.

"Yes, I did. There is a video and camera shop nearby where the murder occurred. The shop owner has three outdoor video cameras pointed in different directions from his store. The cameras run twenty-four hours a day and the video is displayed on screens inside his establishment. The digital images are recorded in real time and stored on hard disk drives. Normally, the shop owner recorded over the old images every couple of days, but he called when he heard about an incident occurring in front of his shop."

"The video evidence confirmed it was murder?" She swallowed her premature assessment of Tremblay.

"My investigators think so. I have reviewed the video several times myself. The driver didn't brake or veer away from the victim. An analysis of the files showed the car was accelerating. It also showed the victim turned toward the oncoming car right before impact. He jumped rather high for an old man, likely, due to a shot of adrenaline. The front of the car caught the lower portion of the victim's legs, knocking them out from under him. He was almost parallel with the street when his head hit the windshield. There was quite an awful result, as you can imagine. His neck snapped, killing him instantly."

"How terrible." Philip lowered his head. "He was such a nice man."

"There's more, if you're interested in hearing it."

"Please continue." Tremblay had her full attention now.

"The driver had thick black hair and a heavy black beard. I would like to show you a computer generated photograph taken from the digital images captured. It has been enlarged."

"Sure Inspector, but I don't see how we could be of any help," she said, glancing at Philip.

Tremblay flipped a document over on his desk, before handing it to her.

She studied it for several seconds. "I've never seen this man." She passed it to Philip.

Tremblay turned toward him. "What about you?"

"It's hard to tell much about him from a profile. No, I don't recognize him." Philip handed the photo back to Tremblay. "I would think it difficult to identify him from that. There's more hair than face in the photo."

Taking the document from Philip, Tremblay said, "Actually, there's a lot of identifying information in this photo. You have to know where to look."

Philip gazed at her.

"I'll explain later." She assumed Tremblay was referring to ear identification. U. S. Courts weren't allowing it, but the FBI and CIA used it extensively. That is the reason professional criminals and terrorists cover not only their face, but ears as well during the commission of a crime. After 9/11, everyone has to assume their image has been photographed at some time or another and stored in the belly of a government computer system to be regurgitated whenever needed.

She turned toward the inspector. "Why are you telling us about one of your homicide cases?"

"Hotel employees were interviewed at the hotel the day you checked in. While you and Mr. Lewellan were upstairs in your rooms, two employees mentioned your interest in Alasdair upon your arrival." He gazed at Philip. "According to them, you appeared genuinely saddened upon hearing of his death. Then you, Detective Copeland, called our offices requesting to meet with an inspector. Because you had inquired about the victim when you checked into the hotel, your names were associated with my investigation. That is why you were routed to me."

"So that was why you agreed to meet with us this morning?" she said.

"Among other things," Tremblay replied.

Her interest was piqued. "What other things, Inspector?"

Tremblay placed the photo to one side. "Remember when I mentioned the smallest bit of information can sometimes be the key to solving a crime?"

"Yes."

"According to an employee of the hotel, a courier with black hair and a beard came to pick up a package which was addressed to your Mrs. C. Belah. We believe the courier and the man in this photograph are the same man. I was told you indicated an interest in that package."

"Yes, we did," Philip blurted before she could respond.

She glared at him before turning her attention back to the inspector.

"Inspector Tremblay, our interest in that package only relates to finding Mrs. Belah. She fits the description of Mr. Lewellan's wife. We believe it was an oil painting of her and their daughter, which Mrs. Belah purchased in New York and had shipped to the hotel."

The inspector leaned forward. "You mentioned the painting on the phone."

"Surely, you don't believe we had anything to do with the man's death."

"I have no reason to think so, but we like to be thorough."

She nodded.

"You're searching for Mrs. Belah and her daughter, and I am searching for this man." He placed a finger on the photo. "There are hundreds of men in Paris who fit the description of the driver. In your search for Mrs. Belah, should you encounter an individual fitting his description, I would appreciate a call from you."

"Of course." It was her turn to ask for a favor. She pulled a photograph from her purse and handed it to the inspector. "If you should encounter a woman who looks like her, I would appreciate a call from you."

"I'll have a copy made for our files."

"Wait. Please make a copy of this one too." Philip removed the art gallery brochure from his pocket and placed it on the desk.

Tremblay picked it up and studied it. "Ah, a photo of the oil painting in question."

"Yes. The woman in the painting is my wife, Renée and the girl is my daughter, Rachel."

Tremblay held the two photos up side by side, comparing them. "Interesting."

She gazed at Philip.

"What do you think, Inspector?" Philip asked.

"How old is the photo of your wife?"

"A little over seven years," Philip replied. "I was told the painting was commissioned less than a year ago."

Tremblay stared at the two photos. "They appear to be images of the same woman, although her face is fuller in the painting."

"Yes, Renée may have put on a few pounds, Inspector."

Tremblay lowered the photos. "If we find anything I think could help you, I will call."

"Thank you," Philip said.

"Inspector, I also have two fingerprint cards. I'm hoping you will scan the prints into your system and tell me if they are a match?" She reached into the red file folder and removed her copy of Renée's fingerprint card, along with the card she made from the prints on the hairbrush. A match between the two cards would prove Mrs. Belah was indeed Renée Lewellan.

"I will have it done immediately. You should have the results before you leave today."

She placed the cards on the desk. "If her prints show up in your database, hopefully, you will be able to provide us with an address."

"How long will that take?" Philip asked, gazing at the inspector.

"It depends. I will also forward all of this to Scotland Yard." Tremblay pushed a button under his desk. Within seconds the young man who had led them to the inspector's office returned. Tremblay handed the photo of Renée and the art gallery brochure to Maurice. "Copies of each." He then held up the two fingerprint cards. "Scan these prints and run them immediately for a match."

Maurice left the office with the documents.

Tremblay turned back toward her. "He'll return momentarily with your photographs. It will be a little longer for the fingerprint cards. You may pick them up on your way out. While we wait, I am curious as to the circumstances of your wife's disappearance. Would you mind telling me about it?"

Philip leaned forward in the chair and repositioned his legs. "I was traveling in London when Renée disappeared. I knew something was wrong when she stopped returning my calls and e-mails. After repeated attempts to contact her, I sent someone to our home to check on her. Her car was gone, and she was nowhere to be found. I immediately called the police and tried to convince them something had to be wrong. Detective Copeland was assigned the case. I flew back the next day. Until my discovery of the painting of Renée, neither the police nor private investigators have been able to find anything, not even her car."

"Mr. Lewellan. I'll do everything I can to assist."

Maurice returned with the original photos and the copies. Tremblay took them and gave the originals back to her and Philip.

She rose from her chair. "You've been very helpful, Inspector."

Philip stood. "Thank you, Inspector Tremblay."

"If we find anything, I'll call you."

She and Philip exchanged business cards with Tremblay.

"My assistant will show you out."

She and Philip struggled to get away from Tremblay's desk without getting their feet tangled up, then followed Maurice down the hallway.

The three of them entered the elevator, and Maurice pushed the button for the sixth floor.

"Why are we going up?" Sandra asked.

"To check the progress of the fingerprint scan and retrieve the fingerprint cards."

When the elevator reached the sixth floor and the door opened, the young man signaled them to follow him. There was a smell of fresh paint. On each side of the hallway were large offices with glass-paneled walls. The young man pointed to an office on the left. A bright blue metal desk with a black glass top could be seen inside. Picture frames were stacked flat on top of it. Black leather upholstered chairs surrounded the desk. They were covered with drop cloths. The door had Office of Inspector Renard Tremblay written on it.

"Inspector Tremblay is using the office downstairs until the painters are finished on this floor."

"From the looks of that office, he must be one of your top inspectors."

"Inspector Tremblay has solved many difficult cases, often using the smallest of details. He is like your American television character, Lieutenant Columbo."

She and Philip gazed at each other as they walked beside Maurice.

"Don't be surprised if you hear from him again in the future. The photograph of her will be most helpful to us. We are constantly scanning digital images and comparing them with other images and photographs in our data base."

"What photos do you compare them to?" she asked.

Maurice stopped walking.

"I am not allowed to discuss all of our specific sources for the data, but if you travel in Europe, your image is in our database."

"I understand. Thank you for telling us about Inspector Tremblay," she said.

"If you will please wait here, I will return with your fingerprint cards."

After he left, Philip asked, "What do you think?"

She shook her head. "Maurice has been watching too many American television reruns. Let's at least hope they get a match on the prints."

Several minutes later, Maurice returned.

"Our system has not yet found a match. It will take more time to check the entire database." He held out the two fingerprint cards.

"Are you saying the prints on these two cards did not match?" she asked.

"That is what I was told."

Either Mrs. Belah is not Renée, or the print on the back of the brush was put there by someone else, Rachel possibly.

"Thank you," she said taking the cards from him.

Philip looked down at the floor. His disappointment was obvious to her.

"I will show you out."

## Chapter 40

Laurent met Philip and Sandra at the door when they arrived back at the hotel. He held out a small envelope for her.

"This is for you. It's from Marie. She was afraid she might miss you."

"Thank you," Sandra said. After reading the note, she glanced at Philip and motioned toward the stairway.

When they reached his room, she waited for him to unlock the door then closed it behind them. "She called the hotel this morning."

"Who?" Philip asked.

"Mrs. Belah."

His eyes widened.

She held the note out. "Read it for yourself."

He read the note and looked up. "We have to get back to New York"

She reached for her cell phone. "While you make plane reservations, I'll call Kevin and have him check out the address and find out who lives there. Maybe he can talk the NYPD into sending officers over to check it out."

"I know who lives there. I've been to the apartment."

She stared at him. "You have?"

He nodded. "It's the address Chapman gave me when I asked him where I could find Ramsel Randellini."

He grabbed his phone. "Let's not count on the NYPD's help, I'm going to call a private investigation agency and have the apartment complex surrounded. I don't want to take any chances of missing her this time."

* * *

From across the street, Raudin waited until Lewellan and the detective entered the hotel. When the light in room twenty-six turned on, he walked down the street to the outdoor restaurant he'd previously visited and removed his computer. He logged on and monitored Lewellan's credit card accounts and flight reservations. Moments later, one of Lewellan's accounts changed. It was what he had been waiting for. He logged off and placed the laptop back inside his canvas bag. Throwing the strap over his shoulder, he walked away and pulled his phone from his pocket and placed a call.

Barletto answered.

"He just booked two first class tickets to New York. They'll be leaving at three fifty-five today and arriving at JFK on Air France at six tonight your time. Do you want me to follow them to the airport?"

"No. They're not going anywhere else. Stay out of sight, and keep your lady friend on ice until I tell you otherwise."

"She doesn't like the apartment. I need to move her somewhere else."

"The hell you will. Keep her there until I say different. I can't wait to put a bullet in her brain."

"Hey, John, you said she wouldn't get hurt."

"Shut up. I said no names, you stupid idiot."

"Sorry, I forgot."

"Keep an eye on her, if you know what's good for you. She's the key to this whole thing."

"Don't worry. I'm heading back to the apartment now. I won't let her out of my sight until I hear from you."

"Make damn sure you don't."

The connection went dead.

* * *

Philip paced back and forth between the front desk and the stairs in the small hotel lobby waiting for Sandra to finish packing. He checked his watch. They had plenty of time to make their flight, but he couldn't help being anxious.

Sandra's heels made a clacking sound on the hardwood stairs. She stepped into the lobby.

"I've been on the phone with Kevin. New York has no intentions of devoting any manpower for surveillance."

Laurent followed carrying her bag. He put it down and opened the exit door for them. "I'll bring your bags right out."

Halfway to the street, she stopped. "I forgot something." She ran back to the hotel.

A couple of minutes later, Laurent brought their bags out. While handing the bags to the taxi driver, he said, "Miss Copeland is asking Marie about a wine she had bet you the hotel didn't have."

Before he could response, Sandra came out of the hotel carrying a bottle of wine.

After he and Sandra entered the taxi, she said, "You think you're so damn smart. Marie spilled the beans on you."

He knew better, but said nothing. All he could think about was getting to New York.

## Chapter 41

The Airbus A330 hit the wet runway hard fighting a strong crosswind at JFK International airport. As soon as the pilot slowed the airplane and began to taxi toward the terminal building, Philip called his contact at the private investigation agency he had hired to watch the apartment complex.

"Thank you for the update, Philip said. "We'll be staying at the Waldorf."

He turned toward Sandra. "She's here."

"They found her?"

"No. Three people, in the apartment building, saw a woman fitting her description day before yesterday. The security guard said she gave her name as Mrs. Belah. Also, two of the tenants saw her knocking on the door of Randellini's apartment. Unfortunately, she hasn't returned to the apartment since. I told them to keep the building under surveillance twenty-four hours a day."

She sat quietly.

"What is it?" Philip asked.

"Once again, we're one step behind her."

He and Sandra exited the plane and walked toward the door leading to ground transportation.

He pointed. "There's Joseph."

"Welcome back to New York." Joseph reached for the bags.

"Hi, Joseph," Sandra said.

"Hello, Detective."

He patted Joseph on the shoulder while letting him take Sandra's bag. "Thank you. I can carry this one."

* * *

On the drive to the Waldorf Hotel, Sandra sat quietly and stared out the window, until her phone rang.

"Kevin."

"Sandra, where are you? I've been trying to call you for hours."

"We just landed. I'm back in New York City."

"We got a match on one of the prints you lifted from the hairbrush. Apparently, Lewellan's wife is alive."

She glanced at Philip. It was obvious he was listening to every word she was saying. "You're absolutely sure?"

"Yes, of course, I'm sure."

"Let me call you back." She terminated the call and gazed at Philip. "That was Kevin. Dallas got match on one of the prints. You were right. It appears Mrs. C. Belah is indeed Renée."

He threw his hands in the air and yelled, "Yes, yes, yes. I knew it." Then he took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment.

She gazed at him. He had spent millions trying to find his missing wife? Now, after all these years she popped up in Paris? Why would Renée leave a man like Philip and go into hiding? Something was terribly wrong. She could feel it in her bones.

After placing her phone back in her purse, she said, "Okay, maybe Renée is alive, and your daughter Rachel as well. That's the good news."

"What do you mean maybe?" He turned and stared at her. "What other proof do you need?"

She wanted to say _see them in the flesh_ , but didn't. Her gut told her something was terribly wrong. Why had Renée never tried to contact Philip? When people disappear and sever all ties to friends and family, there's usually a good reason for it. If Renée was alive, she had a hell of a lot of explaining to do. And so did Philip. What was he holding back from her? She looked away.

"Talk to me, Sandra."

Turning to face him, she placed her hands on her knees. "All right, I will. We have practically been living together for the last three days. You appear to be the perfect gentleman in every way." She hesitated.

"Go ahead. Tell me what's on your mind?"

After taking a deep breath, she pressed her lips together and exhaled slowly. "I don't know any other way to put it, so I'm going to lay it out straight."

She gazed at him. "You're extremely kind and considerate of everyone around you. You're generous to a fault. Even when you're upset with people, you're pretty nice about it. And you're an attractive man, but there's one question that keeps burning a hole in my image of you as a woman's dream."

The flashing light of a police car parked behind a stalled car with its hood up drew her attention. Joseph slowed to change lanes to go around it.

"What's your point?" he said, ignoring what was going on outside the car.

"Other than my father," She turned her attention back to him. "I've never known of, nor have I ever heard of a man so much in love with a woman as you are. You haven't seen her, nor heard from her in seven years, but it's obvious you are still very much in love with Renée."

When he started to speak, she stuck her hand out to silence him.

"The question that keeps lingering in my head is why would a pregnant woman leave a man like you?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, Sandra. If I did, I would tell you. There has to be a logical explanation. Maybe she had been kidnapped, or suffered some form of amnesia. I do know this, we have physical proof my wife and daughter are alive."

Hair fell across her face. She brushed it away wishing she had tied it in the back before leaving the hotel in Paris. "From all indications, she is travelling around the country freely. That kind of amnesia only happens in the movies. I bet you've already researched that one, haven't you?"

The expression on his face told her he had.

"If Renée could remember enough to use a coded name to get you to Paris, then why didn't she meet you there? If she remembered the word games, most likely she would also remember you. If she knows who she is, and she knows who you are, then why play a cat and mouse game?"

"You think I'm holding something back from you, don't you?" He shook his head. "I'm not. I've told you everything. I don't know why she left. I can't explain it. It's why I couldn't sleep in Paris. Why? Why did she leave? That question kept me awake, hundreds of nights, for the past seven years."

"You know something else that bothers me?"

He gazed at her, but didn't respond.

"For seven years nothing, then all of a sudden she starts leaving tracks like an elephant walking through a freshly plowed field. Why?"

He leaned back and threw his arm over the top of the seat. "Whatever her reasons, I still have a right to find my own child."

"Of course you do, but can you not understand my concerns? I'm not really sure what to believe is real and what is not."

She thought about Jessica's warning note. "What reason would someone have to set you up?" At first she thought it had something to do with his will, until he told her that Renée and Rachel were no longer beneficiaries. "Only you would know why."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"There has to be a good reason Renée has never tried to contact you since she disappeared. Maybe for a reason you know, but are not telling me. Someone is lying, and I'm beginning to wonder if that someone is you."

He stared at her for several seconds, before turning away and looking out the window.

With nothing left to say, she leaned back in her seat, until they reached their destination.

Joseph stopped the limo in front of the Waldorf Astoria.

A bellman opened the rear door.

Not moving from her seat, she said "I've been a detective too long not to be suspicious. It's my job to look at the facts and consider alternate scenarios. We have a painting, a dead artist, a note of warning from the woman who gave you the brochure, a sighting in a Paris hotel, and now a fingerprint. If you don't like my assessment that something is wrong, then you tell me what the hell is going on."

He didn't respond.

"My father told me to always follow my gut feeling, and my gut is telling me that what you're going to eventually find is not what you're hoping for."

He continued to look straight ahead, appearing to ignore her.

Frustrated by his refusal to respond, she said, "I think I've done all I can do for you, Philip. I'll fly back to Dallas in the morning." She started to rise from her seat.

He turned toward her. "Only Renée has the answers you're seeking. Even so you no longer think I've told you everything, I still need you to help me find them. Give me one more day of your time, please."

She eased back into the seat.

The last time she had seen that much sadness in his face was the day he showed her the nursery he and Renée had prepared for their unborn child. That was the moment he vowed never to give up searching for them. At the time, she told him, if he could produce any evidence that Renée was alive, she would go to the ends of the earth to find her. The man had kept his word. How could she not keep hers?

"I know something is terribly wrong, and I'm not going to change my mind about that, but if you still want my help I'll stay."

The bellman continued to hold the rear door of the limo open. The blast of a car horn near the intersection momentarily drowned out the sound of foot traffic of people in front of the hotel.

"I do." Philip nodded. "Whatever has happened, I'm sure we'll get to the bottom of it."

Relieved he had finally acknowledged her doubts, she said, "Why don't we split up for awhile? I need some time alone."

"I thought we'd check into our rooms, freshen up a bit, and then get something to eat."

She and Philip had both eaten on the plane. "I'm not really hungry. Besides, I want to collect my thoughts and get some fresh air. I do my best thinking walking alone. I won't be long." She stepped out of the limo.

He followed her out. "It'll be dark in less than an hour. I'm not sure I want you walking around by yourself. Please, let me go with you."

"I hope you didn't intend to insult me. I'm a police detective and fully capable of taking care of myself. Why don't you go ahead and check us in. Have my bag sent up to the room. I'll be back before you know it."

He appeared reluctant to let her go. "Okay. I'll wait for you in my room. Will you call as soon as you return?"

"Sure." She turned and walked away.

## Chapter 42

Sandra strolled along the sidewalks of Manhattan, the temperature in the mid sixties. Tall gray and tan buildings blocked any view of the sunset as she turned off 49th Street onto Fifth Avenue. Her heart wasn't into shopping, and she didn't have the budget for it anyway. At least she would be able to say she had seen a few shops. She passed a woman dressed in a black business suit wearing rectangle framed eyeglasses walking in the opposite direction carrying a black canvas brief case with what appeared to be legal papers sticking out of the top. There weren't as many people out walking at 8:15 in the evening as she had expected.

Why was Philip acting so protective of her? She turned her phone off so he couldn't call her. There were a lot of pieces. She had to figure out how they all fit. She stopped occasionally to look in a few store-front windows. After an hour, she couldn't remember one item she had seen.

A bus passed with an advertisement on the side for a car dealership. Large discounts were promised for customers using a discount code shown.

She stopped.

Who else knows about the word game? She removed her phone and turned it on. Both Kevin and Philip had been trying to reach her. She dialed Kevin's cell number.

"Where are you?" Kevin asked. He sounded desperate. "I've been trying to reach you."

"What's going on?" she asked, hoping he'd found Jessica.

"Lewellan is under investigation for murder."

"I thought the police in Brooklyn dropped him as a suspect."

"Not in Brooklyn, in Dallas. Barletto claims Lewellan murdered his grandmother."

"What? That's impossible. He was in New York when she died."

"Not according to Barletto."

"You've heard from him?"

"Not directly, but the Lieutenant got a copy of a police report Barletto e-mailed to Hank."

"Why would Philip want to kill his grandmother? That doesn't make sense."

"So it's Philip, now?"

The question made her sigh. "Kevin, please."

"Money. That's the motive."

"That's ridiculous. He inherited twelve million from his parent's estate and turned that into two hundred million investing in the stock market. His grandmother was a retired public school teacher living in a modest home. I went there to interview her right after Renée was reported missing."

"Lewellan may be rich, compared to most people, but his wealth is measly compared to his grandmother's estate. The Lewellan family fortune came from his grandfather, not from the stock market."

"How's that possible?"

"The old man came up with some kind of special drill bit and got a patent on it. Then he had eight hundred of the bits manufactured, leasing them to oil companies all over the world for a thousand dollars a day, each. That generated hundreds of thousands of dollars per month. After his death, Lewellan's grandmother eventually sold the patent rights for one point nine billion dollars."

"But Kevin, she—"

"I'm telling you what's in the report. The lieutenant told me to tell you to get back to Dallas, ASAP."

She needed to talk to Barletto directly and convince him Philip couldn't have killed his grandmother. "Where is Barletto now?"

"He's in New York, and claims to be on the trail of a woman who can substantiate his accusations."

"What's her name?"

"Her name was not in the report, but I'm going to take a wild guess and say Jessica Riddling. When are you coming back?"

With her two vacation days spent and the lieutenant ordering her back, what choice did she have?

"Tomorrow."

"Call me when you have a flight number. I'll meet you at the airport."

Most of the foot traffic had gone indoors. A bug flew down from a street light and buzzed her face until she swatted it away. According to Joseph, Philip was in the back seat of a limo in New York when his grandmother died. And there was Jessica's note warning Philip that a Dallas detective was trying to set him up. Why would Barletto file a false report? How could he expect to get away with that? And there was a new question that popped up during her walk. She called Philip's cell phone.

"I've been worried," Philip said. "I couldn't reach you. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Besides you, Renée, and me, who else knows about your word game?"

"Angela, but I haven't told her anything about Renée. I had planned on doing that in person next week. I had also hoped to go sailing with her in Boston."

So much for Angela being merely an e-mail friend. She glanced at the street signs on the corner, only three blocks from the Waldorf. "I'll meet you at the hotel in ten minutes. We have a lot to talk about."

"I'll be downstairs in the lobby near the main entrance. There's something I want to tell you, but not over the phone."

"Make it six minutes." She hung up and picked up the pace, trying to make it to the intersection before the traffic light changed. A bead of sweat rolled off her face. Before stepping off the curb, she waited for a car approaching from her right. She opened her purse and searched for a tissue to wipe the sweat off her face. She started to drop her phone in her purse when she felt a burning sensation in her upper chest right below her shoulder.

Barletto lowered the tinted window of the rental car as he approached the intersection. He applied enough pressure on the trigger to light up the laser sight and rested the .22 caliber pistol's silencer on his arm.

When the detective stopped walking, opened her purse, and looked in it, he aimed and pulled the trigger.

She grabbed at her left shoulder.

He placed the laser dot on her head and fired again.

She collapsed onto the sidewalk. Her phone flew from her hand, hit the concrete and shattered into pieces.

He drove through the intersection as if nothing had happened.

## Chapter 43

Philip stood on the street corner outside the Waldorf Hotel, pacing back and forth between the two entrances, watching for any sign of Sandra. He checked his watch again. It had been more than twenty minutes since he'd talked to her. She had said six. He tried calling her again. Every time it kept ringing until it timed out with his call then routed to her voice mail. He tried her room again. Maybe she'd come in from the side entrance without him seeing her. There was still, no answer.

He dialed her cell phone one more time. Same result. Why wasn't she answering? He couldn't wait any longer and told the doorman to hail a taxi.

"Go up East 50th street and turn left on 5th Avenue," Philip said, settling into the back seat.

There was no sign of her on 5th. "Go up Madison."

Several minutes later, after going up and down streets near the hotel, the taxi driver stopped and rolled down the window.

A police officer pointed at him and blew his whistle, waving him off indicating the street was closed. The driver looked over his shoulder. "I can't go that way."

"Make another loop around the hotel," Philip said, scanning the sidewalks on both sides of the street.

"Suit yourself, mister. If you want to keep driving around the same streets over and over again, it's fine with me."

Too many minutes had passed since he'd last talked to her. Circling the streets near the hotel appeared to be a waste of time.

"Take me to the nearest police station."

The driver glanced in the rear view mirror, shook his head and sped down Park Avenue. Four minutes later, he pulled over on 51st Street.

A sign on the front of the building confirmed the driver at taken him to the New York Police Station, precinct 17. He handed bills to the driver. "Thanks. Keep the change."

Entering the station, he approached a police officer. "My name is Philip Lewellan. I'm trying to find Detective Sandra Copeland. She's with the Dallas Police Department."

"Just a moment, sir," the officer said. He stepped back and turned to another officer behind him. "You better take this one. He doesn't know what state he's in."

Overhearing the officer's comment, he shook his head. They thought he was drunk or on drugs. It didn't take him long to convince the officers he knew exactly what state he was in and why he was looking for a Dallas Police detective in a New York Police station.

A few minutes later, he was escorted to an office.

"I'm Detective Barnes. Please have a seat." He closed the door and moved toward the center of the room.

"Mr. Lewellan, are you aware you're wanted for questioning in a homicide investigation?"

"I was," Philip replied. "I've already given a statement to the Brooklyn Police."

Barnes remained standing. "And when did you do that?"

"Three days ago." he said, his irritation growing by the second. "Detective, I'll answer any questions you have, but please, I have to find Detective Sandra Copeland. She's with the Dallas Police Department, and she's here in New York helping me search for my missing wife and daughter. I've already told all of this to the other officer."

According to the clock on the wall it was 11:06.

"Relax, Mr. Lewellan. We know where Detective Copeland is."

"Where is she? Is she all right? I want to talk to her."

"After you answer my questions." Barnes took a seat across from him. "What is your purpose for being in New York City?"

He exhaled. How many times did he need to say it to them? "Detective Copeland and I are searching for my missing wife and daughter."

After answering several more questions, another officer walked into the room and laid a file folder down in front of Barnes.

Barnes opened it and read three and half pages before looking up.

"This is a copy of the statement you gave three days ago."

Philip glanced at the round government issued clock. It was 11:42. He leaned forward and put his hands on the desk. "Detective Barnes, I've answered your questions truthfully. Now, will you please tell me where I can find Detective Copeland?"

Barnes closed the folder. "She's at Mount Sinai Hospital on East Ninety-eighth Street."

"What happened? Why is she there?"

"She was shot," Barnes said. "Earlier tonight."

He jumped up. "What's her condition?"

"They told me she was in critical condition."

"I'll be at the hospital." He headed for the door.

Barnes stood. "We may need to talk to you again."

Already through the doorway, he yelled over his shoulder. "My number and address are in that file in front of you."

He ran out of the station and practically tackled the first taxi driving by.

## Chapter 44

The woman at the hospital information counter looked up from her terminal. "I'm sorry, sir, but Miss Copeland is recovering from surgery and her doctor is not allowing anyone other than hospital personnel to see her."

"I want to speak with her doctor?" Philip asked, resting both hands on the counter.

"I'll check for you, sir." She turned to her computer screen. "Doctor Goldman is her surgeon. He's currently unavailable, but I'll leave your number for him."

He gave the receptionist his cell number, and she gave him directions to the waiting room near the trauma ward.

After finding the waiting room, he took a seat near a window as far away as possible from a family of five speaking in a foreign language trying to calm a woman in tears. A few minutes later, an older man entered the room carrying paper bags of food. The aroma of hot Thai food soon filled the room, and an hour later the people who had eater were all trying to sleep in the thinly padded chairs. They all appeared to be as uncomfortable as him.

He was awakened by the ringing of his phone. He straightened up, pulled it from his pocket and checked the time on it before answering. It was almost 4:00 A.M.

"Philip Lewellan."

"I sure wish you hadn't told my momma I was going to college."

Immediately recognizing her voice, he said, "Jessica, thank you for calling me. Are you and Jodie all right?"

"We're okay for now, but we've run out of money. In that note you shoved under Jodie's apartment door, you said you'd help me in any way you could. Did you mean that?"

"Yes, I did."

"Well, Jodie has probably lost her job, and we can't go back to New York City. We were wondering if you could send us five hundred dollars so we could make it to my momma's house and hang out there a while."

"Where are you?"

"Wire the money to the Western Union office in Clevetown, Georgia. There's only one Western Union office there. It's at the bus stop. We'll be there around noon today."

"Who were you referring to in the note you left at the hotel?"

"As soon as I get the money, I'll call you back and tell you what I know."

"All right, Jessica. I'll wire the money." If he followed through, he hoped she would too.

"Thanks. Jodie and I appreciate it. I wouldn't be doing this if we weren't desperate. I'm not trying to shake you down. I'll pay you back, honest. And I promise I'll call you when I get the money."

"I know you will. I'll wire a little extra so you can buy something for your mother."

He heard her yell, "Jodie, I knew I was right about him."

"Thanks, mister. Jodie says thanks, too. I didn't really believe you killed anybody."

"Who told you I—"

"I'm coming, Jodie," Jessica yelled. "I've got to go. The bus is about to leave."

She hung up.

He lowered his phone to his side. Why would someone tell her he had killed someone?

## Chapter 45

"Can you hear me?" A nurse said, placing a hand on her arm.

Sandra opened her eyes and tried to focus on the person speaking to her. Her throat was so dry it hurt. "I'm thirsty," she whispered to the nurse.

The nurse pressed a button and raised the bed, before pouring water from a pitcher into a glass. She then placed a straw to her lips.

She sipped from the cup several times before stopping to rest her head back on the pillow.

"How do you feel?" the nurse asked.

"I have a terrible headache." She tried to raise her hand to her head. "Ouch, what's wrong with my chest?"

"Use your other arm. Your chest is wrapped to reduce the movement of your right ribs."

"What happened to me?"

"The doctor will be in to check on you in a moment. After you left the recovery room last night, we gave you something to ease the pain. It's starting to wear off. I can't give you another shot until he sees you. It won't be long. Do you think you can hold on a few more minutes?"

"Yes, and I'd rather not go back to sleep right now. How long will it be?"

"I'll go get him now." The nurse left the room.

She was more alert by the time the nurse returned with the doctor.

The doctor walked over to the hospital bed and placed his hand on her wrist.

"Good morning. I'm Doctor Goldman."

"What happened to me?" she asked.

"You were brought in last night by ambulance. We had to perform emergency surgery on you. You suffered a gunshot wound to the head and one to the upper chest area just below your right shoulder."

"Shot! In the head?" The last thing she remembered was a burning sensation in her chest before it felt as if someone hit her in the head with a hammer.

He patted her hand. "You're going to be fine. You're one lucky lady. The shot to your head was a glancing blow and the bullet didn't penetrate your skull. You had a four inch laceration with considerable bleeding. I repaired a small hole in your left lung and removed the bullet. You should have a full recovery, except for two scars. Your hair will cover the one on your head where the bullet grazed your skull, and the one on your chest will be barely noticeable over time."

"How long will I have to be here?"

You should be able to get out of here in a couple of days. Your headache should ease off during the day, but your rib may be sore for a couple of weeks."

"Who shot me?"

"I don't know. Do you feel like eating anything?" Goldman asked.

"Not really, but I'll try," she replied.

He smiled at her, before turning toward the nurse. "Have a breakfast tray brought up." He patted her on the arm. "I'll have the nurse bring you something for the pain."

"I don't want to go back to sleep."

"We'll give you something that lets you stay awake."

"Thank you," she said.

"Detective Markham with the New York City Police wants to talk to you. Do you feel like talking to him this morning?" Goldman asked.

"Send him in. I want to know who shot me."

## Chapter 46

Three hours after Detective Markham left her room the nurse opened the door and stepped inside the room.

"There's a police detective outside who is demanding to see you. Do you feel like having another visitor?"

"Is it Detective Markham?"

"No this is a different one. He's carrying flowers."

Sandra smiled. "Yes, I'll see him."

Kevin had only been in the room a few minutes when the nurse came back in.

"You're one popular woman today. There's a gentleman downstairs who slept in the waiting room last night. He hung around all morning waiting to get the doctor's permission to come up. He's requesting to see you, if you feel up to it. His name is Lewellan."

She gazed at Kevin. "Do you mind if he steps in for a minute?"

"Not at all." Kevin nodded at the nurse. "It's okay. Send him up."

The nurse left the room.

"Thanks, Kevin," Sandra said. "I still can't believe you're here."

"Nothing could have kept me away." He moved closer and caressed her hand. "I love you. Haven't you figured that out by now?"

Tears welled in the corner of her eyes. She had known how he felt about her, but she had never acted on it, for fear they would be yanked apart. Lovers can't be partners on the force.

She and Kevin were gazing at each other when someone knocked at the open door.

"Come in," she said, to the unshaven man standing there.

Philip stepped into the room and approached her hospital bed.

Usually impeccably dressed, Philip Lewellan was unshaven, his suit wrinkled, and his dark brown hair hadn't been anywhere near a comb nor a brush since she had last seen him.

* * *

Philip tried to focus on her, but he couldn't help but notice she and the man standing next to her bed were holding hands.

She smiled at him.

He turned his attention to the man. "I'm Philip Lewellan."

"Yes, I know. I'm Detective Kevin Franks. I'm with the Dallas Police Department."

"Thank you for your help," Philip said, extending his hand.

Franks gripped it firmly. "You're welcome."

Philip gazed at Sandra. "Doctor Goldman says you're going to have a complete recovery."

She nodded. "That's what he told me this morning."

"It was a great relief to hear you're going to be all right. It's nice to see a smile on your face. You look a lot better than I expected." He glanced at the bandage around her head.

"Better than you do," she said. "You look awful."

"I hope I don't smell." He pretended to sniff under his armpit.

She held her hand up. "You'd better not get too close."

Franks laughed.

"Before I left the hospital, I wanted to see for myself you were okay." He glanced at Franks. "I didn't mean to interrupt your visit, but they wouldn't let me come up earlier." He rubbed the stubble on his chin, and then took a step back. "I guess I'd better get cleaned up."

"Please don't leave," she said. "What was it you wanted to tell me?"

He knew she was referring to their last telephone conversation, but he acted as if he didn't understand.

"Something you didn't want to tell me over the phone," she said.

She and Franks rejoined hands.

It was obvious they cared a great deal for each other. "It was nothing, really. Just a crazy idea I had that didn't work out. I really should go now."

"Thanks for coming," Franks said.

Philip reached in his pocket and pulled out a pen and a piece of paper. He wrote on it then folded it. "I have figured something out that might interest you."

She stared at the note. "I'm afraid you're on your own now, at least for a while."

Franks didn't say anything, but from the smile spreading across his face, he appeared to be pleased she would no longer be helping him with the search.

"Yes, of course. I understand." He moved toward her hospital bed and laid the folded note on top of the sheet beside her hand. "When you feel better, you should take a look at this note. I'm pretty sure I have it right this time."

She placed her hand over it. "I will."

"Sure." He stared at the doorway. He was in the way and felt he should leave them alone.

"Philip?"

"Yes," he replied, turning his attention back at her.

"You are going to continue the search, aren't you?"

"Yes, I want to see my daughter and find out why Renée left me."

"I knew you would. I don't know why I asked."

"I had a lot of time to think last night, and I came up with a plan."

"I hope it works out." She gave him a confident grin. "I'll be released in a day or two, and then I can—"

"No." Philip shook his head and held up his hand. "I'd rather you take the time to recover fully. Really, I can handle it. As I said, I have a new plan, and you know me and my plans."

"Let me know how it turns out." She rubbed the bandage on her head.

"I will." He stepped to the other side of the bed. "Detective Franks, I expect you to take good care of her."

"You can count on that." Franks turned and gazed at her. "I'm not leaving her side."

She squeezed Franks' hand.

"That's exactly what I wanted to hear. Now, if you both will excuse me, I really need to go take a shower.

* * *

Sandra stared out the doorway until Philip was completely out of sight. Why did she feel as if he was walking out of her life forever? More importantly, why did the thought of that bother her?

"What did he mean you know me and my plans?" Kevin asked.

"When his parents died, he had a hard time dealing with his grief. In an effort to help him, his grandmother asked him to come up with a plan to sail across the ocean to France. He studied wind charts, ocean currents, everything. He worked out the details of the trip, the amount of food and water, as well as plotting the latitudes and longitudes of key points along the route. It worked. By the time he finished with his plan, he began to get a grip on his grief, and his school work improved."

"You know a lot about him, don't you?"

"No, not really, but I'm sure about one thing. He didn't kill his grandmother."

"How can you be so sure?"

"When you sit beside someone for seven hours on an airplane, twice, you learn a few things about him. I think his grandmother's sudden death almost did him in."

She looked down at the note and picked it up.

"Let it go." Kevin said. "You've done all you can for him."

She held it up. "You're right. Here, you read it. I'm through chasing a ghost."

He opened the note and read it. "Yeah, Lewellan got it right. That's for sure." He grinned.

"How would you know? What did he put in the note?"

"Read it for yourself." He gave it to her.

She held it out and read it.

_I think Kevin is the right guy_.

She let her hand with the note in it fall back to the bed. "Maybe he did."

"Let's hope you're right about him." Kevin stared at the doorway. "Do you think he'll find them?"

"He won't stop until he does." A wave of sadness washed over her. She pulled at bits of her hair hanging from the bandaged area. What was he going to find? A woman who obviously no longer loved him and a child who didn't know him?

"What's wrong? Are you in pain?" Kevin asked.

She had tried to hide her feelings, but he knew her too well.

"The same question keeps nagging me. If she's alive, why has she never contacted him?"

"It does seem sad, doesn't it?" Kevin glanced toward the doorway. "When his parents were washed overboard, he didn't want to give up that search either."

"He was a child then," she said, staring out the doorway as well. "He didn't know his parents couldn't have survived long in open water fighting for their lives against high waves."

"That's my point, too much time has passed. But that's enough detective work for today. I'd rather work on eliminating the word maybe from your vocabulary."

"In that case, maybe you'd better tell me what your plans are after you leave the police force."

"What makes you think I'm leaving the force?"

"You said you wanted to work on eliminating the word maybe from my vocabulary."

"How long are you going to play hard to get?"

"As long as it takes to get well enough to handcuff you, since you don't appear to be able to keep your hands off of me." And until she could stop thinking about Philip.

He held his wrists together straight out in front of his body. "You can cuff me anytime you're ready, officer."

"Maybe, I'd better get some rest now. I'm feeling tired."

## Chapter 47

Philip returned to the hotel, took a shower and changed into clean clothes. Physically, he felt better, but freshening up had no effect on his concern. Why hadn't he heard from Jessica? Had he misjudged her sincerity? He hoped they were safe from whomever they were running from. He tried to remember the last time he had eaten and decided to go to the restaurant downstairs for a quick meal.

While he stood in the hallway waiting for the elevator, his cell phone rang. He grabbed it and placed it to his ear. When the elevator door opened and several people stepped out, he backed away deciding against getting on the elevator.

"Philip Lewellan."

"I'm real sorry I couldn't call earlier, but there was a bad pile-up on the Interstate and traffic was blocked for hours."

Relieved to hear Jessica's voice, he said, "I understand. Are you and Jodie safe?"

"You did real good by us, so I'm going to tell you what I know."

"First, tell me whether or not you and Jodie are all right."

"You know something, Mister? I've never met a man like you before. Okay, have it your way. Jodie and I are going to get back on the bus in about thirty minutes. In three hours we'll be at my momma's house. We're going to hang out there for a week or two until we can figure out what to do."

"I'm glad you're safe. Now you can tell me what you know."

"This detective named Barletto told me he could get me out of jail and get me a plane ticket to anywhere in the United States. All I had to do was fly to New York City and back."

"What did you mean in the note about me being set up?"

"When I got to New York, Barletto met me at the airport and told me on my flight back to Dallas I would be seated next to a man named Philip Lewellan. He told me all I had to do was make sure you saw the picture on the back of that art gallery brochure."

"Did he say why?"

"No. He told me not to ask you about it."

"What else did he tell you?"

"That your wife is hiding from you, and I should not tell you my real name."

"Does Barletto know where my wife and daughter are?"

"If he does, he didn't tell me."

"Why did you leave me the note at the hotel?"

"I believed Barletto at first, but you seemed to be a nice guy. There's something about you. For one thing, I haven't seen any criminals tear up outside of a courtroom."

"You didn't start doubting Barletto just because I had red eyes. There must have been something else."

"When I called him to tell him you took the brochure from me, he threatened me. I knew then he had lied about you."

"How did he threaten you?"

"He told me to get out of Texas and never come back unless I wanted to be buried there."

"Why would he threaten you, after you had done what he wanted?"

"I don't know. I sure didn't ever want to see him again. He scares the hell out of me. Maybe he sensed something in my voice when I called him."

"Are you sure Barletto didn't give you any indication where my wife and daughter are?"

"I'm sure. After what you've done for us, if I knew, I'd tell you. He just gave me the brochure."

"You said you called him. Do you have his number?"

"Oh God, you can't call him. If he finds out I told you any of this, I'm dead for sure."

From the tone of her voice he could tell she truly believed the man would kill her. "Okay, I won't try to contact him."

"Thanks, mister Lewellan, please don't. I've made a lot of mistakes, but I'm trying to get my life back on track. For some insane reason, I decided to start by trying to make things right with you."

"I'm glad you did. Is there anything else I can do for you and Jodie?"

"No. You've done plenty. I sure as hell didn't expect you to send three thousand dollars to each of us."

"Hopefully, that'll help you get a new start and give Jodie time to find another job."

Giving her and Jodie more help than they asked for was a small price to pay for any information that could help him find his wife and daughter. He was disappointed Jessica didn't know more about Renée and Rachel, but was convinced she had told him everything she knew about Barletto.

"It will," Jessica said. "You should have seen us jumping up and down after that guy handed us that much money."

"I wish I could have seen it."

"Do you have any other questions, because the bus is going to be leaving pretty soon?"

"Just one. Have you picked out a college yet? I can't have your mother thinking I wasn't serious about that scholarship. And if Jodie wants to go too, I'll provide full scholarships for both of you."

After he heard Jessica tell Jodie the news, there was a lot of whooping and hollering in the background, "Mister Lewellan, you have no idea how happy that's going to make my momma." Jessica's voice cracked.

He had a pretty good idea.

Why did Barletto want him to know about the painting? Why did he threaten Jessica? He remembered what Sandra had told him. If Barletto could produce them, why hadn't he?

His iPhone toned again. He looked at the display. It was a text message from the DNA lab.

## Chapter 48

Sandra sat up and stared at the flat screen television attached to the wall directly across from her hospital bed. It was turned on, but the volume was muted. A picture of the oil painting Philip had found shown in the background. It was grainy, an enlargement made from the brochure. A television news reporter began speaking.

She grabbed the remote control attached to the bed and turned on the volume.

"Multi-millionaire Philip Lewellan of Dallas, Texas is offering a five million dollar reward for information leading to the safe recovery of his wife, Renée, and their daughter Rachel. Mr. Lewellan, who did not wish to be shown on camera, told our news staff earlier this morning he believes his missing wife and child are the two people shown in this picture of an oil painting he recently discovered. Mr. Lewellan also stated that his wife and daughter were seen in Paris, France, but now believes they are somewhere in New York City.

"Expecting their first child, Renée Lewellan disappeared from their home in Dallas, Texas, almost seven years ago. According to our news team, the oil painting shown behind me, completed less than a year ago by Ramsel Randellini, is the first piece of evidence found to indicate Mrs. Lewellan and their child are alive. What makes this story more intriguing is the artist was murdered apparently minutes before Mr. Lewellan was to meet with him. We'll have more on this story at six. This is Robin Candle reporting for WNYX Channel Seven News."

Kevin opened the door to Sandra's hospital room and walked through the doorway. He glanced up at the television screen. "I've got The New York Times and a couple of magazines for you."

She muted the volume. "That was a news report on Lewellan."

He placed the newspaper and magazines on the bed. "Did he find her?"

"No, but he's trying like hell." She pushed a button to raise her bed a little higher. "Now I know what his new plan is. He's upped the reward to five million dollars."

Kevin raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to one side. "So it's to get everyone in the country looking for them." He stared at her. "It's got to make you wonder, though. You told me a million dollar reward didn't generate any legitimate leads. Instead, it created nothing but chaos for the department. If a million didn't work, I doubt five million will either. At least he didn't mention your name. If he had, both you and the lieutenant would be hung out to dry."

She grabbed the newspaper and leaned back resting her head against the raised bed. "My guess is he's lost the trail and is desperate. He had to come up with something to get people's attention, and five million dollars will get a lot of it."

Kevin picked up one of the magazines and sat in the chair near the window.

Would she ever see Philip again? The lieutenant couldn't let her get anywhere near him now. She laid the newspaper down. Why would Barletto try to frame him for murder?

## Chapter 49

Awakened by his cell phone ringing, Raudin sat up in bed and placed his bare feet on wet carpet. He kicked an overturned bottle out of the way, splattering burgundy on the bedroom wall. He grabbed the phone off the nightstand and yelled, "What do you want?"

"You were right," Barletto said, sounding jovial.

"About what?" He rubbed the back of his head where he hurt the most.

"I followed him to a television station last night. He was there for three hours. A New York station broadcast the story five minutes ago. He's upped the reward to five million. It'll be picked up by all the news media later today. Hell, it'll probably make CNN."

"What about the detective?" Raudin leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees.

"Don't worry about her. She's no longer on the case."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Bring her in through Canada tomorrow. Stay at the hotel we discussed. Wait there until I tell you it's safe to bring her across the border."

"She's driving me crazy, cooped up in this apartment."

"It won't be much longer."

Except for being forced to kill the hotel clerk in Paris, everything had worked as planned. For a change, even Barletto sounded like a normal human being instead of a raging psychopath ready to kill everyone who stood in his way.

Raudin scratched his chin. "I've got to get rid of this damn beard. I hate it." He stood and walked toward the bathroom.

"Shave your whole damn head as far as I'm concerned. It'll be over soon."

"You know, I might just do that." He glanced at the bathroom mirror.

"Call me when you arrive in Canada."

Lewellan was preparing to leave his room at the Waldorf Hotel. His cell phone rang. He answered it. "Philip Lewellan."

"Inspector Tremblay here. I've had no luck in trying to reach Detective Copeland's cell phone."

"Inspector Tremblay, may I inquire as to the purpose of your attempts to contact her?" He walked across the room toward the window. "Have you information you could share with me about my wife and daughter?"

"No, unfortunately I haven't. I was curious to know how the search was going, before I retired for the evening."

Disappointed the inspector hadn't found anything on his end, he said, "I've run out of leads. I'd appreciate any help or suggestions you would be willing to offer."

"All I know is what you told me in Paris. If you have any additional information, I'd be happy to listen."

After telling the inspector everything that had happened since he and Sandra left Paris, he added, "Detective Copeland thinks searching for Renée has been a lot like chasing a ghost. People claim to see her, but no one can find her." He peered out the window at all the foot traffic on the sidewalk.

Tremblay remained silent.

"From your silence, am I to assume you agree with her?"

"You told me Marie identified the photo of your wife as the woman who registered at the hotel under the name Mrs. C. Belah."

"That's correct."

"To my knowledge, Mr. Lewellan, ghosts don't check in and out of hotels in Paris."

"I welcome any further thoughts you may have."

"Like Detective Copeland, I too wonder why your wife has never tried to contact you."

"I don't understand it either. Is there any hope you'll eventually find a match for the photos we left you?"

"It's possible, but not likely. Our computer scan was thorough, and we didn't find any matches, but I did find something curious. Using a magnifying glass, I compared the photograph of your wife with the one of the oil painting of the woman and child. I found an interesting difference."

"What difference?" Philip asked.

"The ears didn't match."

He shook his head. Tremblay had watched too many Columbo reruns. "It's an oil painting."

"That's why I didn't think much of it at the time, although I did find all of the other details in the painting were most precise. I had to wonder why the artist had not taken the same care with her ears."

"According to what Sandra explained to me, ear identification techniques have proven to be unreliable."

"About fifty percent of the time, according to statistical data," Tremblay said. "It was just something that caught my attention. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned it, but in my profession, sometimes the little things we assume mean nothing, mean everything. I have learned to give adequate consideration to every detail. One should not overlook the obvious."

"I have a DNA match from a hairbrush we found at the hotel in Paris. And a fingerprint lifted from the brush that is a match to one of Renée's fingerprints. That's conclusive evidence, is it not?"

"I was under the impression the fingerprints lifted from the hairbrush did not match."

Tremblay was right. When his assistant came back from the lab, he told them none of the prints on the hairbrush matched the prints on the fingerprint card Sandra had provided.

The reason why they didn't match hit him like a right cross from a heavy weight contender. What had he done? "Thank you, Inspector. It appears I may have overlooked the obvious."

"Sometimes it's the most difficult to see," Inspector Tremblay replied.

When he and Tremblay ended their conversation, he let his hand drop to his side, still gripping his phone. This changed everything. He regretted talking to the television reporters. If he was right, the news broadcast was the worst possible thing he could have done. He wanted to cling to the possibility he was wrong, but there was only one way to test his theory. How much time did he have? Probably none. If he was right, it was already too late. He had to get out of New York, unnoticed.

After calling Joseph and giving him specific instructions, he called a private aircraft charter service he'd used before. He leased the fastest Gulfstream jet they had available. It would be fueled and ready to leave within the hour. His third call was to Dallas to arrange a meeting. The fourth call was to a private investigator. He told the investigator to find Detective John Barletto and spare no expense in doing it quickly.

He laid his cell phone down, picked up the hotel telephone receiver, and dialed the front desk.

"Yes, Mr. Lewellan, how may I help you?"

"I want to keep this room for another week. I'll be in and out so please hold any messages for me at the front desk. I'll pick them up myself. And hold all my calls until I tell you otherwise. I don't want to be disturbed. I'm being bombarded by news reporters."

Barletto closed his phone and placed it on the seat beside him. He sat in the car watching the hotel, waiting for Lewellan to leave. He recognized the limo when Joseph pulled the vehicle forward and parked it in front of the entrance.

Philip glanced at his watch. Wearing sunglasses, a hat, shorts, and a patterned sport shirt he had delivered to his room from a nearby store, he walked into the hotel lobby. Satisfied he wasn't being watched, he left through the side exit, on the opposite side where Joseph had parked. He casually strolled down the street away from the hotel, stopping every now and then to look around, acting as if he were referring to a tour guide book.

After going one block, he crossed an intersection, turned left and walked one more. Satisfied he wasn't being followed, he hailed a taxi.

"Take me to the airport."

When the taxi pulled away, he called Joseph and told him he didn't need the limo.

## Chapter 50

Philip boarded the Gulfstream jet deciding it would be better not to call Sandra. She was under the watchful eye of Detective Franks, and the fewer number of people who knew his plans, and how he intended to carry them out, the better. However, Derek Dawson would soon get an earful.

After the plane reached an attitude of 40,000 feet, he began making notes as the jet sliced a path above the clouds toward Dallas. He continued writing until the plane banked to make its approach and land at Love Field.

He took a taxi to the Lewellan Building and went to his office on the twenty-second floor to prepare for his first meeting.

Later that afternoon, there was a knock on his office door.

"Please, come in."

Joyce, his receptionist, opened the door.

"Helen Castle is here to see you."

He pushed an envelope to the front of the desk. "Please show her in."

Joyce stood, staring at him.

"Is there something else?" he asked.

She stepped into his office and closed the door. "I'm sorry you didn't find Renée. I know it's none of my business." She looked down.

"What is it you want to say?"

She continued to stare at the floor.

"Joyce, you've worked for me for three years. You've earned the right to say what's on your mind."

She glanced up and blurted, "You're not the same man who left here a few days ago. What has happened?"

He wanted to tell her what was wrong, but couldn't. Her concern ripped him apart on the inside as he gazed at her and shook his head.

"I shouldn't have said anything." She turned to leave.

How could he let her leave without reassuring her? "Joyce, everything is going to be all right."

Stopping halfway to the doorway, she turned back. "You seem so sad. You're here, but if anyone calls, you're not here. Even if you don't find Renée, you can be happy again. I know you can."

It was all he could do to keep from getting up from his chair and hugging her. Cody, Cody's wife and daughter, and Joyce were like family to him.

"I'm sorry, Joyce. I can't talk about it right now."

"We're worried about you."

"Things didn't go as I had hoped, so I've decided to give up the search."

She glanced at a picture of him and Renée that hung on his office wall and shook her head.

"You don't believe me?"

"No, sir. You'll never give up the search until you find them."

"I guess there's nothing more I can say then." It hurt him to do it, but he had to get her out. "Please show Mrs. Castle in."

"She left, wiping her eyes and a few minutes later returned with Helen Castle, closing the door after Helen entered.

"Good afternoon. Nice to see you," Helen said.

He moved to the front of his desk. "Thank you for scheduling some time for me on such short notice." He pointed toward one of the three bergere-style chairs near his desk. "Please have a seat."

Helen sat in the one in the middle. "It's my pleasure. I'm sorry I couldn't meet you earlier this morning."

He sat next to her.

"I assume you'd like to know what we're doing to secure your files in the future," she said.

"That's not why I asked for the meeting. I'm sure the firm will do whatever is necessary to prevent any further security breaches."

"Yes, William wanted me to assure you of that."

He reached for a sealed legal-sized envelope. "I've written down what I want done."

She took it from his hand and placed the package in her briefcase. "Of course, I'll follow your instructions to the letter. Is there anything else?

"I don't want it stored in your computer system. You're the only person to see the documents within that envelope besides myself, and I want to keep it that way."

"I understand, but we normally have a secretary type changes in a legal format for your signature."

"That won't be necessary. Have I made myself clear?" He had never spoken to her in such a firm manner.

She appeared to withdraw.

"Everything is fine, Helen. Just do as I ask."

"I understand. We're extremely sorry about the security breach."

"That is not in question here. I have no plans to move my legal affairs to another firm, but I do expect you to follow my instructions to the letter."

"I won't deviate from your requests."

He smiled. "I know you won't. I'm not upset with you, or the firm. I want to emphasize how important these changes are and how critical it is no one else sees theses documents."

"I understand."

"That concludes our business this afternoon." He walked her to the door. "Goodbye, Helen."

Joyce glanced up from her computer when Helen walked back into the reception area. "Did he appear depressed to you?"

Helen stopped and stared at her.

"I understand," Joyce said. "You're his attorney. You can't say anything."

There was a faint buzzing noise, and Helen reached into her purse. "Give me a moment." She pulled her cell phone out and answered.

"Hi, Howard." Helen stepped away from the desk. "No, I just finished with a meeting and planned to return to my office. Why do you ask?"

Joyce shoveled papers hoping to give the impression she wasn't eavesdropping.

"I'm not surprised. He refuses to ask for anyone's help." Helen said. "He's suffering from depression, and I'm convinced he has a death wish." Helen moved toward the exit door holding her phone to her ear with her briefcase hanging from her other hand. "If we don't intervene, it's just a matter of time before he kills himself."

Joyce hurried from her chair to open the glass door for her.

Helen nodded at her as she stepped through the doorway. "Of course I'm upset. Unfortunately, I don't know what I can do other than have him committed." She placed the briefcase down and slapped the elevator button.

Joyce closed the door and rushed back to her desk and called Cody, Philip's personal assistant.

"Philip is going to kill himself," Joyce said.

"Why in the world would you think that?" Cody asked.

"He's been acting strange ever since he returned, and I overheard Helen Castle telling someone on the telephone that she may have to have him committed."

"That doesn't make any sense. Stay with him. I'm on my way."

"Please hurry."

She placed the receptionist's console on remote ring status. All calls would now route and ring directly to Philip's office.

She knocked on Philip's office door. When there was no response she entered and found a note on his desk. She read it.

Dear Joyce,

I'm so sorry I didn't get to speak to you again before I left. My time is running short as I have to leave on a long trip tonight. Take the rest of the day off. I locked the rear exit door. Thank you for your kindness and concern. There is no need to worry about me. Everything will be fine. You are like family to me.

Sincerely,

Philip

She grabbed the receiver from Philip's desk phone and dialed his cell number.

After being routed to a recorded message, she said, "Philip, this is Joyce. Please call me on my cell phone. It's an emergency." She hung up and wiped away tears, before dialing Cody's cell. After five rings, she said, "Pick up, Cody."

Finally, he answered.

"Philip left the office and I can't reach him," she said.

"He's fine, Joyce. I'm talking to him now. I had to put him on hold to answer your call. He told me he left you a note."

Trying to breathe normally again, she replied, "It was on his desk."

"Let me switch back to him. I'll call you in a minute. Are you going to be okay?"

"I think so."

The phone on Philip's desk rang. She jumped, and then grabbed the receiver before the first ring ended.

"This is Joyce."

"Philip was gone when I switched back to him," Cody said. "I tried to call him back twice, but he isn't answering."

"Oh no, I left my phone up front in my purse. What if he's trying to call me?"

"Hang on, I'm almost there."

She stood and hurried from behind the desk. She was almost to the door it when it burst open and banged against the doorstop, bouncing back at the person standing in front of her.

Startled, she jumped back. "Oh, God!"

* * *

Philip, realizing he had startled Joyce, rushed to her side catching her as she collapsed. He let her body gently rest on the brown Persian rug covering his office floor.

Her pulse was rapid and her chest expanded and contracted normally. He cradled her head with his hands. "Joyce, what's wrong?"

Cody walked into the office. "What happened?"

"She fainted. Get me a damp cloth."

Moments later, Cody returned and handed it to him. When he applied the cloth to her forehead, Joyce opened her eyes.

"What's the emergency?" he asked. "Are you hurting anywhere?"

She turned her head toward him. "Emergency?"

"You said you had an emergency. When Cody placed me on hold, I noticed I had a message from you. I listened to it and then tried to call your cell phone. When I didn't get an answer, I turned around and drove back here as fast as I could."

"You came back to save me." She threw her arms around him and hugged him.

"Save you from what?"

She released him, but said nothing, her eyes red.

He glanced up at Cody, hoping for an explanation.

Cody winked. "We'll talk later."

"I'm going to take her home," Philip said.

"What about your flight?" Cody asked.

"Reschedule the plane for tomorrow morning at six. We'll talk when I get back home." He could hardly wait for Cody to explain why Joyce was acting so strange.

"Can you walk, or do you want me to carry you?" Philip asked.

"Don't tempt me," she replied.

Cody laughed.

"Philip," Joyce said, "Promise me you won't do anything stupid."

The previous year, Joyce had fainted after getting overly excited when the building fire alarm went off, but this time was different. She was talking out of her head. Was she taking a new medication?

"I promise not to do anything stupid, if you'll walk to my car and let me take you home."

"Deal," she replied, wiping away her tears.

He helped her to her feet and held on to her as they walked through the doorway.

Cody followed behind. "I'll stay and lock up. I need to make a couple of calls."

Thirty minutes later, Joyce was lying silently on her living room sofa with her eyes closed. Philip sat a few feet away in a green club chair that didn't match anything in the room.

Although the house was small, it was well kept. He felt terrible for not knowing more about her family. She had told him her husband, Ray was a contractor. The economic down-turn was probably devastating to his business.

Seconds after a white pickup truck pulled into the driveway, Ray entered through the back door that connected to their garage. He ran into the living room. "I was working over in Mesquite and got here as soon as I could."

He stood to shake Ray's hand. "She appears to be all right except for exhaustion."

Ray knelt on one knee beside the sofa. "Are you okay, Honey?"

"I'm fine. I just fainted."

"Some time off wouldn't hurt," Philip said. "I'm going out of town, and I think it would be a good idea for her to get away from the office for awhile."

Ray took her hand. "I agree. We've been pushing pretty hard lately."

"That settles it. I'll pay all the expenses for a vacation to anywhere in the world you and Joyce would like to go."

Ray glanced over his shoulder at him. "Oh no, we couldn't do that."

"I insist. Joyce, I want you to use the company credit card to book the flights and hotel rooms. Carry it with you. Charge anything on it you wish. Go first class on everything: hotels, flights, rental cars, food, and clothing. Anything you want."

"Oh, Ray." Joyce held her hands together under her chin. "We've never taken a real vacation."

Ray stood. "After I started my construction business, the bottom fell out of the housing industry." He shook his head. "I can't take off work. We're barely making ends meet as it is."

"I'll take care of that too. Take the time off. Your wife needs you," Philip said, placing his hand on Ray's shoulder. "You never know what tomorrow may hold."

"You're very generous," Ray said.

"How about Hawaii?" Joyce asked, staring up at Ray. "You've told me you wanted to take me there someday."

"That would cost way too much," Ray replied.

"Would it?" she asked, looking over Ray's shoulder at him.

Philip smiled and shook his head. "Of course not."

She jumped up from the sofa and hugged him. "Thank you." Tears formed in her eyes.

Why was she crying again?

She stared at him. "I know you never break a promise. Promise me I can call you when we get back so I can tell you all about our trip."

"Mr. Lewellan doesn't have to make any promises," Ray said.

"Yes, he does, or we're not going," she said, poking her index finger to his shoulder. "Now promise."

Philip nodded. "I promise you can call me when you get back."

It was not the time to explain why she wouldn't be able to reach him.

## Chapter 51

The sun had not yet risen in Montréal, Canada, but Raudin was awake enough to remember on which side of the bed he had placed his cell phone and fumbled around until he found it.

"Yeah?"

"Where the hell are you?" Barletto asked.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Where the hell you told me to be." When he tried to sit up, he became dizzy and fell back crossways almost dropping the phone.

"Why haven't you called me?"

After repositioning it to his ear, he yanked the phone away from his throbbing head until he could no longer hear the psycho's rant. He placed it back to his ear and mumbled, "When I got off the plane, my phone was dead. I couldn't charge it until I got to the room. I fell asleep."

"We've got a problem." Barletto downgraded his tone to a medium rage. "He's vanished."

"Who?"

"You stupid idiot!" Barletto yelled at the top of his voice. "Get your computer working and find out where the hell he's gone."

"Okay, okay, I got it." He tried to focus on his watch, but the two hands wobbled like ribbons in the wind across the face of his Seiko.

"Call me when you sober up. And do it fast, dumbass."

Joyce appeared to have recovered from whatever ailed her. Philip left her and Ray to plan their vacation. By the time he arrived home, an orange sun hovered low in the western sky. He hoped Cody had an explanation for her strange behavior at the office. Entering his house through the garage entrance, he found a note on the granite counter top that ran along the mudroom wall. It was written by Cody letting him know they were out back at the pool.

After Renée disappeared, he felt like a single ant living alone in a California Redwood tree. Their home had nine bedrooms in two separate wings, and was too large to be wasted on one man, so when Cody told him he and Anna were expecting a baby, he insisted they move into the house and live with him. He lived in the east wing and Cody and his family lived in the west wing. He and Cody had offices downstairs and they both often worked from home. That gave his personal assistant more time with his wife and daughter. Cody and his family's presence made the house feel like a home.

He tossed his keys on the counter and entered the kitchen. He grabbed a glass and filled it with ice water before heading through the sliding glass doors that opened onto the patio that surrounded the pool.

Anna waved at him and then went back to playing with Britney, Cody and Anna's two-year-old daughter.

Cody stepped out of the pool, picked up one of the towels stacked on a white and yellow deck lounger, and dried off, before approaching him.

He and Cody selected two deck chairs separated by a small brown wrought-iron table.

"So what's going on with Joyce?" Philip asked, placing his glass on the table.

"Helen Castle's eighty-four-year-old father climbed up on his roof to clean out the gutters with a leaf blower. Upon hearing the noise, a neighbor, Howard Strickland, looked out of a second story window to see what was going on. He then immediately called Helen to tell her what her father was up to. That phone conversation occurred right in front of Joyce after Helen left your office today."

He stared at Cody for several seconds.

"I called Helen after you left to drive Joyce home." Cody waved at his daughter.

"That's the emergency Joyce was talking about?"

"Yes, sir. You know how she has the tendency to get emotional sometimes." Cody smiled.

He had the feeling Cody was holding something back, but decided not to press the issue. He picked up his glass of water, took a drink, and set it back down.

Anna and Britney climbed out of the pool and approached. Britney ran up to him with her arms out. Philip picked her up and hugged her, getting his light blue silk shirt wet in the process. She rested her face against his and hugged him back.

He thought about Rachel and what could have been. He hoped Britney's wet hair against his face would mask his tears.

## Chapter 52

The following morning just after 6:00, the Gulfstream took off from Love Field and took a route to Boston.

Derek greeted him at Logan International Airport. "Welcome back. It's great to see you."

He dropped his bag. "Great to see you, too, Derek."

He and Derek hugged like a father and son would after a long time apart from each other. In his own way Derek had tried to fill the empty void left after Philip's parents died at sea.

"What's with the private charter?" Derek asked. "You always fly commercial."

"That's a story for another time. I'm sure glad to be here." He looked around to see if anyone appeared to be watching. Satisfied he was in the clear, he picked up his bag.

"Let's get out of here."

Derek had not only saved his life, he had become a father figure in many ways. When cancer took Derek's wife four years earlier, he'd told Philip, "Life is short. Don't spend the rest of yours in the past."

That's when he decided to reach out in a small way, and Angela became his online friend. He continued to conceal his identity from her, assuming they would never meet in person. But two months earlier, while he and Derek were sitting in a restaurant overlooking the Boston Harbor, he came up with a plan to get Angela and Wanda to Boston. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but that was then.

He glanced at Derek and grinned. "How much weight have you lost?"

"Eighteen pounds."

"You look great."

"I guess I look okay for a sixty-year-old man. I'm running four days a week now."

He grinned at Derek, a man who appeared to doing okay.

Derek reached into his pocket for his car keys as they approached his Jeep Wrangler.

He tossed his bag in the back seat and decided not to mention the obvious change in Derek's hair color. He had to work hard not to laugh when he climbed into the passenger seat.

"What?"

"Nothing," Philip said gazing at Derek's hair.

Derek put the key in the ignition and started the car. "Remember, it was your idea to bring those two women here, not mine."

When Derek pulled out onto the Massachusett's Turnpike, Philip asked, "How does she look?"

"Beautiful," he replied, shifting the Wrangler into third gear.

Although it bought back terrible memories of the night he lost his parents, he'd been unable to bring himself to sell his late father's sailboat. Mainly, because it also reminded him of the good times he and his parents had sailing off the coast of Boston. The boat had been in dry dock for years until he gave Derek the go-ahead to oversee its refurbishing. After his parent's death at sea, he swore he'd never get back on the boat again, but Derek convinced him he'd have to climb back on all the horses that threw him, or he'd forever fear the past.

"I knew I could count on you." Philip tried his best not to laugh at his friend's dyed hair blowing in the wind.

Twenty minutes later, Derek turned onto the driveway that led to a two-story home with an ocean view. "I don't have a charter tomorrow. We could set sail early in the morning if you'd like." He pulled around back and parked on red brick pavers beneath a wide drive through carport supported by four ten foot tall Doric columns.

Philip opened the passenger door and stepped out of the Jeep. "Unfortunately, that won't work for me. I'm meeting someone." He decided not to mention the addition of the electronic equipment a technician would be adding to the boat the next morning. "Why don't we take an evening sail and I'll bring the wine." He reached behind the roll bar and grabbed his bag from the back seat.

"Let me bring the wine, this one time, to celebrate your return to sailing," Derek said.

"Remember our deal?" Philip shut the car door and looked through the window keeping his hand on the latch. "When you agreed to teach me everything you knew about sailing, you said the only payment you expected was a bottle of wine on my twenty-first birthday."

"That was a long time ago, and I never meant you always had to bring it."

"I'll try to pick out one you'll enjoy."

"Oh, you've improved considerably on wine selections since you were twenty-one." He scratched his dyed hair. "On second thought, you'd better bring the wine. I can't afford your taste." Derek placed the Wrangler in first gear.

"See you tomorrow evening," Philip said, backing away and waving him off.

A tire chirped when Derek pulled back out onto the street. His friend was driving like a teenager, obviously excited about the women who would be arriving soon.

He pulled out the house key and opened up another thing he couldn't bring himself to sell. His mother loved their Boston home. He looked at the stairway that spiraled up to the second floor where his childhood bedroom had been. Memories of his mother chasing him up and down the stairs when he was a child washed over him like the wave that had taken her overboard. The first time his grandmother brought him back to Boston, after his parents were lost at sea, he grabbed the stair railing and refused to climb the stairs. His grandmother had been right about memories. Over time, the bad ones fade and the good ones glow brighter.

Tomorrow night, he would break the news to his old friend. Taking the sailboat out to sea alone in a storm would be the toughest horse to climb back on, but unless Derek could come up with a better idea, that's exactly what he intended to do.

## Chapter 53

Raudin looked up from his computer and glanced across the hotel room at Christine. She sat at a small table flipping through a three-ring binder. He had given it to her before they left Paris. It was the only way to convince her to get on the plane in Paris and leave with him. The binder was filled with copies of newspaper articles about the wealthy Texan's young wife.

Renée Lewellan's disappearance had made headlines across the state of Texas. Her picture had been printed in newspapers and displayed on television screens across the country. Months later, when not even her car could be found, Philip offered a million dollar reward for her safe return. That generated a whole new round of headline stories. The Dallas Police Department became inundated with reported sightings. All of them proved to be either cases of mistaken identity, or bogus in an attempt to get the reward. When the police threw in the towel, Lewellan pressed on with an army of private investigators. After years of searching, none of them found a single thing, and eventually quit taking his money.

After he happened to run across an old newspaper article which told about the reward, he checked to see if the offer for her safe recovery was still valid. When he found it was, he wrote a computer program that searched data bases all over the world. Lewellan jumped at his proposal and didn't blink when told it would costs a $120,000 up front and $10,000 a month to monitor the results to sort through false hits.

Never expecting his program to really find Lewellan's missing wife, he was satisfied to soak the rich Texan for as long as he could ride the gravy train. But then one day to his astonishment, his computer program found a woman named Christine Belah. She lived in Paris and was the right age. He couldn't believe his eyes or his luck. And the more he checked her out, the better it got. So good in fact, he went there to meet her. Convinced he'd found his gold mine, he hatched a plan to extract all the ore he could.

She had been through the binder at least a dozen times, studying the pictures, reading and rereading each article.

"Believe what I tell you. That's who you are."

She looked up and shook her head.

"Don't worry. It's all there," he said. "I didn't leave anything out."

When she looked down at the binder and flipped to another page, he returned his attention back to his computer screen. What worried him were the travel plans for the two to Hawaii on a different company credit card. What was that about? A man doesn't take a trip to Hawaii when his missing wife and daughter have been reported seen in New York. He studied the transactions for details. He smiled. Lewellan might outsmart the press, but it would take more than sending one of his employees and her husband on vacation to outsmart him. He knew exactly what to do.

"I'm going for a walk." It was his of way of telling her he was stepping out to call Barletto, a man she despised and feared. She had only met the detective once, but that was enough. She told him she wanted nothing to do with a man like him, and if a reward was to be paid, she didn't want the detective to get a dime of it. When the time came, she would walk into a New York Police station alone and tell them who she was. In order to maintain her trust, he agreed to let her do it her way, although that could cost them their lives.

Barletto owed huge gambling debts, and if he didn't make good on that debt, he was a dead man. That was the reason the detective was willing to kill anyone who stood in his way, including them.

He closed the room door behind him. Barletto would be livid if he knew she had no intentions of letting him turn her into the police. But he would worry about that later. The immediate problem was keeping Barletto at bay, while he bought time to find Lewellan.

From the crowed lobby filled with business types and tourist standing in every nook and cranny, he walked into a cobblestone paved courtyard and took a seat on an unoccupied bench near a fountain spraying water ten feet in the air. He was being pushed from both ends. The woman wanted to know everything, and Barletto wanted to keep her in the dark until he turned her over to the authorities.

He called Barletto. "Something strange is going on," Raudin said. "He's switched to a company credit card and is making plans to go to Hawaii."

"Hawaii? What the hell!" Barletto sounded furious. "Why would he be going to Hawaii after finding out his wife and daughter are alive?"

"I don't know. I'm just telling you what I've been able to find out. He hasn't sent any e-mails in the last twenty-four hours either."

Barletto stayed silent.

"Are you still there?" Raudin asked.

"Yeah, I needed a minute to think. I'm going to make a call to his office and see if I can find out what's going on."

"Do you think that's wise?"

"Shut up and wait for my call."

For several minutes, he watched the four water spouts shoot streams of water upward making arches before falling back into the pool of water beneath the fountain. Barletto could screw everything up by calling Lewellan's office. He turned and looked up toward the window to his room. Would she stay the course now that she knew the whole story, or would she run away from him too?

His cell phone rang. He picked it up off the bench. "Yeah."

"His personal assistant told me he's staying at The Waldorf Hotel in New York. He gave me some story about him not taking calls or messages. I'll go back there and see what I can find out."

"Isn't that risky? What if he sees you?"

"As far as he's concerned, I'm just a cop. I'll tell him I came to New York to check on Copeland."

Lewellan wouldn't buy that in a million years. According to Barletto, he and Copeland didn't get along. "Sorry, I'm just a little on edge."

"You take care of your end, and I'll take care of mine," Barletto said. "If anything else shows up on his credit cards, call me. If he's holed up in that hotel, it'll be more difficult to get to him, but I will."

"Got it."

He had no intention of telling Barletto everything he had found while searching Lewellan's financial transactions. He had a pretty good idea Lewellan was no longer in New York. Earlier when he was checking the accounts online, he found no recent charges on his personal credit cards, but he did see where a large cash withdrawal had been made from the Lewellan Foundation. If his hunch was right, Lewellan was a lot smarter than he had previously thought.

He stood and walked toward the entrance to the hotel lobby.

While Barletto was on a wild goose chase that should keep him busy for a while, he would track down Lewellan. He had an idea where he might be headed, and why Lewellan would be going there. It would play right into his hands, but there wasn't much time left. He had to act, before Barletto figured things out for himself. If he played his cards right and the woman didn't bolt on him, she could still walk into the police station alone to turn herself in, and he could still extract all the money.

## Chapter 54

The boat slowed when Derek turned the wheel and the wind went out of the mainsail. "Do you mind if we drift here for awhile?"

"Not at all. You're the captain." Philip said.

He knew they were close to the area where the ashes of Derek's late wife, Sarah, had met the wind and the waves. When his friend's time came, his ashes would meet the wind and the waves and forever be with Sarah's. It's what Derek had asked him to do.

With the Boston coastline several miles behind them, he drew in a deep breath of fresh saltwater air. The sun, a bright golden ball in the western sky, hovered high enough to give them a few more hours of light before it faded below the horizon.

After they both paid silent respects at Sarah's burial site, a blast of cool wind hit the sails and the boom swung to the starboard side until the line caught it. He and Derek grabbed onto the stainless steel railing as The MSB Rachel rolled 30 degrees before settling back to an upright position in the water. The small flag at the top of the mast was flying straight out.

"That's Sarah acknowledging our presence," Derek said, turning the wheel and cranking in the main sail. "Let's see what she can do in this breeze."

The MSB Rachel leaned to her port side when the main sail caught a hard gust. The boat moved faster through the water. While Derek adjusted the main sail, Philip moved toward the bow where the jib was puffed out like an overweight sailor.

"She's a fine boat. Your father must have loved sailing her," Derek said, raising his voice so Philip could hear him.

"Yes, he did."

## Chapter 55

The 32 foot sloop continued to gain speed on the water. With Derek in full control of the boat and the MSB Rachel moving along at close to seven knots, Philip changed his position and sat forward of the mast with his back to it and his feet on the decking. He liked the quiet of the open sea. As a young boy, he'd sat in that same spot many times when his father had piloted the boat, wondering what it would be like to sail across the ocean with his parents. It was his father's dream to one day set sail for France—a dream that was never fulfilled. He placed his hands on the top of his knees and recalled the beginning of the final voyage he and his parents made together, but pushed the thoughts aside when a wave hit the port bow and sprayed him. The breeze made the splash of water feel cool. The temperature had dropped along with the sun.

"She takes the wind well," Derek said, standing at the wheel, enjoying his role as a father figure. "She's a great sailing vessel, my young lad. She deserves far better than being dry docked."

His friend loved the sea and was in his element behind the wheel of a sailboat that rose and fell with the waves as it divided the water making its way farther out to sea. Sea gulls cried overhead. Fast moving clouds blocked the sunlight. A wave splashed against the hull. If the weather reports were correct, he'd have to make his move soon.

When the western sun broke through the clouds again, he stood and moved toward the stern holding on firmly as he walked. He climbed down to the main deck and moved toward the ship's wheel. He reached out and placed his right hand on Derek's shoulder.

"You did a great job with her. She's never looked better."

"What do you say we hang out here a while?" Derek said. "We have a little light left. I think I'm ready for a taste of that wine you brought. To go with it, I have cheese and baguette stowed below deck."

"I'll secure the sails while you go below and get it."

Derek returned to the main deck with a plate filled with slices of cheese and the bread. He opened the wine and poured two glasses. "You bring a different one every time."

Derek and Philip raised their glasses in a toast.

"Here's to great friends, fine wines, and clear sailing," Philip said. He had grown close to Sarah and Derek over the years, the couple had treated him as if he was their own son. No one had to say it. The love could be seen their eyes and in their actions. He never gave them any reason to feel differently, because he had felt just as emotional toward them.

When Renée disappeared, Derek and Sarah flew to Dallas to offer their help and support. Three years later, Sarah lost her battle with cervical cancer. He and Derek were like two lost souls adrift in life, until Philip met Angela online.

Something about exchanging e-mails with her had made things a little better. It was as if she understood his pain, while having no idea what it was. She never questioned his motives or asked him personal questions. She was always ready to listen. Now, when everything had been put in place to finally meet her, his world had been turned upside down.

"She would have liked this one." Derek held the bottle up. "Expensive?"

Philip nodded. "Only the best for Sarah."

"Thank you."

What would Derek think of his plan? He might as well find out.

"I won't be joining you when you take Angela and Wanda sailing."

Derek shuffled his feet. "You've changed your mind about moving on with your life?"

Obviously, Derek hadn't seen the broadcast. He met Derek's gaze. "You might want to read a newspaper or turn the news on more often."

"You know me. I keep it on the weather channel.

The breeze shifted. The flag at the top of the mast indicated the wind was coming from the southwest. "I need your help with something else."

Derek stared at him. "What's going on, Philip?"

He explained his plan and how he planned to pull it off.

"It's crazy and dangerous." Derek stood and stared at him. "I can't let you do it."

"I've thought it through."

"Is there any way I can talk you out of it? Derek asked.

"Not unless you have a better idea."

Water lapped against the side of the boat. Derek placed both his hands on the railing and looked over the port side. He leaned back up. "How much time do we have?"

"If the weather reports are right, a couple of days at most."

Derek tossed what was left of his wine overboard. "Let's head back. We have a lot to do."

Philip could count on his friend. He had no doubts about that.

On the way back to Boston Harbor, Derek showed him all the new electronic equipment that had been installed on the boat during the refurbishment. There was a GPS along with a new radar system that displayed the weather on a five by seven inch video screen.

Philip pointed at the display. "I'll know when I'm in trouble, for a change."

Derek didn't smile and turned his focus to the emergency transmitter.

"Flip this switch and the emergency beacon will transmit a signal to the Coast Guard along with your GPS coordinates. In addition there are two inflatable rafts stored below deck. Compressed air cylinders will inflate them in seconds."

"I won't need the rafts, Derek."

"When we get back to the dock, I'll show you how they work, just in case."

It was dark when Philip and Derek secured the 32 foot sloop in slip thirty-six.

He and Derek stepped away from the slip. Lights lining the path made puddles on the weathered gray wooden dock ramp. Boats tied off in adjoining slips rocked gently in the water.

A man and woman were checking the lines that secured their boat in slip 28. "They say it'll be on us by tomorrow night," the man said to the woman as he pulled hard one of the lines to make sure it was secure.

Derek waved at them.

The man, too busy working on a knot, didn't see him. The woman nodded.

When they were almost to the end of the ramp, Derek said, "I need to go over a few more things with you tomorrow."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible. The ladies are due to arrive tomorrow afternoon, and I hope you can help them get situated."

Derek raised his eyebrows. "You're not going to stop them from coming?"

"I decided not to do that. It might show my hand. I don't think anyone knows I'm in Boston besides you and Cody and the charter pilot, but I can't be sure of it."

"So you don't want Angela and Wanda to know you're here?"

"That shouldn't be a problem," Philip said. "They think they won a fabulous vacation. Hopefully, they'll enjoy their time in Boston and never know any differently. I know you'll take good care of them while they're here."

Upon reaching the parking lot, Derek stopped walking and looked back over his shoulder. "Everything is in order. I guess the only real difference will be I'm sailing with them alone, instead of the two of us."

"You've got it. From what Angela has written about her friend Wanda, I think you're in for a real treat. Enjoy yourself and have fun. I'll be fine."

Derek reached into his pocket for his keys. "What if you're wrong about Renée?"

He raised his focus above Derek's shoulders and gazed at the moon. "There's only one way to find out."

"I'm serious about going over a few things with you tomorrow morning."

"Do you think it's really necessary?" Philip asked.

Derek removed his keys and fumbled with them until he separated out the one for the Jeep. "I won't take no for an answer."

He and Derek climbed into the Wrangler. "Okay. The usual place, regular time?"

Derek nodded and started the car.

* * *

The next morning, Philip walked into the Harbor House Restaurant. Derek was already seated in a booth next to a window. He held up a black mug with the Harbor House Logo printed across it in white letters to signal the waitress, his guest had arrived.

She walked over to the table made from salvaged teakwood and placed another mug in front of Philip. She tossed two menus on the table and filled the mugs with fresh steaming coffee. Smoke rose from the cups."

"We're ready to order now." Derek said. "I'll have the crewman's breakfast with some crispy bacon on the side."

"Make that two," Philip said. "But no bacon for me."

She nodded and walked away.

"The limo will pick Angela and Wanda up at the beach house at six. I have reservations for them at the Captain's Table at seven this evening." Derek glanced at his watch. "They're due to arrive in a little over seven hours. I've arranged for Toni to chauffeur them around."

"Good," Philip said.

Derek leaned forward. "Hey, do you want to peek in on the ladies while they're dining tonight? I can get us in though the back door. Sam might even let us dress up like waiters."

"Why not?" Philip said, pleased to see Derek back in a good mood. He was glad he hadn't told him the last part of his plan.

## Chapter 56

Derek stood near exit for passengers arriving at Logan Airport. The sign in his hands had the names Angela and Wanda written on it. Two women stepped away from a large group of passengers. A man pulling a luggage cart loaded with bags followed behind them.

"Hi. I'm Wanda and this is Angela."

He put the sign down. "I'm Derek. Did you ladies have a good flight?"

"Way too bumpy to suit me." Wanda said. "I hope bad weather doesn't spoil our visit."

"The front is moving in a little faster than they thought," Derek said. "It looks like we're in for some stormy weather."

"Do you think it'll be too rainy to go sailing tomorrow?" Wanda asked. "Angela can't wait to get out on the ocean."

"Wanda, we just got here," Angela said. She gazed at him. "We don't have to go sailing tomorrow."

"If not tomorrow, Friday should be a great day for a sail," he said.

"Oh, how exciting." Wanda clapped her hands together.

"You must really enjoy sailing." Derek said.

"I don't know," Wanda replied. "I've never been sailing in my life, unless a cruise ship counts. I really enjoyed that."

Angela laughed.

Wanda was everything and more Philip had led him to believe. He was at a loss for words.

"I guess not," Wanda said.

Derek and Toni tried three times before they were able to get all six bags, a green one, two blue and white ones and three red ones stuffed into the trunk of the limo.

Toni held the door open for Angela, Wanda, and him. After the three of them were seated inside the car, she got behind the wheel and drove away from the airport.

Derek opened the bar and showed Angela and Wanda the bottles of wine and champagne. "Feel free to enjoy the contents of this bar during your stay here in Boston. The house is well stocked with everything from orange juice to expensive French wines."

Wanda gazed at Angela. "Didn't I tell you?"

"It's unbelievable," Angela replied.

"Tell us about the house." Wanda wiggled closer to him. "I mean after you pour us a glass of champagne."

"I'd be happy to." Derek opened a bottle of champagne and poured two glasses. He handed one to Wanda and the other to Angela.

"Aren't you going to celebrate with us?" Wanda asked.

"I'd better not. I'm going back to work later."

Wanda bumped his arm with hers. "Come on, Derek, it's the least you can do. Anyway, back at the airport, you said you were at our service."

Angela, seated across from him and Wanda, gave her friend a hard look.

"I insist," Wanda said, waving Angela off. "Please pour yourself a glass. We're not going to take a drink of this bubbly until you do."

"Well, if you insist." He reached for another glass and poured champagne into it.

Wanda giggled. "Good. Now, I have a toast. To wine, men, and song."

"To wine, men, and song," Derek said, before they all lifted their glasses and took a sip.

He pulled his glass down. "Wait, isn't it supposed to be to wine, women, and song?"

Wanda elbowed him again. "For you maybe, but not for us." She lifted her glass and took a second sip of champagne.

Angela shook her head and grinned.

He lifted his glass again. "May I offer a toast?"

"Certainly," Angela said.

"Here's to clear sailing on our voyage through life."

Angela gazed at him. "Oh, that's so beautiful, Derek."

Wanda winked at Angela and mouthed the words I saw him first.

"Why don't you tell us about yourself?" Angela asked.

"There's not much to tell, really. I'm just an old sailor praying for a steady breeze."

"Please don't use the word old around me," Wanda said.

"Excuse me. I meant to say I'm just a young sailor praying for a steady breeze."

"Much better." Wanda held her empty glass out for a refill.

By the time he finished telling them about the house, the bottle of champagne was empty, and Toni was pulling into the front driveway.

He and Toni unloaded the luggage. Once the bags were inside the house, he gave Wanda and Angela a tour of their accommodations.

Derek laid his hand on the black granite counter top. "The kitchen is fully stocked with fresh fruit, milk, juices, eggs, bacon, and breads for breakfast." He pointed to a door beside the refrigerator. "There are snacks in the pantry."

"Good,' Wanda said, opening the door to peek inside. "If that's what you call snacks, I can't wait to see the main courses." She gazed at Angela. "It's bigger than my bedroom, and full of stuff."

When they stepped back into the den, he went through the list of dinner and lunch reservations for the week and gave them his cell phone number.

Angela and Wanda appeared to be satisfied all their questions had been answered.

"If you ladies will excuse me, I need to return to the office."

Angela closed the door behind him.

She turned around. "Wanda, this house is incredible. Have you ever seen a wine cellar like that? There must be thousands of dollars worth of French wine down there."

Wanda rubbed her hands together. "I'm going to do my part to reduce that figure as much as possible." She pointed to three paintings hanging on the walls of the entry way. "I wonder if any of these are originals."

"From the looks of this house, I'd say all three of them probably are."

"Some guy named Claude Monet did this one." Wanda threw her hands in the air. "Well, I'm not going to worry about it. I doubt they'll let me take any of them with us when we leave."

Angela shook her head. "No, I don't think so."

Wanda turned around. "What do you think about Derek?"

"He appeared to be a little nervous, but very nice."

Wanda touched the back of her head. "I really like his hair."

"Are you making fun of him? Don't you like him?"

"He's adorable. I had him all to myself while you were in the guest bathroom. He's going to teach me how to sail."

"That'll be nice." Angela walked over to get a close look at a clock on the wall. The clock face was mounted in the center of an old wooden ship's wheel. A brass plate on the lower section of the wheel had the name of a Swedish sailing ship dating back to the late seventeen hundreds. "What time did Derek say dinner reservations were tonight?"

"Seven." Wanda stepped up beside her and looked at the clock. "If that thing is right, we'd better finish unpacking and get ready. Derek said the Captain's Table is upscale. "Now, aren't you glad I convinced you to bring plenty of dresses and heels?"

"Which bedroom do you want?" Angela asked. "It looks like we have several to choose from."

"I'll take the big one downstairs," Wanda replied. "Did you see the tub in the adjoining bathroom? I plan to drink some of that French wine while I'm soaking in it."

"Okay, I think I'll take the bedroom upstairs on the left. It has a big shower. "

Wanda looked at the stairway that created a winding curved arch rising twenty feet. "What kinds of people live like this? I mean really, this place is awful. You'd have to be in top physical condition to make it to the top of those stairs. The ceiling in the entry way must be thirty feet above the bottom floor level."

"I'm headed to the shower." Angela picked up one of her bags and carried it upstairs. "We don't want to miss our first meal in Boston."

"Do you need any help with your bags?" Wanda shouted from below.

"No, I'm fine."

"Good, I didn't want you to end up carrying me and the bags up those stairs."

## Chapter 57

The wind buffeted Philip's back as he walked back toward the slip where his sailboat was docked. There was a call. He checked the caller ID before answering it.

"Derek." He turned around looked to the southwest studying the dark clouds moving in and continued down the ramp. A momentary gust wind pushed him forward.

"They made it."

He stopped to continue the conversation with his friend. "That's good. I was afraid their flight might have been delayed."

"Know what I think?" Derek asked. He didn't wait for an answer before giving his opinion. "They're both really nice. But it's just like you said. Wanda is the funny one, Angela is more serious. You described their personalities perfectly."

Over the years, Angela had written a lot about her friend, Wanda. He felt like he knew them both.

"Are we still on for tonight at the Captain's Table?" Derek asked.

"I think so." His phone beeped and he glanced at the caller ID. It was from New York. "Derek, I need to take another call. May I call you back?"

"No need. See you at seven. Remember to come through the back door."

He terminated the call with Derek and answered the incoming one.

"Philip Lewellan."

"My men followed them to the airport. They left New York City around two o'clock. Three of my best security personnel are on the plane with them," said Thomas De Marconi, head of Marconi Security Agency. "They won't lose sight of her."

"Good," Philip said, standing next to his sailboat. The flag at the top of the mast stood straight out. Dark clouds covered all of Boston Harbor, making the sky appear much later in the evening than six o'clock.

"Do you want me to call when they land?"

"No. Just make sure your men keep an eye on her."

"Don't worry, they will. They've been doing this a long time."

When he and Marconi finished talking, he stepped off the dock onto the boat. Once below deck, where mahogany paneled compartments lined the port side, he unlocked a compartment and pushed a button. The video monitoring system he had had installed went fast forward from the start. Everything in the fast-forwarded images displayed on the five inch screen appeared normal until something caught his eye. He reversed the video until the image appeared again. It wasn't Barletto. He fast forwarded, but couldn't recognize the bearded man. How many were involved? Who could he trust? Next he checked the camera below deck and reviewed the footage caught by it. The man placed something in one of the storage bins. Was it a bomb? He checked the time stamp on the video. He had to make a choice. Abort the plan? Or take his chances?

* * *

Derek waited patiently in the back of the restaurant. Ten minutes after seven his cell phone rang.

"Hey, where are you? They've here and into the bottle of champagne."

"Sorry, I can't make it tonight," Philip said.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. With the wind picking up, I decided to stop by and check on the boat. One of the lines needed tightening. I'm going to stay down here for a while and make sure everything is secure."

"I'll bring you something."

"Thanks, but I'm fine. I'll see you at breakfast in the morning."

"Well, if you're sure."

"I'm sure." He wished he had stopped Angela and Wanda from coming, but it was too late now. Obviously, Barletto and whoever was working with him knew he was in Boston. "Did you tell the women how to use the security system?"

"I showed Wanda how it works. She told me she would turn it on before they went to bed."

"To be on the safe side, I called the local security company. I had guards stationed near the house on a high priority alert. If an alarm is triggered, I want the cavalry to arrive quickly. I don't want to scare the women, but I don't want to take any chances either."

"Good thinking," Derek said. "So why am I beginning to worry? What did you not tell me?"

He started to tell Derek about the man on the boat, but decided not to ruin his night.

"It'll have to wait until tomorrow. I've got to go."

## Chapter 58

After Angela and Wanda struggled to move through the crowd, Angela gave their names to the man checking off reservations for the evening.

"How long before we're seated?" Wanda asked, over her shoulder, talking to the Maître d'.

"Your table is ready. Please follow me."

She and Wanda were led to a table for two with a great view of the harbor. Windows towered from floor to ceiling on both sides of the corner of the restaurant. The close view of the water below gave the illusion that part of the building overhung the water. In slips nearby, sailboats tied up end-to-end on both sides of a channel bobbed in the water.

"The view of the harbor is excellent from here. Your waiter will be Anthony." She turned and left them to take their seats.

"Wow! Can you believe this place?" Wanda took her seat and scooted her chair forward.

Angela removed her cloth napkin from the table and placed it on her lap. "It's wonderful." She scanned the room. Waiters were dressed in dark blue and white uniforms. Deck hands on a tall sailing ship came to mind.

"We might need an interpreter to order," Wanda whispered to Angela, placing the menu back on the table.

Moments later, a young man came to the table.

"Good evening, I'm Anthony."

"Ladies, champagne has been ordered for you." He held the bottle of Bollinger 1997 Grande Année Brut French champagne over the middle of the table for both of them to see.

Angela gazed at the young man. "Ordered by whom?" she asked.

He pulled the bottle back in preparation to open it. "Mr. Dawson took the liberty of ordering this excellent bottle for you tonight."

"In that case, we accept Mr. Dawson's generosity," Angela said.

"Yeah, we accept." Wanda passed her flute to the edge of the table. "Pour some of that in here for me, Anthony."

The cork came out with a pop. He filled the two flutes to what appeared to be within an inch from the top of the rim, starting with Wanda's.

"How about a toast?" Wanda held hers out toward Angela. "Here's to clear sailing."

Angela glanced over Wanda's shoulder. "From the looks of things outside, it might be a day or two before that's possible."

Angela turned her attention to Anthony, a step away from the table still holding the bottle. "This is excellent."

He nodded. "I'll check back when you've had a few minutes to decide on your selections for this evening." He turned and placed the bottle in a ice bucket on a silver pedestal near the table.

Wanda grinned. "Have you noticed Anthony can't keep his eyes off you?"

"No, I didn't notice that. He can't be a day over eighteen."

"You wanna bet? He has to be at least twenty-one to serve alcohol. Uh oh, here he comes again and I haven't decided what to order."

"We not quite ready yet, but would you pour us some more of that champagne, Anthony?" Wanda asked.

"Yes, ma'am." He retrieved the bottle from the ice bucket and returned to the table.

"And please, just because I'm almost forty, never address me as ma'am again, sweetie."

Angela tried her best to keep a straight face. She knew Wanda was doing her thing, teasing the young waiter.

Anthony's eyes widened. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. Will you please accept my apology?"

Wanda smiled. "Of course, but only after you pour me some more bubbly."

After he refilled their glasses, Anthony walked away from the table, appearing stunned.

They both laughed.

A few minutes later, their waiter returned with caviar. "Compliments of the Chef."

"How sweet of him," Wanda said, "You're so nice."

"Thank you. I'll return in a few minutes to take your orders."

Angela shook her head. "It's not going to work. I'm not about to drink any more of his champagne until I know the truth. So far, according to what I've seen, our vacation is costing someone thousands of dollars. Is there something you're not telling me?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. You know as much about this trip as I do."

"Just answer two questions. Is Harry Spinelli behind this?"

"I don't know. I guess he could be, but as far as I know he's not."

"Is Derek Dawson really who he claims to be?"

"Today was the first time I had met him." Wanda held her glass of champagne up once more. Please, Angela, would you try the champagne so I can?"

If Wanda knew anything, she wasn't telling. "Okay. Let's party," Angela said holding her glass up.

"Now you're talking." Wanda moved her arms and sang, "Bring on the fun. Bring on the funk. Bring on the food." She stopped singing long enough to take two more quick gulps.

When the waiter returned, she pointed to the most expensive item on the menu. "I'll have this thingy."

"Excellent choice, and you?"

Angela looked up. "I'll have the baked sea bass."

"An excellent choice as well." Anthony gathered the menus from them. "I'll bring your bottle of wine when I return."

"I don't recall ordering wine," Angela said.

Wanda grinned. "Let me guess. Mr. Dawson again?"

The waiter nodded.

"How could we possibly refuse?" Wanda blew Anthony a kiss.

He blushed. "Very good. I'll go place your order with the chef."

Angela turned slightly to her left as the bow of a sailboat passed within a hundred feet of the corner of the building. "The boats are beautiful." Seated six feet above the water line, they had an almost unobstructed view of Boston Harbor.

"There are a lot of them coming in." Wanda said. "I haven't seen a single boat going out."

"Remember that bumpy ride in the airplane?" Angela asked. "A front is moving this way. It'll be here later tonight. Storms do the same thing to boats they do to airplanes. It makes for a rough ride—and from the way it's looking, we're going to get rain any minute."

"So what?" Wanda held her hand palm up, as if she were testing for rain drops. "I'm betting the roof doesn't leak." She stared over Angela's shoulder. "I guess that guy didn't get the message, or maybe he likes a rough ride."

Angela turned her head to the left. The classic looking blue and white sloop appeared to be freshly painted and in excellent condition. It glided between the restaurant and a long ramp that extended out beyond the slips. Making its way along the narrow channel, the boat's bow moved past where they were seated. She turned around again. "I can't believe he's taking that boat out in this weather."

Wanda continued to stare. "He's a nice-looking man."

Angela studied a young couple holding hands as they followed the Maître d' to their table. "I wouldn't want to be out there with him in this weather."

"Oh honey, you'd better take a good look before you say that." Wanda waved. "Look, Angela, the man driving the boat is waving back at me."

"You don't drive a boat, you pilot it." Angela turned her head when the sloop cleared the corner of the building.

"See, I told you. Do you want to change your mind?"

The name, MSB Rachel, written on the stern, held her attention. When Anthony placed a plate of food on the table in front of her, she jumped.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." he said, before stepping away to place the grilled swordfish in front of Wanda.

"Thank you, Anthony."

He poured white wine for both of them. "May I bring you anything else?"

Angela shook her head.

Wanda tasted her glass of wine and looked up. "We're good for now, but don't let these glasses get empty."

"Yes ma──" Anthony stopped short and caught himself.

Wanda glared at him.

"Yes, Mademoiselle." He bowed before walking away from the table.

Wanda laughed so hard she spilled wine on her hand and the tablecloth. "Did you see that?"

"I thought he made a nice recovery." Angela tried a small bite of her fish. "This is wonderful."

Wanda placed her glass down and wiped her hand with her linen napkin. "That man on the sailboat was quite handsome, don't you agree?"

"He'd work in a pinch." Angela lifted her glass and smiled.

Wanda winked at Anthony as he approached carrying a tray of food to the couple seated to her right. "I'd let him pinch me, if he wanted to." He stopped in mid-stride. She pointed out the window. "Not you, Hon, the man on the boat."

Angela choked.

Wanda touched her hand. "Are you okay, dear?"

## Chapter 59

Wanda fell asleep during the drive from the Captain's Table back to the house. When Toni pulled the limo up and stopped at the front entrance, Angela tapped her friend on her shoulder. "We're home."

Wanda raised her head. "Remind me to kill Anthony for pouring all that wine in my glass."

She and Toni helped Wanda negotiate the cobblestone path to the front porch.

Once inside the house, Wanda straightened up. "I can make it now."

Angela turned and locked the front door, then headed for the kitchen where she grabbed two bottles of water from the refrigerator. She walked into the master bedroom as Wanda stumbled into the bathroom carrying a toothbrush and a tube of Crest, before closing the door behind her.

Angela pulled the covers and sheet back on Wanda's bed and placed a water bottle on the nightstand.

Wanda opened the bathroom door and staggered into the bedroom. Her summer pajama top and matching shorts were covered with pictures of Claire Croxton romance novels, most of which were steamy enough to melt silk sheets.

"Are you going to be okay?"Angela asked.

"In the morning, hopefully, if I don't have to die tonight to get better." She fell into the bed and rolled over on her side.

Angela pulled the sheet up over her.

She didn't want Wanda wandering around in the dark, knocking over a Tiffany lamp and decided to leave a lamp on in the den near the kitchen entrance in addition to the hallway light. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, Wanda was snoring like a bullfrog with hiccups.

After Philip's call, Derek left the fancy restaurant and called Pete Moss, a former coast guard pilot and trusted friend. Pete agreed to meet him at Lillie's, a small quiet eating establishment where the locals gathered for the best seafood on the harbor. From the outside, the building appeared to be a dump. Several pieces of weathered wood siding had cracks large enough to store pencils. The dilapidated appearance gave non-locals the impression the food coming out of the kitchen might be as tasteless as the neglected exterior. Weathered worse than the grayed siding, a foot above the entrance, a small sign with the name Lillie's—the painted letters barely visible—swung back and forth in the wind. Lillie had been dead for six years, but the woman who bought the place wore Lillie's old name tag, which was as faded as the sign out front.

Raindrops began to spot the doorway. He pulled on the iron door handle and entered. The smell of baked fish permeated the dining area. Hanging from the ceiling, a single twenty-five watt incandescent light bulb hovered four feet above each of the six booths and four tables. Pete held up a cup of coffee to acknowledge his presence in a corner booth.

Derek and Pete ordered the fish of the day. It came with sliced potatoes cooked in butter.

Pete's cell phone dinged. When the waitress walked away, Pete appeared to study a text message on it.

"The kid reports your man is six miles out and holding a northeast course. Both GPS tracking devices are functioning. You explained to him about the emergency transponder in the survival suit?"

Derek nodded. "He agreed to use it in a life or death situation." A little rain and wind was one thing, but the latest weather report indicted a tropical storm was moving up the coastline faster than anticipated.

Pete pushed his phone to one side. "As long as he doesn't turn south, he'll be okay."

"There's no reason for him to do that," Derek said.

After he and Pete finished their meal, he decided to drive over to the house and check the security system. He had a remote and could turn it on from the rear carport, without disturbing Wanda and Angela.

## Chapter 60

The windshield wipers on the stolen Ford sedan could barely stay ahead of the horrific downpour as Barletto drove past the driveway that led up to Lewellan's Boston home. It was approaching midnight. Lewellan should be asleep. According to Raudin, there were no dogs on the premises, but he would have to deal with an alarm system. If he encountered a dog, he'd have to shoot it first, which could give Lewellan time to react. The plan was to put two bullets in the man's head at close range, and then walk away in the dark. Who else would be out in the worst storm of the year?

He parked two blocks down the street as far from streetlights as possible. After checking the Walther SP22, he pulled the hood of his black weatherproof windbreaker over his head and exited the car. Going against the wind, raindrops and leaves pelted his face as he hurried toward the two-story colonial. Eight windows fronted the house, four on the bottom level and four on the top level. Lights were on downstairs. Lewellan could still be up. After deciding to approach from the west where he could use two large trees for cover, he moved in that direction.

The lower left window gave him a view of the interior. No movement in what appeared to be a dining room. A hallway was lighted as well. According to Raudin's research, all the windows were wired. The house had both motion and sound detection to help protect a million dollars of artwork. A bolt of lightning flashed in the distance. A clap of thunder could cover the sound of breaking glass, if he had to resort to that.

A wind gust caused a small tree branch to bang against the side of the house at the second floor level above him. No one came to investigate the sound. He tapped gently on the first floor window. If anyone heard it, they would think the wind caused it. Still nothing, no movement, the only sounds were raindrops hitting the windows, and the wind raging through the tree branches above him.

After he'd tapped enough times to convince himself no dogs were in the house, he tried to raise the window. It didn't budge. The next window didn't either. When it appeared the lower windows on that side of the house were latched, he moved to the east side of the structure which faced the ocean.

There he found sliding glass doors which led out onto a cobblestone patio. He had to step around wet Adirondack chairs and a table out on the patio in order to slip in close to the doorway. He applied pressure, one of the doors slid about an inch. Not only was it unlocked, the alarm system appeared to be off. He moved fast in the event the alarm was silent, and pushed the door all the way open to provide an easy exit point. A lamp, illuminated in the middle of the room, provided plenty of light. He made his way down the hallway. The sound of snoring from behind a closed door on the left gave him confidence there would be no resistance from Lewellan.

He reached down to turn the knob on the bedroom door. The lock hadn't so much as clicked before several lights came on and a loud, annoying alarm sounded. He pulled his handgun up and spun around. What the hell had happened, a delayed alarm?

"Wanda?" a woman called out from the top of the stairs.

He wasn't alone.

Moving quickly, he left through the sliding glass doorway from which he'd entered the house. Instead of threading the maze of chairs and table on the patio, he tried to jump one of the deck chairs and fell. Pain shot through his ankle which had tangled up in the chair.

* * *

Derek drove up the rear driveway and parked his Jeep Wrangler under the carport near the rear entrance. No need for him to get wet, nor wake the ladies, if he didn't have to. There were no lights on in the back part of the house. He stepped out of the Jeep, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a remote for the alarm system. He aimed it through the kitchen door at the alarm panel located in the mudroom entry and pressed a button to set the alarm system.

All exterior lights turned on, and the alarm sounded. What the heck? Startled, he realized he had no choice but to rang the doorbell to let the ladies know he had mistakenly set off the alarm.

Angela stood at the top of the stairs tying her bath robe. "Wanda?"

Wanda stumbled around the corner of the hallway in her pajamas. She placed her hands over her ears. "What's going on?"

Angela ran down the stairs to meet her at the bottom. "Are you all right?"

"No, my head is killing me."

"Did you trigger the alarm?"

Wanda shook her head. "I don't see how. I forgot to turn it on."

The doorbell sounded first, and then the telephone rang.

"Get the phone?" Angela said. "I'll check the front door."

She peered through the peep hole in the front door, no one. She looked out of the front window. A streak of lightning lit up the front lawn. A large figure dressed in black appeared to be hobbling down the driveway.

Thunder clapped followed by more doorbells ringing. It had to be coming from the rear door. She went toward the kitchen. A streak of lightning from the ground reached skyward splintering off in several directions. Derek stood on the other side of the French paneled top half of the rear entrance. He waved at her. Her insides churned. Who was the man out front? Why was Derek standing outside the back door after midnight?

Through the door, she yelled, "Why are you here at this time of night?"

"I'm terribly sorry," Derek said, raising his voice so Angela could hear him. "I came by to check on the alarm system. I had no intention of waking you. You must have left a door or window open."

"We didn't leave any doors open. I checked them all myself before I went to bed." She hadn't really checked all of them, but they had only used the front entrance, and she remembered locking it after they returned from the restaurant.

A security car with lights flashing pulled up and stopped behind Derek's Wrangler. Its headlights illuminated the carport. Two men in uniform approached Derek. He turned away from her and appeared to say something to the men.

Wanda walked up behind Angela. "Can somebody please turn off that thing off?"

Angela turned around. "Derek's outside. I think those other two men are with a security company."

One of the men appeared to be explaining something to Derek and pointed toward the house. Derek nodded, reached in his pocket, pulled the remote out, and pressed several buttons. The alarm went silent.

"Thank God." Wanda stepped toward the door. "Those security guys sure got here quick. I just got off the phone with them."

"What'd you tell them?"

"To get their butts over here and turn the stupid alarm off."

Wanda placed her hand on Angela's shoulder and stayed behind her. Angela unlocked the rear door and opened it enough to stick her head out.

Derek was still talking to the two men.

"I saw someone running down the driveway, right after the alarm went off?"

The men stopped talking and turned toward her.

Angela pulled the top of her robe together and pushed the door open enough to step around it.

Derek and one of the men he'd been speaking with approached the steps. "These men need to look around the house. This is Sam," Derek said, pointing to him. "He's the head security guard for the property tonight. There are two more guards out front waiting for his instructions."

Sam, put his hand on the radio transmitter attached to his left shoulder. He pushed the transmit button. "The rear entrance is secure. Check the perimeter."

"Roger."

Sam put a foot on the first step. "May we come inside, please?"

"Let them in," Wanda said to her. "We can't make them stand outside all night. It's pouring down rain."

Angela didn't move.

Sam's radio came to life again.

"The sliding glass door on the east side is open all the way and wet footprints on the hardwood floor lead inside. It looks like someone entered the house through the patio entrance."

Derek pursed his lips together.

Angela put her hand to her mouth. "It wasn't us. After we got back from the restaurant, we were exhausted and went straight to bed."

"Oh, darn." Wanda turned toward Angela. "Before we left for dinner, I went out on the patio while you were in the shower. I must have forgotten to lock the door. Sorry about that."

Sam pressed the button on his transmitter. "Standby." He released it. "Mr. Dawson, we'd better go inside and check all the rooms."

Derek turned his attention to her and Wanda. "May we come inside, please?"

"Are you kidding?" Wanda said, pushing her to one side to clear a path. "We demand it." She tied her robe and waved the men forward. "Don't look at me too close. I'm not at my best right now."

The security men checked the entire house, opened every doorway, looked under beds, behind furniture, checked the closets, and even the wine cellar. Wanda made one of the guards open the clothes dryer and look inside while she made coffee for everyone.

Angela stood next to Derek and Sam as she described what she thought she saw out the front window. "I only got a glimpse during a brief flash of lightning, but I'm pretty sure a man was limping down the front driveway right after the alarm went off."

A security guard with a marine-style haircut stepped into the room where the four of them awaited his report. Most of the water spots on his starched brown uniform and spit shined boots had begun to dry.

Wanda smiled at the young man.

"We're clear, sir. It appears whoever entered the house walked toward the downstairs bedroom." The guard pointed toward that area of the house. "Then apparently was startled by the alarm and left though the same doorway. At least that's what's indicated by the pattern of water and wet shoeprints that were left on the floor. The ones leading out are spaced farther apart than the prints leading in."

"Thanks, Jefferson," Sam said.

"Yeah, thanks, Jefferson," Wanda said. "Would you like to spend the night with us?"

"Wanda!"

Wanda stared at her. "Well, how would you feel if someone had broken into the house and walked up to your bedroom door in the middle of the night?"

She and Wanda glanced at Jefferson. He showed no emotion and said nothing.

"Sam, I want twenty-four hour surveillance on this house for the duration of these ladies' stay," Derek said.

"You've got it, Mr. Dawson. I'll call it in." Sam looked at Jefferson. "I want you and Thomas to stay here and watch the house."

"Yes, sir," Jefferson said. He turned to leave the room.

"Jefferson, aren't you going to drink some of this coffee I made?" Wanda grabbed the pot off the bar and held it up.

Jefferson stopped and turned around. "Thank you, but we have everything we need."

Angela glanced at Derek. He bit his lower lip and stared at the open sliding glass doorway.

"These guys go off shift in a couple of hours," Sam said. "I'll send two more to relieve them."

Derek walked toward to the kitchen with Sam. Sam pushed the radio transmit button. "Robert, meet me out back. We're leaving."

Angela followed after them.

Derek closed the rear door behind Sam and stepped back into the den with her. She walked over and closed the sliding glass door, locked it, then turned to Wanda. A loud clap of thunder rattled the glass behind her.

Wanda filled three cups with coffee and set the pot down in the middle of an oval table situated between two sofas perpendicular to a large rock fireplace. She sat on the sofa that faced the doorway.

"I'm sorry about what happened tonight." Derek moved back toward the kitchen and appeared to be getting ready to leave.

Angela stepped in front of him and pointed toward the sofa across from the one where Wanda sat. "Why don't you sit down and tell us what's really going on?"

His eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"For starters, how did you know what my favorite champagne was?"

He glanced at Wanda.

She patted the sofa. "Sit by me and tell us everything."

## Chapter 61

The rainfall was heavy. Barletto stood in three inches of water to open the car door. His left boot felt tight from the swelling of his ankle. Once inside the vehicle, he pulled the hood down and wiped his face with his hands. A flash of lightning momentarily illuminated the street and the interior of the car. He caught an image in the rearview mirror and reached for his Walther SP22, but before he could get to it, the man behind him pressed a cold, wet, barrel in his ear.

"Don't move, or you're dead."

He froze.

"Now slowly place your hands on the steering wheel and keep them there."

Recognizing Raudin's voice, he yelled, "What the hell is this?"

"Shut up, and do as I say." Raudin pressed the barrel hard against his ear.

He could take Dumbass before he knew what hit him, but decided to place his hands on the wheel to await his chance.

"That's better."

Feeling the pressure relax against his ear, he yanked his right hand up to grab the gun. The adrenaline rush caused his hand to move with the speed of a striking diamond-back rattler in South Texas. He jammed Raudin's hand hard against the roof of the car, before twisting the pistol loose. He used his right elbow to punch the geek in the face, before slamming him against the rear seat. With his assailant disarmed and moaning, he turned and pointed the gun at Raudin's face.

"Now it's my turn. Don't move."

After his wide-eyed assailant stared back at him and complied, he reached up and switched on the interior dome light.

Raudin massaged his right wrist. "Damn, you may have broken my wrist."

"Raise it and the other one up where I can see them...nice and slow." Barletto waved the automatic back and forth between Raudin's eyes.

Okay, but ease off on that trigger." Raudin raised his latex gloved hands. "It doesn't take much for it to go off."

"Shut up, amateur. Latex went out a long time ago. Your fingerprints are all over the inside of those."

"Are you going to arrest me?"

"I'm going to shoot you in the head, if you don't tell me why you're doing this." He stiffened his grip on the pistol.

"Okay! Okay! I'll tell you whatever you want to know. Back off on that trigger."

He waved the barrel of the gun up and down. "Get to it."

"I've been fooling you for some time now. It wasn't difficult making you think I was in one place when I was really in another. A benefit of only communicating with cell phones."

Raudin hesitated, sweat formed on his temples.

"Keep talking. I want it all."

"I needed a person on the inside who had access to the original case file. I checked out several cops. Unfortunately, most in the department were upstanding individuals, but you on the other hand were an ideal choice. When I found out you owed serious money to a loan shark, I offered you half the reward money in exchange for the complete case file. But unfortunately, it hasn't worked out like I'd hoped."

"What the hell are talking about?" Barletto said, raising his voice.

"Well, for one thing, you want everyone dead."

"You idiot, I'm keeping us out of jail."

"And I'm supposed to believe you won't kill me and her after you get the money? You said no witnesses, remember?"

"And to think I thought people like you were smart." He shook his head. "You really are stupid. You know that?"

A drop of sweat clung to one of Raudin's cheeks. "I'm smart enough to know where everybody is and how they will react under certain stimuli. You see, John, I studied everyone carefully when I planned this whole thing. Well, everybody except that lady detective. I didn't know she would be in the picture, especially after you told me she'd been forced to curtail the search for Lewellan's wife. But I have everyone else down, including you."

"What the hell do you mean?" Barletto pressed the gun against Raudin's forehead.

Raudin glanced over Barletto's shoulder. While the rain continued to pummel the windshield and rear window, the intensity of the lightning lessened. The car's dome light above their heads glowed enough for him to see the anger in the detective's eyes.

"Take you, for instance," Raudin said. "When you called and told me you'd lost him, I knew something had gone wrong when he quit using his credit cards. Later when I called and told you he was in Boston, I was already here, watching him, wondering why he'd left New York City, after increasing the reward. I figured he was onto us."

"How can he know anything?"

"Yeah, John, how can he? You let Jessica get away. Why was she in New York?"

"One more smartass reply and I'll put one in your kneecap," Barletto said. "He can't know much."

Raudin shook his head. "Not enough to spoil my plan, anyway."

"So what's your damn problem?"

"Well, for starters, the woman has decided not to accept any reward money."

"The hell she won't." Barletto raised his voice. "You can't cut me out of my share."

"You see, that's the second problem. We kind of figured you'd take it that way, so she and I agreed it's time to end our partnership with you."

Barletto smiled and pulled the hammer back. "That's fine with me."

"Wait! You can't kill me." Raudin covered his face and leaned forward. "You don't know where she is."

"Idiot, I'm a detective. I find people for a living." He pulled the trigger.

The only sound heard was a click. Barletto's jaw dropped and his mouth opened

Raudin grabbed a second gun from the floorboard, raised it, and fired once. The concussion and noise from the blast were deafening. The bullet entered Barletto's head through his mouth removing a tooth in its path. His body slumped back against the door, and what was left of the overconfident detective rested against the side window.

Raudin leaned over the front seat and lifted the Walther from the detective's hand. Its firing pin had been removed. After swapping the upper assembly with the gun he had just fired, he placed the weapon near Barletto's hand. He grabbed the pistol the detective had in his belt.

"Sorry, John. I need this one. Gotta run now."

He opened the rear door of the car, exited, and casually walked away in the pouring rain, his ears still ringing.

## Chapter 62

After sailing two hours on a northeast course in what turned out to be a fairly weak front, Philip took a heading due south hoping to find the storm's southern boundary. Two hours later, he was shaken by a large wave which caused the boat to roll hard to port. Knocked off balance, he fell against the railing, the surface of the sea inches from his head. His cell phone flew from a pocket in his survival suit and bounced off the railing into the ocean. Repositioning himself behind the wheel, he flipped a switch to expand the scale on the radar screen to ten miles. A massive storm front lay directly in his path. Unlike the weak front coming out of Boston, the red pattern mixed with orange and yellow on the seven-inch display were a clear indication he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

With no chance to outrun it, he had to get closer to Boston before waves swamped his vessel and flooded the engine compartment. He moved toward the mast and lowered the sails and secured them the best he could between swells. The boom swung a foot and slammed hard against the three quarter inch line limiting its travel. Part of the main sail broke loose and flapped wildly in the wind. The sting of salt spray in his face made it hard to see. The running lights at the top of the mast were barely visible.

He returned to the wheel and started the diesel engine. Applying full throttle, he took a heading toward Boston Harbor. According to his GPS coordinates, he was thirty-two miles due east of the longitude and twenty miles south of the latitude he'd started from. Based on the current radar readings, he had taken the worst possible heading when he turned south. He had sailed into the path of a tropical storm, miles wide and gaining in strength.

That kind of mistake had cost his parents their lives. Would he meet the same fate they had twenty-four years earlier? The rainfall became so dense it was difficult to see the mast only twelve feet in front of him. The survival suit Derek insisted he wear might be his only chance. The seasoned veteran of the seas had been right, only a fool leaves a safe harbor in bad weather.

As the intensity of the storm continued to increase, he tried to remember everything Derek had told him about surviving a storm on the open seas. The boat rolled starboard before swinging back to port as it tried to climb each wave. He struggled to hold a steady course as he checked the straps that held him close to the wheel. The ship groaned up each wave, hovered, and then leapt as if off a cliff. His stomach lurched with each descent.

The main bilge pump was running continuously. Another light illuminated. The water level below deck had reached a critical point. The auxiliary bilge pump had started. If both couldn't prevent the water level below deck from rising, the engine compartment would flood and the MSB Rachel would lose its diesel engine. Without power, he had no way of maintaining a heading, and he'd be adrift at sea in a massive storm that would swallow him whole.

Monster waves smashed against the bow. Sea water poured over the sides. Ripped sails flapped in the shearing winds. The sound of the diesel engine straining to push the vessel forward was barely audible. If the conditions continued to worsen, the engine wouldn't have enough power to climb the waves.

He'd secured the hatch leading below deck earlier to reduce the amount of rainfall reaching the lower cabin. The waves grew larger by the minute, as if ready to swallow anything in their path. He was way over his head in the sailing skills needed to survive, but he wasn't going down without a fight. The boat felt like a jar being tossed back and forth between two watery hands, testing the strength of the straps holding him behind the wheel. Each tug felt stronger than the last.

The hatch! He had survived a storm below deck once. Could he do it again? The next wave could take him overboard. There was no time to waste. He unsnapped both nylon straps in hopes he could make it below deck before the water washed him overboard like it had his father.

His timing was off. It was too late.

The boat started its slide downward from the crest. He turned around and reached for the straps to reconnect them. The boat rolled past ninety degrees and the top of the mast slammed against the surface of the ocean. He was hurled into the black sea.

His lungs were about to burst when his head finally cleared the surface. He sucked in a deep gulp of air and choked on the salt water. With his flotation holding his head above water, he scanned the surface for the running lights. The sailboat had righted itself, but he was at least a hundred feet from the boat. His instincts were to swim toward it, but he gave up the idea quickly as the diesel engine carried the sloop farther and farther away from him.

There was nothing he could do but bob up and down with the waves. As the running lights faded away and total darkness set in, his chances of survival dimmed with them.

Would the flotation and his stamina be enough to keep him from drowning? His options appeared to be as dark as the blackness that engulfed him.

He activated the emergency transponder bobbing in the water next to him. If he wasn't out of range, hopefully, he'd be able to hang on until someone came looking for him.

With a battery life of twenty-four hours at maximum transmit power, would they arrive in time?

## Chapter 63

Jake shook his boss. "Wake up, Pete. We've got a problem."

"What is it, Kid?" Pete asked as he rose from the cot.

He followed Jake over to the computer screen. "Where is he?" Pete asked.

Jake pointed to a dot on the screen south of Boston. "He's more than thirty miles out."

"That can't be right. He's supposed to be way north of Boston."

"That's not the major problem." Jake zoomed in on the image. He pointed to two dots on the screen. "The signals are separating. Our target is in the water."

"In the water!" Pete yelled, running over to grab his boots. "Show me the weather."

Jake clicked on an icon, and a different image popped up on the display. Pete looked over Jake's shoulder. "Shit."

"It's a big storm. I've been monitoring the Coast Guard frequencies. They've recalled all aircraft from that area, and their closest cutter is in route to another rescue. It'll be hours before anyone can get to him."

"That leaves us, kid. Time to earn our money."

Jake grabbed his arm. "Are you crazy? We can't take the chopper out in this kind of storm. We'll be shaken to pieces. Even if by some miracle we make it out to him, we can't risk getting low enough to use the cable. We'll be thrown into the sea."

"You're right." Pete said, pulling his cell phone out. "Keep monitoring the signal. I'm going to get a cup of coffee and try to figure something out. Hopefully, he can hold out until there's a break in the weather."

On his way to the chopper, cell phone to his ear, Pete explained the seriousness of the situation to Derek. "Even if we make it out to him in these conditions, it's unlikely I can get low enough to use the cable."

He and Derek devised a joint rescue plan. Derek would go out in a twin-diesel-powered boat. Pete would coordinate Philip's location from the chopper.

The blades were already rotating when Jake opened the passenger door to the helicopter. He glared at Pete, shook his head, and then jumped in. After placing his headgear on and strapping himself in, he keyed the mike. "I thought you were going for coffee."

"We came up with a plan. Derek is on the way to his boat."

"You ex-military guys are a bunch of damn cowboys."

"Somebody has to try to save him." Pete spun up the blades, and the chopper began to vibrate. "Might as well be the damn cowboys."

Jake turned on the GPS tracking device. "Target on screen. Whenever you're ready."

"Hang on, kid, you're about to take the ride of your life."

Before Pete could move the control to lift off, Jake grabbed his arm. "Wait! We lost the signal."

"Get it back."

"The problem's not on our end. We're too late, Pete. He's gone."

Pete shut down the chopper, grabbed his cell phone and called Derek.

When Derek answered, Pete said, "He's no longer transmitting. We've lost the signal."

After a few moments, he reached over and turned Jake's computer toward him. He gave Derek the last coordinates displayed on the screen, before terminating the call.

"You're right, kid. Derek is a damn cowboy, and so are we."

He restarted the chopper.

After the initial panic of being tossed into the sea lessoned, Philip assessed his chances of being picked up. He was in a raging sea surrounded by total blackness with sail-shredding winds whipping above him. The conditions were too dangerous for any kind of rescue attempt. He couldn't endanger more lives. There was only one way to possibly stop Derek and his friends from trying. He yanked on the line attached to the transponder, pulled it to him, and turned it off. He would hold out as long as he could and hope conditions improved, before he had to turn it back on.

## Chapter 64

The storm moved through the Boston area. Raudin checked the weather conditions off the coastline, and decided it was safe enough to go out. An hour before daybreak, he applied full power to the motor boat he had rented and headed out to sea. The GPS transponder he had placed on Lewellan's boat led him to what was left of the MSB Rachel.

Sitting low in the water, the sloop appeared to be abandoned. Torn strips of what was left of the two sails flapped in the breeze. High in the sky, the sun temporarily blinded his view, causing him to bump the starboard side of the sloop hard on his first attempt to pull up beside it. He secured a line to hold the two vessels close together and boarded the sailboat.

Water was ankle deep below deck. Items shaken loose from their storage locations floated by his legs. He opened a latched cabinet door, removed the ship's log, and read the last entry, dated during the early morning hours.

Caught in a severe storm and taking on water. Not much hope. It appears I will leave this earth the same way my parents did twenty-four years ago.

Philip Lewellan, Captain of the MSB Rachel

He removed two items wrapped in a cloth from his backpack and shoved them into the rear of the cabinet, before placing the ship's log back where he'd found it.

Without knowing the status of Lewellan, all he could do was go back to Boston Harbor and wait it out. After he was well away from it, he would radio the location of the sloop.

## Chapter 65

Still in recovery from surgery, Sandra stayed locked up inside her Dallas home for eight days following reports of Philip's death. A botched rescue attempt had snapped his spine when the helicopter had pulled up quickly in high winds. Televised pictures of a helicopter rescue crew bringing him in unconscious and barely hanging on to life were seared into her memory. Hours later, a Boston neurosurgeon pronounced him brain dead.

She ignored the doorbell, but whoever was at her front door began pounding on the wood siding.

She yanked the door open and the afternoon sun forced her to shut her swollen eyes. She threw her hand up to shade them.

"Kevin? Why aren't you at work?"

"May I come in?"

"I hate for you to see me like this. I really need some time alone right now." She tried to close the door.

Kevin placed his hand against it. "Wait. Who are the guys in the car parked in front of your house?"

"They work for a security company."

"Did you hire them?"

"No, Philip did before he left New York. I've tried to get them to leave, but they drive down the street and come back after a few minutes."

Kevin turned and stared at the man sitting in the passenger side of the car. "How long are they going to stay there?"

"I don't know." She tried to close the door again.

"Please, Sandra, I have news from the office."

She pulled the door back.

"This morning at ten twenty-two Eastern, Renée Lewellan walked into a police station in New York City."

She stared at him.

"Since you're not answering the phone, it was the only option I had. There's more, if you want to hear it."

"They're sure it's her?" she asked.

"They have a fingerprint match."

"After all these years." She glanced at a week's pile of newspapers stacked by a shriveled up ivy plant she had neglected to water. "What's her story?"

"She claims Philip tried to kill her seven years ago and left her for dead."

She tightened her grip on the doorknob. "I don't believe that."

"It gets worse."

She jerked her head back. "Go ahead."

"Renée claims she survived her husband's brutal attack and eventually made it to New York City where she met Ramsel Randellini. According to her police statement, Randellini took her back to Paris where he provided for her. She and the child have been living in Randellini's Paris home for the past seven years."

She didn't know what to feel, other than disbelief. Kevin had her complete attention.

"She told the police in New York City she suspected Philip killed Randellini after seeing an oil painting that had gotten mixed in by mistake with several paintings shipped from Paris to New York."

"Kevin, I don't believe one word of it. How long did it take her to claim the five million dollar reward?"

"If you don't believe anything I've told you so far, you sure won't believe the next part. She refused to accept any part of the money. She claimed she didn't come forward for the reward, but only to set the record straight. She also said her daughter Rachel is still in hiding in Paris."

"You're sure about the reward money?"

"Yes, turn on the television. Read a newspaper. Check the Internet. The media is having a field day."

Kevin stepped forward and placed his hand on her arm. "There's something else before you see it on the news, or worse hear about it down at the station."

He hesitated.

She frowned. "What is it?"

"The police found two guns hidden on board Philip's boat. They were small caliber .22 handguns, automatics. The same caliber used to kill the artist, and the same caliber of bullet removed from you." Kevin released her and stared at the wood flooring in her entryway.

"So?"

"The NYPD believe they can prove Philip is the person who shot you."

Eyes wide, she yelled "No! Not Philip. It couldn't have been him. He was at the hotel."

Kevin shook his head again. "I'm sorry, but I'm telling you what's been reported. I thought it would be better if I told you here and now before you heard it somewhere else."

Her head dropped.

"John Barletto is dead."

She jerked her head up. According to office rumors, John had gotten way over his head in gambling debts. Had a loan shark decided to settle the debt once and for all?

"How?"

"The police initially thought it was suicide, but investigators figured it out when the other gun found on Philip's boat turned out to be identical to the one that killed John. The uppers on the automatics had been swapped to make it look like a suicide."

"A paper carrier found his body in the front seat of an old sedan parked in a high rent district in Boston."

"Boston?"

"Two blocks from Lewellan's house. It's all in the report. You can check it out."

How could she have been so wrong about Philip? She leaned her forehead against the doorframe to steady herself. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't. She lifted her head and stepped away from the door.

"Call me tomorrow morning. I'll answer."

"Okay." He pulled a sack from behind his back. "Here are a couple of sandwiches I got at the diner. Your two favorites, and there are apples, pears, and oranges in there too."

He was trying his best to be her prince, but not even Kevin would be able to save her from a dungeon of sadness.

"Thank you." After giving him a hug, she took the sack.

"I'll leave you to get some rest."

On the way to the kitchen, she retrieved an apple before placing the sandwiches in her refrigerator. She took a bite and sat down at her breakfast counter. Before she could turn on her laptop, the doorbell sounded again.

She looked through the peephole then opened the front door.

A man wearing a FedEx uniform handed her a package wrapped in brown paper. He held up his electronic signature pad. "Please sign here."

She signed her name, thanked him, and closed the door. On her way back to the kitchen, the shipper's address caught her attention.

## Chapter 66

Early the next morning, Sandra walked into the Dallas Police Station and found Kevin sitting at his desk, typing away on his computer. She approached her desk, positioned three feet from his.

Apparently hearing her footsteps on the tile floor, Kevin stopped typing and turned around.

He stood. "I was getting ready to call you."

She hugged him. "Thank you for always being there for me."

"I felt badly after I left your house yesterday. I'm sorry I delivered such terrible news about Philip."

She released him and stepped away to take a seat at her desk. "After you left, I called the police department in New York City and spoke with the two detectives who took her statement through an interpreter. Everything you heard is true. Renée refused to accept any of the reward money Philip offered, and she's going back to Paris.

Kevin returned to his chair. "So it's over?"

Not being sure if he was asking about the Lewellan case or really asking about her feelings for Philip, she stared at her black computer, placed her hand on the mouse, and moved it. Her feelings for Philip were much stronger than she had realized. All she could think about was how much she had enjoyed being with him. She would have been defenseless to his affections that night in Paris, when they returned to the hotel. Philip, being the perfect gentleman, let her walk away from him when she was most vulnerable. A kiss is just a kiss. Well, she'd always have Paris.

She turned toward Kevin. He appeared to be patiently awaiting her answer.

## Chapter 67

Four weeks later, Sandra arrived at the Tomes Building at 3:15 p.m. and took the elevator to the tenth floor. After signing in at the front desk, she was escorted to the main conference room for the reading of Philip's will.

The receptionist held the door open for her. "Detective Copeland, if you'll have a seat, Mrs. Castle will be with you in a few minutes. She's waiting for one other person to arrive.

"Thank you," Sandra said, stepping into the room, the dark blue carpet offering a cushion to her heels.

Three people were already seated near one end of a long rectangular table surrounded by fourteen high-backed burgundy leather chairs. At the far end of the room, away from everyone else, a man, with his back to them, stood looking out a south facing window.

A young man with red hair stood. "I'm Cody Smith. Please let me introduce you to my wife, Anna."

On the return flight from Paris, Philip had talked about the young couple he shared his home with. From his warm, generous, affectionate remarks about Cody, Anna, and their daughter, she could tell Philip adored them.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Anna. I'm Sandra."

"Hi," Anna replied, wiping aside a tear. "Philip thought a lot of you."

Cody pointed across the table. "Detective Copeland, this is Joyce. I don't know if you've ever met her or not."

"No, I haven't," Sandra said.

Joyce remained seated, but waved to acknowledge her.

"Hi, Joyce." Sandra selected a chair near the middle of the table and pulled it toward her. About to take her seat, the man in a gray pin stripped suit, who had been staring out the window turned around and walked toward her.

"How are you, Detective?"

She practically ran to him with her arms out.

"Joseph. How are you?"

He opened his arms and received her hug. "I'm doing all right, I guess. It's hard to think about not being able to see him again." The sadness in his eyes conveyed his grief over the lost of Philip.

She released him and stepped back. "Yes, I know. How long have you been in town?"

"My flight arrived two hours ago."

The door to the conference room opened to admit Helen Castle. "I apologize for the delay. I've been told Renée has arrived and is being escorted up. It should only be a few more minutes." Helen pointed to an ornate table at the end of the conference room. On it had been placed a silver coffee service, sugar and cream, white delicate cups, a crystal water pitcher, glasses, soft drinks and a crystal ice bucket.

"We have coffee, tea, and soft drinks. Please help yourselves."

## Chapter 68

Sandra glanced around the table. According to what Philip had told her, Cody and Joyce had both begun working for him four years after Renée had disappeared. The only person in the room who had met Renée prior to her disappearance, other than Helen Castle, was Joseph. She turned around in time to see the receptionist escorting a man and woman toward the conference room.

The receptionist opened the glass door and held it open until the couple entered the room.

When they walked in, the woman said nothing and stood motionless, gazing at the others seated around the table. The man standing by her side stared at Helen Castle, who appeared to be speechless. Obviously, Helen was shocked to see Renée, after all these years.

Sandra was skeptical of the story about Lewellan's attempt to kill her, but seeing the woman up close and in person would convince anyone she was indeed the woman in the painting whom Philip had been so desperate to find.

The man stuck his hand out. "My name is Lebu Raudin." I'll be interpreting for Mrs. Lewellan. She suffered some brain damage and had lost the ability to speak many years ago. She relearned French after returning to her home country, where she has lived for the last seven years."

Helen Castle motioned for the latest arrivals to take a seat at the conference table near her.

Joseph walked toward them. "Hello, Mrs. Lewellan, do you remember me?" He smiled.

The woman appeared to ignore him until Raudin spoke to her in French. She then smiled back.

"I'm sorry," Raudin said. "Mrs. Lewellan wishes you all well, but due to her head trauma she's unable to remember everyone from her past."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know." Joseph stepped back toward the far end of the table.

After pulling a chair out for the woman, Raudin selected one next to her and took a seat.

Helen moved toward the end of the table and motioned for Joseph to take a seat.

Sandra smiled at him and pointed at a chair next to hers.

Joseph nodded and moved toward it.

"My name is Helen Castle. As executor of Mr. Lewellan's estate, I'm here to represent his final wishes."

Sandra stretched her legs under the table and pulled the bottom of her heels across the carpet, until the new shoes slid from her feet. The red heels matched her blouse. The white slacks were new as well.

After being informed she was one of many beneficiaries to Philip's estate, she had asked the obvious question: Since when? Told she had been added years earlier, she realized Philip had never really blamed her for curtailing the search after departmental brass came down on her for continuing to expend resources for what appeared to be a fruitless effort.

The attorney continued. "Prior to the reading of the will, it was Mr. Lewellan's request that each of us celebrate his life with a toast of his favorite Champagne."

Helen looked toward the glassed wall facing the hallway, and motioned to a woman and man standing on the other side of the doorway.

The couple entered the room. The woman carried a tray of eight crystal champagne flutes and the man followed carrying a silver container with two bottles. He sat the wine holder on the table at the end of the conference room beside the other drinks and removed the bottles of 1999 Louis Roederer Cristal Champagne.

The woman holding the tray, walked over, and stood beside Helen.

Helen selected one of the glasses and placed it on the conference table in front of her. The woman then repeated the process, until everyone seated at the table had a flute.

The bottles popped when opened. The man then proceeded to walk from flute to flute pouring the champagne. Their mission complete, the two servers left the room.

Helen stood.

Cody and Joseph, acting like gentlemen, immediately rose. Raudin eventually followed suit, but way out of step for a man.

When everyone was on their feet, Helen picked up her glass and nodded for the others to do so as well.

"Mr. Lewellan requested this specific toast be made to his life." Helen lifted her glass. After glasses were clinked, she said, "May the wind be at your backs, and your hearts filled with joy."

After all in the room had raised their glasses and sipped the wine, Helen said, "Please be seated for the reading of the will."

She opened a folder in front of her. "Mr. Lewellan requested I draft a new will after his wife, Renée, became pregnant. As to the distribution of his personal estate, Mr. Lewellan's wishes were quite clear.

"The bulk of his personal estate was to be equally divided between his wife, Renée, and their child, Rachel. The will also provided that should he die prior to his child reaching the age of twenty-one, the child's portion of the estate would remain in a trust.

"All of Rachel's living, medical, and educational expenses would be provided from the trust, until his daughter reached twenty-one years of age. At that time, she would be allowed to draw funds from the trust, not to exceed one million dollars a year until her 35th birthday. Then she would be allowed to have full control of her inheritance."

Helen glanced at Renée, before looking at Raudin.

Appearing to understand little, if anything Helen had said, Reneé's expression didn't change. On the other hand, Raudin displayed a slight smile. He leaned over and whispered in the woman's ear.

She turned toward him and spoke a few words in French, before turning her attention back to Helen.

"Mrs. Lewellan wishes that I explain everything to her after you have completed reading the will," Raudin said. "She sees no need to cause a delay for everyone else. Please continue."

Helen nodded, acknowledging her request.

Cody pushed a package of tissues across the table toward Joyce.

Helen paused and gazed at Joyce. "Are you all right?"

"I'm sorry," Joyce said, pulling a tissue from the box. "Please continue."

With her gaze moving around the table, Helen asked, "Does anyone feel they need a break?"

When no one indicated they did, she continued. "After years of Mr. Lewellan's unsuccessful search for his wife and child, a codicil was added to the will."

She turned the page.

"The codicil reads as follows: For my wife and daughter to remain beneficiaries of the estate, I must publicly announce that my wife, Renée, is alive prior to my death. Otherwise, ninety percent of my estate shall go to the Lewellan Education Foundation, with the remaining ten percent going to the other beneficiaries I have designated."

Helen gazed at Renée. "Philip loved you very much, and you should not think he ever gave up hope of finding you. The codicil was not his idea; it was mine. I advised him that his other heirs would have to go before a judge and have you and your child declared legally dead by a court of law. He did not want that to happen."

When the woman offered no response, Helen continued.

"Mr. Lewellan also stipulated that sole discretion as to whether or not he made such a public statement would be left up to the executor of his will."

The attorney pulled a single sheet from the folder and set it on the table.

"Three days ago, I signed and filed a statement with the court as to my decision. As executor of Mr. Lewellan's will, I stipulated that Mr. Lewellan did make such a public statement that was broadcast in New York City, prior to his death."

The corners of Renée's mouth curled up ever so slightly.

Helen removed a stack of shiny, golden-colored envelopes from the rear jacket of the folder. "In each of these envelopes is a document which specifies your inheritance. It was Mr. Lewellan's request that you step outside the conference room prior to opening it, in the order they are handed out. In addition, once outside the room, you are to turn and face those remaining inside the conference room so they can watch your reaction, through the glass partition, as you read the contents of your envelope." She looked around the table.

"There is one final requirement." She paused for a moment. "After you've read the document, you are not to disclose the information to anyone else in this room for a period of twenty-four hours." Helen leaned back in her chair. "Does anyone object to those terms?"

A few eyebrows were raised, but no one objected.

Renée showed no reaction, but it was clear Raudin didn't like what he had heard.

"Does anyone have any questions prior to receiving your envelope?"

No one spoke.

After having assembled a small mountain of tissues on the table in front of her, Joyce's eyes were red, but she appeared to have her tears under control.

"We shall begin." Helen picked up the first envelope and held it out for Joyce.

Tears began to form again. With her makeup already a mess of streaks, Joyce grabbed two more tissues before taking the envelope. She glanced at Cody and Anna.

"You may leave the room whenever you're ready," Helen said to her.

Joyce stood and walked around the table. She leaned down, hugged Anna, then Cody, before leaving the conference room.

Once outside the doorway, Joyce looked back through the wall of glass which separated the conference room from the hallway. After taking a moment to regain her composure, she opened her envelope and removed a single sheet of paper. For a moment, she appeared to be confused. Then her expression changed. Joyce jumped into the air flinging her arms wildly. After she calmed down, she stared directly at Cody and Anna, and waved at them, before walking to the other side of the hallway, where she removed her cell phone from her purse placed a call.

Helen picked up the second envelope. "Cody, would you and Anna please leave the conference room at this time?"

Cody stood and pulled the chair back to assist his wife. He took the envelope from Helen's hand before opening conference room door for Anna. They both stood on the other side of the glass partition. Cody and Anna showed no emotion after reading the contents of their envelope. Cody folded the note. He and his wife walked toward Joyce, who waited for them in the hallway.

The three hugged each other and walked toward the elevator.

Helen picked up the third envelope and glanced at Joseph. She nodded and held it out to him.

He stood, took the envelope, walked toward the conference room door, stopped and looked back.

Renée never once glanced in his direction.

He shook his head and then looked toward the other end of the table. "If you're ever in New York City again, you have a free ride whenever you need it."

"Thank you, Joseph," Sandra said, waving goodbye to him.

Joseph left the room and closed the door. Once in position, he opened his envelope and read the contents. Without changing his facial expression, he walked toward the elevator.

Helen Castle looked to her.

Sandra put her shoes back on, stood, and walked toward the other end of the table to take the envelope from Helen's hand. "Thank you."

She left the room. Standing on the other side of the glass partition, she read the contents of her envelope, before placing it in her purse. She walked down the hallway and stood next to the elevator, a good vantage point from which to observe.

Raudin and Renée walked out of the conference room. Renée opened the fifth and final envelope and withdrew a piece of paper. Raudin grabbed the document from her hand, before she had time to read it. After he appeared to read it himself, he smiled and took Renée's arm and led her toward the elevator.

Raudin hesitated for a moment when he apparently realized Sandra had probably seen his actions outside the room.

Sandra stepped back.

Raudin leaned in and pushed the down button.

Seconds later, a bell sounded and the doors opened. Two men walked out of the elevator chatting about a defense strategy. The one doing the talking almost walked into Raudin.

When the men passed, Renée stepped inside.

Raudin turned toward Sandra. "Are you going down?" he asked, waiting for her to follow Renée.

"No, I just remembered something I need to ask Helen."

He stepped in front of her, entered, and pushed one of the buttons.

"Philip tried his best to find you and Rachel," Sandra said, gazing at the woman.

She nodded as the doors began to close. Raudin's elbow pushed against her side just before the elevator doors completely came together.

She returned to the conference room and Helen opened the door as she approached.

"That is the strangest will I've ever had," Helen said, closing the door behind her.

Sandra pulled two rubber gloves from her purse and put them on. She picked up the two champagne glasses and placed them in paper sacks, which Helen had placed on the table beside the flutes.

"Thanks, Helen. So you knew all along?"

Helen shook her head. "Philip left me an envelope to be opened immediately, if I learned of his death. After hearing the reports coming out of Boston, I opened it. When I read that no death certificate would be required before the reading of his will, I had my suspicions. When did you know?"

She reached in her purse and pulled out a card.

Helen took the card and held it up. "Rick Blaine." She looked up. "Who is he?"

"On our trip to Paris, Philip asked me what my favorite movie was. After he was reported missing at sea, I received a FedEx package containing that card and a pair of shoes I had admired in a Paris store window. She pointed to her red heels.

"Rick Blaine, from Casablanca?" Helen asked.

Sandra nodded. "The shoes had been sent from Paris, two days earlier. It was his way of telling me he was alive, but I didn't hear another word from him until I opened my envelope a few minutes ago."

Helen looked down at the conference table. "His note to me wasn't quite so dramatic." She picked up a one-page note lying on the table. "This was in the envelope for me to be opened and read after everyone had left the conference room." She handed it to her.

After reading it, Sandra looked up. "You didn't know about Renée until today?"

"Philip apparently felt was a better lawyer than actress. I really wondered about his requirement for eight clean, cloth-wiped champagne glasses which were to remain untouched. Then there was the requirement for two unused paper sacks. After reading those instructions, I knew something strange was happening, but I wasn't exactly sure what it was until I read that note."

Sandra gave the note back to Helen and grabbed the two sacks. "Thanks for your help. I'll make sure these get to the lab. If Philip's suspicions are correct, these fingerprints will confirm it."

"I found it awfully hard to believe he had tried to kill Renée, but in my business you never know." Helen opened the conference room door. "I could tell you some things. Did you believe that story when you heard it?"

"Not any more than I believed that woman didn't understand English." Sandra stepped through the doorway.

## Chapter 69

Three uniformed police officers, along with Detective Johnson and Kevin were waiting when the elevator stopped at the first floor.

As soon as the doors opened, Detective Johnson said, "Please step out."

One of the uniformed officers placed his hand on the door to prevent it from closing.

Raudin and the woman stepped forward.

"Lebu Raudin, I have a warrant for your arrest," Johnson said. "Officer, take him into custody."

The police officer reached for his handcuffs. "Sir, please place your hands behind your back."

"What's going on? You can't do this." Raudin demanded.

The officer grabbed Raudin's hands and forced them behind his back.

Johnson did not answer the questions. Instead, he read Raudin his rights after the officer cuffed him. "Do you understand these rights?"

"Yes, I understand them. Tell me what am I charged with?"

"For starters, you're charged with the theft of confidential legal files," Johnson said.

Raudin shook his head. "How long do you think you can hold me on that stupid charge? You have nothing. I'm not worried. I have an excellent attorney." Raudin laughed at Johnson.

"Do you have an excellent one in France as well? The French police have a surveillance video of you running down an old man on the streets of Paris. They have a facial hair samples you left behind inside the murder weapon. I hear they really know how to treat a prisoner over there."

Raudin stopped laughing. He glanced at the large windows and looked toward the door leading to the parking lot.

Johnson glanced at the doorway. "Go for it. I'd love nothing more than rubbing your face in the pavement."

Raudin looked down at the marbled tile floor.

Johnson turned to the officer. "Take him to the patrol car. I'll follow you downtown."

As the uniformed officer pulled him away, Raudin looked over his shoulder at the woman and yelled to her tersely. "Don't say a word, do you hear me!"

Johnson pushed Raudin toward the doorway and followed behind.

Kevin approached the woman and showed his badge to her. "I am Detective Kevin Franks with the Dallas Police Department. Do you understand English?"

She appeared frightened and remained silent.

He signaled to a female officer, who then placed her hand on the woman's elbow in an attempt to lead her toward the exit.

"Please let go of me!"

"Mr. Raudin cannot help you. He's under arrest. It will be much easier for you if you cooperate with us."

She stared at him.

"You have to go to the police station with us and answer a few questions. You will be allowed to go back to Paris, but someone besides me will decide when."

"You not arrest me?" The woman asked.

"No, ma'am, but I do need to ask you a few questions and obtain a signed statement from you. It shouldn't take long since you obviously do speak English."

She glanced at the female officer. "I will go with you."

Kevin and the female officer escorted the woman out of the building.

## Chapter 70

The third uniformed officer approached Sandra when she returned to the lobby of the Tomes Building.

"We have Raudin in custody. Detective Franks instructed me to wait here for you."

"Thank you, officer." She handed two sacks containing the flutes to him. "Ask Billie to run prints on these."

He nodded and left through the north exit.

She turned and walked in the direction of the main entrance on the south side, where she had parked her car.

In the parking lot across the way, Joseph stood next to a white limousine. He waved at her. "Over here, Detective."

Within a few steps of him, she asked, "Is he in there?"

"Yes, ma'am and so is everyone else. We were hoping you'd join us." Joseph opened the back door to let her inside.

She sat facing the front. Cody and Anna were on the left side, their backs against dark tinted windows. They faced Joyce and Philip who sat across from them. Everyone held glasses of champagne. The aroma of new leather filled the air.

Joseph opened the driver's door and took his position behind the wheel. He looked through the open privacy window toward the passengers and counted with his finger.

"I believe we're all here, Mr. Lewellan."

Joyce stared at Philip before taking a sip of champagne.

"Thank you, Joseph," Philip said, gazing at her. "I've apologized to everyone here except you, Sandra. I hope you'll forgive me for deceiving you."

"Of course."

"Try this." Philip handed her a glass of champagne. "I think you'll recognize it."

She lifted it to her nose, before tasting it. The aroma and taste took her back to an evening she would never forget, when Philip made her feel like a princess. Did he want to be her prince? Could he possibly have those sorts of feelings for her?

"It's the same one we had on our night in Paris," she said, before realizing how it must have sounded.

Joyce glanced at Anna and Cody. She raised her eyebrows and grinned.

For a moment, Philip appeared to be at a loss for words before he nodded.

Had her statement embarrassed him? Apparently, she had made too much of that night. Sandra lowered her glass. "When did you begin to have doubts?"

He continued to gaze at her in silence for three or four seconds, before saying, "The night I slept in the hospital waiting room, I received a call from Jessica. Once I knew her role in this, I felt certain Barletto had Renée and Rachel, and he was trying to get me to increase the reward before bringing them forward. Early that morning, I increased the amount to five million hoping to force his hand. Then I received a call from Inspector Tremblay. He wanted to know why you were not answering your cell phone."

"Tremblay tried to call me?"

"Yes, he wanted to know if we'd found Mrs. Belah or the painting. I told him what had happened to you, and we had been unable to find either."

Before continuing, he glanced at Anna and Cody.

"Since I had run out of options, I decided to ask Inspector Tremblay for his opinion. After telling him everything that had happened since the day I met Jessica on the plane from New York, Inspector Tremblay said, 'If your wife and daughter are not alive, the only option left is someone is trying awfully hard to make me believe they are.'"

Sandra wanted to say something to him but didn't.

He turned toward her. "I recalled you telling me if Renée and Rachel were alive, Renée would have tried to contact me. Instead of following my heart, I should have listened to you."

Philip held the wine glass by the stem and rested it on his knee.

"Once I realized the painting and the theft of my estate file might be linked, I came up with a plan, hoping it would force Barletto to come forward. I had to find out if the woman in the painting was Renée or an impostor."

Anna raised her hand to her mouth. "Are you saying that woman was not Renée?"

"I'm fairly certain of it. Everything she told the police in New York was a lie. I never tried to kill my wife."

"It doesn't make sense," Cody said. "Why did she turn down five million dollars, if she's an impostor?"

"It took me a while to figure that out. After I learned Barletto had been killed near my Boston home, I had suspicions more people might have been involved. When I saw Raudin escort her into the building, they were confirmed."

Everyone leaned forward.

"My grandmother set up the education foundation to be run by a Lewellan family member as long as one existed. Raudin wasn't just after my personal estate. With my grandmother and me both dead, Renée could control the Foundation's assets, directing hundreds of millions of dollars however she saw fit."

"What about the painting?" Anna asked, putting her arm around Cody.

"To pull it off, the authorities had to believe Renée was alive. You can't just show up without having to explain why you've been hiding for seven years. Not only did they want to make me out as the bad guy, they had to make me believe Renée and Rachel were alive, or else their scheme wouldn't work."

"That codicil he had added to the will." Cody said, turning toward Anna.

"Raudin knew I would try to move heaven and earth to find my daughter. He also knew it would be just a matter of time before I went public with another search. Once I did, they planned to kill me."

"What do you mean by fairly certain?" Sandra asked, recalling what he had said earlier.

"Until that fingerprint card you carried with you to Paris and the prints on those glasses are compared, we really won't know for sure, now will we?" Philip winked at her.

"That's why the prints didn't match in Paris," Sandra said. When Kevin told her there was a match, she assumed the Dallas lab found a print she missed.

Philip nodded. "I didn't want to completely give up on the possibility the prints on the hairbrush could be Rachel's."

The others appeared to be at a loss as to what she and Philip were talking about.

"This is all so confusing," Joyce said.

"It was confusing to me as well," Philip said. "Especially the coded message."

"Wait." Joyce put her hand out. "You're teasing about that, right?"

Sandra shook her head. "No, he isn't."

Philip straightened up and leaned back against the seat. "I have to hand it to them. They knew how to push my buttons."

"How did Raudin know you so well?" Joseph asked.

"A little over three years ago, I hired him to write a computer program which searched the Internet for personal profiles, photos, names, and public records hoping he could find anything to give me hope Renée was alive. Raudin claimed he could search millions of records all over the world. At first, he had so many false hits it consumed all my time checking them out. Raudin refined his software based on Renée's physical characteristics and other information he asked for, and I gave him. Nothing came of it. I eventually pulled the plug. I gave him a final payment of fifty thousand dollars for his efforts and told him I would pay the million dollar reward if he found Renée. Apparently, he found a Renée lookalike living in Paris."

"I wonder why he didn't contact you immediately, if he thought he'd found her?" Sandra asked.

"Because there had been so many false hits earlier, my guess is Raudin traveled to Paris to verify her identity. When he realized the woman wasn't Renée, but she had a remarkable resemblance to her, he figured out a way to use that to his advantage. He went after my legal files hoping Renée was still the primary beneficiary of my estate."

Sandra handed her glass back to Philip and waved him off when he reached for the bottle of champagne. "No, thank you. One glass is enough."

"Not for me." Joyce held out her empty glass.

Philip refilled it.

Joyce lifted the flute to her lips. Everyone smiled at her. She grinned. "This is fun. Please continue. I want to hear the rest of it."

Anna said, "Me, too."

"Raudin hatched quite a bold plan," Cody said. "I can't believe he actually thought he could get away with it."

"He almost did." Philip said. "I made the mistake of trusting Raudin. I gave him a lot of information about Renée. I never considered the possibility he would use it to deceive me. At the time, he appeared to be a young innocent computer nerd."

"A nerd willing to kill you," Sandra said. "How did he know about the coded messages and the name Rachel? You told me no one knew about the name you and Renée had picked out for your daughter."

"Raudin must have gone through our old e-mails. I let him stay at my home for a couple of weeks to work on the project. My guess is he found where I kept Renée's personal items.

"That would explain the DNA match," Sandra said.

Anna shook her head. "They were quite bold to believe they could pull that off."

"Speaking of bold," Sandra said, staring at him. "I saw pictures of your boat after it was towed back to Boston. It appeared to be wrecked."

"When I found the tracking device Raudin had planted on board, I was relieved to learn it wasn't a bomb. I thought; why not use it to my advantage? I didn't think Raudin would follow me out to sea late in the evening with a storm approaching. My hope was to convince him I had committed suicide."

"You're referring to the ship's log entry reported in the news?" Anna asked.

Philip nodded. "My friend, Derek Dawson found the MSB Rachel adrift and reported his findings to the authorities."

"How did you get off the boat?" Sandra asked.

"That part didn't go as planned. In an effort to make the ruse convincing, I tried to stay on the edge of the storm front. Unknowingly, I sailed into the path of a worse front coming up from the south, and was washed overboard."

"Oh my God," Anna said. "What did you do?"

"I waited for someone to come for me. A brave helicopter pilot and his crewman flew out the following morning. When I saw it off to the North in a circular search pattern, I turned the transponder on. Within minutes, the pilot located me, but the wind gusts were strong and the sea choppy. Fearing I was exhausted after being in the water for hours, the pilot attempted to hover in place while his crewman dropped a line. On my fifth try I was finally able to grab the swinging harness. Seconds after I attached myself to it, wind shear caused the helicopter to plummet toward the water. It came within feet of hitting me. Forced to gain altitude quickly, the pilot yanked me out of the water under maximum power. The crewman thought they had killed me when he looked down. They said I was limp and unconscious."

Joseph stuck his head through the privacy window opening. "That sounds like the kind of stuff they do in those James Bond movies."

"I think you'd make a good James Bond." Joyce leaned against Philip and patted him on the arm.

"My name is Lewellan, Philip Lewellan." Philip said trying out his best bond impression.

Everybody laughed. Joyce giggled and took another sip of champagne.

"I have a question," Anna said, with a serious tone. "If she's not Renée, how did the fingerprints match?"

Philip glanced at Sandra. "I think Detective Copeland can explain it better than I could."

Sandra leaned forward. "When Renée reappeared after being missing for seven years, Raudin had to know the police would compare her prints to those already in the system. If they were not from the same person, the scheme would fall apart. I assume Raudin figured out a way to hack into the fingerprint database."

She raised a finger in the air. "But that still left one problem, the original finger-print card in the hardcopy file, which was likely the reason Barletto was involved. Raudin either made the swap or got Barletto to replace the original card in the case file with one that had prints of the impostor. Barletto didn't know I had made a copy of the original finger-print card, and that I kept it in my desk drawer."

"What a devious mind," Anna said.

"I still wonder why they didn't take the reward money," Cody said.

"Raudin had a plan and stuck to it," Philip said. "By not accepting any reward money, they removed the possibility authorities might be skeptical about the story she gave the police. A woman who turns down five million dollars can't be lying about what happened to her. Since the reward was pledged from my liquid assets, he most likely assumed they would eventually get it anyway."

"I hate to admit it," Sandra said, "but when I heard she refused to accept the money, I was convinced."

"Weren't you worried they might get away?" Cody asked.

"Without knowing who might be involved, I had to play it out to the end. Renée had to attend the reading of the will in order to get the name of the bank and the number of the lock box containing the trustees' names. She needed the serial number on the one dollar bill in her envelope to get access to the box. Unless she contacts each trustee personally and calls a board meeting within thirty days, she forfeits control of the Foundation's assets."

Sandra turned to face Philip. "Those security guards you hired to protect me weren't necessary. I can take care of myself."

"I had no doubts about that, but I wanted to cover all the bases."

"And you did it quite well. Thank you."

"Philip, do we really have to wait twenty-four hours before we can tell each other what's in our envelopes?" Joyce asked.

Philip laughed. "Of course not, each of you can go in the order they were handed out. Please read yours first."

Joyce unfolded her envelope and read it aloud.

"My Dearest Joyce, I won't break my promise to you. I would love to hear all about your vacation. You can reach me at my new cell phone number written below, or you may wait for Cody and Anna to escort you to my location. Sincerely, Philip." Joyce giggled. "I couldn't wait. I had to call him."

"I sure wondered what made you jump up and down, after you left the room in tears," Anna said.

"Wait, there's more," Joyce said, holding her note up. "Here's the funny part in the postscript. The rumors of my death were a complete exaggeration."

Everyone laughed.

Philip tapped Cody on the knee. "You're next."

"The note really had me confused when I first read it. I had no idea what was going on."

Anna nudged him. "They're waiting for you to read it."

"Sure." Cody unfolded it. "Dear Cody, please escort Joyce to the first floor and wait there with her until Joseph comes down to meet you. He will explain what to do next."

"Wow, no wonder you were confused, Cody," Joyce said. "I wanted to tell you and Anna so badly, but I followed the instructions Helen gave us because I knew Philip would've wanted me to."

"Joyce, you're wonderful." Philip put his arm around her and gave her a hug.

Joseph said, "You think you were confused, just wait until you hear what mine said."

"Go for it," Philip said.

Joseph put his reading glasses on and held the paper up. "Dear Joseph, the others are waiting for you downstairs on the first floor. Please bring them to the south parking lot. You'll find a new white limousine parked there. Approach it and get inside. You and the driver go back a long way."

"You're so creative," Anna said, patting Philip on his knee.

"What'd I tell you?" Joseph said. "Okay, Detective. What about yours?" He removed his reading glasses.

Sandra opened a single sheet of paper and read aloud.

"Dear Sandra, when the others leave the floor, please return to the conference room. Helen will have paper sacks for you. If my hunch is correct, the fingerprints on the champagne glass will not match the prints on the copy of the original fingerprint card you have in your red folder. You were right, of course. If Renée could've come back, she would have. I believe the woman in the conference room is an impostor. Either way, I have lost. We'll wait for you downstairs in the south parking lot. Sincerely, Philip. PS: Did you really think I would kill myself?"

Sandra folded the note and looked up.

The smiles went away as everyone stared at Philip. His look of sadness made it obvious he'd hoped for a much different outcome.

Philip sighed. "The thought I had a daughter was compelling, and I had to find her. To come to the realization that none of it was real was devastating."

"What are you going to do now?" Sandra asked.

"Well, that brings me to some news I have to tell all of you. Unfortunately, it may affect some of you as well."

## Chapter 71

Everyone in the car sat silently as Philip placed his hands on his knees. "As you know, my grandmother died a few months ago, and she was the reason I had stayed in Dallas all these years. I've finally accepted the realization I may never find out what happened to Renée and have decided to move on with my life. I know she would've wanted me to be happy. In an effort to make a new start, I'm moving to Boston."

Joyce threw her hand to her mouth and gasped.

He turned toward her. "I want you to continue to work for the foundation. With the Internet, I can conduct business from anywhere in the world. All of you, along with a man by the name of Derek Dawson, are the only family I have left. I have no intention of losing any of you."

Joyce wiped away a tear. "We've really enjoyed and are happy to continue working for you."

He smiled at Anna and Cody. "You'll have the house to yourselves. I've decided to keep it. I'll need a place to stay when I'm in town."

Anna and Cody both nodded. "We'll keep the master suite ready for you," Anna said, grinning.

"When are you leaving?" Cody asked.

"I'm flying out this evening. Once there, I hope to spend some time with a woman whom I've come to realize means a great deal to me. That is, if she gets the message I left for her."

Sandra's stomach churned. He had to be talking about Angela. She looked at her watch to keep from making eye contact with him.

"Hey, this party isn't over yet." Philip reached into a small compartment behind him and pulled out four blue envelopes. "I've decided not to wait until I die to give my family their inheritance. He handed them out one at a time except for one which he placed in his pocket. "Joseph, if you don't mind, I'll give you yours at the airport."

Joseph nodded.

"I hate to leave, but I have a plane to catch. I'll see all of you again soon, I promise."

Joseph opened the driver's door, exited, and walked to the side passenger door and opened it.

Joyce and Anna both hugged Philip before they left the car.

Cody and Philip shook hands before Cody joined his wife who was standing beside Joyce outside the vehicle.

"You don't owe me anything." Sandra remained seated and placed her blue envelope on the seat beside him.

"You can close the door, Joseph. It looks like Detective Copeland is going to ride to the airport with us."

Joseph leaned his head through the passenger door. "Yes, sir, just like old times." He stared at her. "Are you going to pat us down on this trip, Detective?"

"Not this time." she smiled at him.

Joseph closed the door and returned to his position behind the wheel. He raised the privacy glass before starting the car and pulling away.

"I like Joseph. Where did you find him?"

"It's a long story. He can tell you himself on the way back from the airport. Sandra, I don't want your envelope back. Please keep it as a small gift. Remember, everything is relative."

So that's why he wanted her to ride to the airport with him. "I'm sorry it didn't work out the way you wanted it to. Hopefully, you know I didn't want to be right about her not being Renée."

"I know you didn't.

Curiosity got the best of her. "What did you write in her note?"

"The same thing Renée would have received," he replied. "The whereabouts of the bank and the number of the lock box which contains the names of the trustees. There was also an encoded message. Renée and I always placed the encoded portions of our notes in the post script. The words and letters have to be rearranged to get the real meaning of the message."

"I believe you've explained that to me before, an anagram."

"Of course. Sorry, I guess I was repeating myself." He looked away.

Why was she beating him up? She stared out the window as the limo pulled away from a traffic light. "I hope things work out for you in Boston."

He rubbed his hand through his hair. "I hope she understands the message I left for her. I'll get pretty lonely in Boston if she doesn't."

She turned back to him. "Let me guess, an encoded message?"

"I'm afraid so." He smiled. "She likes a little intrigue in her life every now than then. Do you want me to try it out on you? I would like to see how long it takes you to unravel it."

She frowned. "I have no desire to hear your personal message to her."

"I understand." He leaned back. "It's only three words. I really don't think she'll have any trouble figuring it out."

She tried to imagine what three words he might have used. I love you came to mind, but that wouldn't be in code. After several minutes of silence, she continued to stare out the window. A sign indicated they were in route to the airport.

"Maybe I should just tell her how I feel, instead of playing a silly game." He leaned back and appeared to be waiting for a response.

She tried to act disinterested as if she hadn't heard what he said. They drove pass a sign indicating the route for departing flights.

Minutes later, Joseph turned onto the final oval that ran parallel to the entrances for passengers on departing flights.

"We've reached the airport terminal drive," Philip said. "It'll only be a few more minutes. Thank you, Sandra for everything. Without you, I might not be alive now."

She turned toward him. "Thank God you figured it out in time."

Joseph stopped the limo in front of the door to the main terminal. He exited, went to the rear passenger door, and opened it.

"Here's where I make my exit," Philip said.

"I'll get out with you, if you don't mind." She stepped out of the vehicle in front of him.

Joseph removed a bag from the trunk of the limo and brought it around to the paved walkway where she and Philip stood.

At least give him a hug or a kiss, before he leaves. She held her arms out, stepped into him, and pulled him closer. Leaning up on her toes, she gave him a kiss on his right cheek.

He grabbed her arms. "Here's looking at you, kid."

"Casablanca may be my favorite movie, but I never said I loved the ending."

"Do you really think one of the greatest love stories in cinema history could have ended any other way?" He released her arms. "Please give me one minute, Sandra, I have something for Joseph."

He removed an envelope from his pocket and walked back to the limo. "I'll see you in New York the next time I'm there." He handed it to Joseph. "Why don't you read what's in this before you leave the airport."

"Thank you, Mr. Lewellan."

With a carry-on bag hanging from his left hand, he returned to her.

"I have to go now, Sandra."

"Goodbye, Philip."

"Until we meet again?" He gazed at her for a moment. "You never know what tomorrow may hold."

"Okay, until we meet again." It took every ounce of will power within her to keep from asking him to stay. She didn't want him to see her cry. She turned around and walked quickly toward the limo, stepping inside before he could see tears streaming down her cheeks.

Joseph closed the door behind her.

She peered through the tinted window.

Philip waved before he turned around and headed toward the airport terminal doorway.

Joseph started the limo and pulled out into the traffic lane in line with the other vehicles leaving the oval. He lowered the privacy window, "Where to, Detective?"

"Take me home, Joseph," She replied, rubbing her eyes.

"Detective Copeland's home it is," Joseph said. "There are some tissues in the compartment to your left."

"Thank you." She opened the small walnut grained wooden door and removed a tissue.

"You're welcome." He left the terminal loop, leaving the privacy glass window open, as they started the journey back to Dallas.

She looked down. On the seat beside her lay the envelope she'd tried to give back to Philip.

## Chapter 72

Angela opened the front door of her home in Atlanta. A man wearing a tan sport jacket held a gift wrapped in red glossy paper, tied with white ribbon, and topped off with a bow.

He held it out. "This is for you."

"Do I know you?"

"No ma'am, I'm just a delivery man."

"Thank you." She took it from him.

The man turned and walked back to his car.

She went to her living room to open it. Inside the box on top of the gift wrapping paper she found a folded card with a note written on it.

Dear Angela,

I received your e-mail. Thank you for agreeing to meet me. I had hoped to surprise you on your birthday, and that is why I did not give you a reason for wanting to meet you in person. I completely understood your reluctance. Unfortunately, I hit rough sailing a few weeks back and had to rearrange my schedule.

Sincerely yours,

Philip

P.S. Yup cookie healthier.

She smiled and put the note down beside the box. Captain Philip was back. She unfolded several layers of pink paper and retrieved a bottle of wine.

Latour vintage 1982.

It was the $4000.00 bottle of wine Wanda had teased the young waiter about purchasing at the restaurant. "Oh, my God." She stared at the bottle for a moment then placed it on the table, before picking up the note again. Hopefully, it wouldn't take her long to unravel the post script.

## Chapter 73

After staring at the envelope for several minutes, Sandra looked up and caught Joseph glancing at her in the rearview mirror. Each time she made eye contact with him, he turned his attention back to the road. Why was he watching her?

Ah, she knew why. "You think I should open it, don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am, I sure do. I opened mine back at the airport terminal while I was waiting for you to get back into the car, and I'm sure glad I did."

She grabbed the envelope and held it up so Joseph could see it in the mirror.

He smiled and nodded.

While pulling the unsealed flap open and removing the contents, she thought about how sad Philip must have felt when he figured out the woman in the painting wasn't Renée, and he didn't really have a daughter. She unfolded the note and read it.

Dear Sandra,

It has taken me a long time, but I have finally accepted the possibility I may never know what happened to Renée. One thing I do know is she would want me to be happy.

I could never possibly love a woman more than I loved my wife, but I believe I have found a woman whom I can love as much. This time tomorrow, if things go as I hope they will, she and I will be sailing off the northeast coastline to begin our journey.

That day in New York, when I entered the hospital room, I could tell you care a great deal for Kevin from the way you were looking at him. He is a good man. I like him. If indeed he is the right guy for you, I wish you both the very best. Please accept the enclosed gift.

Sincerely yours,

Philip

Her gaze was drawn to a check, paper clipped to the lower third of the note, just below Philip's signature. It was made out to her in the amount of five million dollars.

She raised her head. "Philip is a very generous man."

"Yes, ma'am, he is," Joseph replied, glancing at her in the mirror.

She pulled the check from beneath the paper clip and held it up in both hands before tearing it in two pieces. Letting both drop to the floorboard of the car.

Reaching for another tissue, she noticed something under Philip's signature which had been hidden by the check. After wiping tears from her eyes, she picked up the note and focused on it.

_P. S. Come with emails_.

A car horn honked. Other vehicles began passing them. Why had they slowed? She looked up. It appeared Joseph was alternating between watching the road in front of him and watching her in the rear view mirror. She recalled Philip's words.

_It's only three words. I really don't think she'll have any trouble figuring it out_.

She sat up in the seat and studied the post script, rearranging the order of the letters and words in an effort to extract the real message. Seconds later, going through the possibilities in her head, she unraveled the coded message.

_Come sail with me_.

"Yes!" she screamed.

"Are you all right, Detective?" Joseph asked.

"I am now. Turn around and take me back. I'm going sailing."

"Yes, ma'am, the airport it is." He held a boarding pass over his right shoulder. "You're going to need this to get through security."

She slid across the brown leather seat closer to the opening between her and Joseph. "You knew about this?" She took the boarding pass from his hand.

"That was in my envelope with instructions to give it to you, if you asked me to take you back to the airport. He must have known you wouldn't open your envelope in front of him."

"I'm going to call him and tell him I'm coming." She dialed Philip's number."

"I hope you know his new cell phone number. His old one doesn't work anymore."

When the call didn't go through, she placed her phone back in her purse. "You'd better hurry, Joseph. The plane leaves in fifty-five minutes."

"Hang on, Detective. Let's see what this new limo can do."

He sped up and flipped on the hazard flashers. He continued on until he found a place to turn around. He headed back toward the airport. Their speed increasing as he weaved in and out of traffic, passing car after car.

Even with Joseph's all out effort, she would be cutting it close. She held onto the window opening behind Joseph. "Do you think we'll make it in time?"

"We will or die trying." Joseph honked the horn to let the driver, in front of him, know he was coming around.

When he brought the limo to a screeching halt at the entrance for departing passengers, a policeman blew a whistle and ran toward the vehicle. Upon reaching the driver's side, the uniformed officer tapped on the window.

"You can't drive in here like that."

Joseph rolled the window down and stuck his commercial driver's license out.

"Thanks, Joseph." She let herself out the right rear passenger door and grabbed the badge from her purse and held it up over the top of the car.

"Let him go, officer. He drove in here under my orders."

Joseph nodded at the officer. "Yes, sir. I was driving under her orders."

"Okay, buddy, but slow it down in the future. This oval is not a racetrack." The uniformed officer handed the license back to Joseph.

"Just call me the slow one from now on."

"Thanks officer," Sandra said, before taking off toward the terminal.

After clearing security and finding the route to her gate, she glanced at her watch and shook her head. She had fifteen minutes to reach the gate.

"This is our final boarding call for flight thirty-four twelve to Boston."

She removed her heels and held onto them as she dodged passengers to her left and right running as fast as she could. A man in front of her stopped and turned around. Her left hand caught his right shoulder and her shoes went flying across the corridor in two different directions.

"I'm sorry," she said, over her shoulder, not stopping to pick them up.

When she neared the gate, no one was there, but the jet bridge entrance was open. Halfway down the ramp, she realized the door of the plane had already been closed.

"Wait," she yelled.

A gate attendant operating the ramp turned and stared at her.

She turned toward the woman at the controls, "Would you open the door please? I have to get on this flight."

"I'm sorry. You're too late." The attendant motioned for her to step away.

"I'm a police detective." She removed her badge from her purse and held it out. "There's a man on the plane. I can't let him leave without me."

"Once the door is closed, I can't open it unless you're declaring a possible terrorist incident, or you have an arrest warrant for one of the passengers."

She shook her head. "Neither."

"Please step away from the door."

Sandra moved back.

The woman pressed a button and the jet bridge began to pull back away from the plane.

She took a deep breath. "You're right. I can catch another flight."

A few seconds later, the attendant stopped the jet bridge and locked the controls. She glanced at her and shook her head.

"In all the years I've worked at this airport, you're not the first woman I've seen running after a man. But you're the first police officer I've seen without shoes. He must be some kind of man."

If she only knew. She couldn't help but smile.

The agent motioned for her to follow. "There's another flight to Boston later this evening."

"Thank you. I hope I can find my shoes before it leaves."

When they reached the counter, she placed her badge back into her purse and handed the agent her boarding pass.

After accessing the computer, the agent stopped typing and studied the screen. She looked up and stared at her. "You're already listed. Did you know you were booked on two flights to Boston?"

A warm feeling traveled from the tip of her head down to her toes. "No, I didn't."

"What's his name?" The agent asked, regaining her attention.

"Philip Lewellan."

More typing on the keyboard. "Mr. Lewellan is listed as the passenger seated next to you in the first class cabin. Could you describe him for me?"

"He's a little over six feet tall, dark brown hair, and he has a slender build. Oh, and he's wearing white cotton pants and a dark blue pull-over shirt that matches his amazing blue eyes."

The ticket agent smiled.

"Okay, I'll admit it." She shook her head. "I'm love struck. Do you remember seeing him?"

"Yes, he had a first class ticket on the flight that just left."

Sandra gently pounded the counter with her fist. "If only I had opened the envelope sooner."

The agent grinned. "You'll be glad you missed that flight."

"Why?"

"Turn around."

She swung around.

Philip smiled. "You never know what tomorrow may hold."

She ran to him. "How did you know to wait for me?"

"I didn't. I couldn't leave without you. I went to get a bottle of water. When I returned, I saw you standing at the counter."

"Why didn't you tell me when we were in the car?"

"So Kevin isn't the right guy for you, even if you have enough money to take away all of your excuses for not marrying him?"

She knew he was referring to their first night in New York when she'd told Philip she had romantic feelings for Kevin, but she wouldn't marry him as long as he wanted to be a cop. She stared into Philip's eyes. "That check couldn't change the way I feel about you."

The bag he had been holding hit the floor with a thud. He placed his arms around her and his lips moved closer to hers as she leaned into his embrace.

His kiss felt wonderful. She didn't want to let go of him, but the sound of a fake cough caused her to break it off.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," The agent walked up to them. "I have to get to another gate." She handed them their boarding passes. "You two are all set. You have a couple of hours before the next flight to Boston leaves."

"Thank you," Sandra said.

Philip nodded at the agent.

"You're quite welcome," the gate agent replied. She smiled before she turned and walked away.

Sandra stared at a crowd of people moving along the corridor. Several were rushing to get to their gate on time. "I hope we can find them."

"Them?" Philip asked turning to see what had her attention.

"My shoes."

He turned back around and glanced down at her bare feet. "Shall we begin the search now?"

"Absolutely, I can't walk around barefoot in Boston."

"Do you have a clue as to where your shoes might be found?"

"It's a bit of a mystery, but they are red and should be easy to spot."

He reached down and picked up his carry-on bag, before extending his right elbow toward her.

"Lead the way, Detective."

"I certainly plan to," she replied, placing her arm through his. "And it's Sandra, my love."

"Lead the way, Sandra, mon amour."

###

#### About the Author

Jim Davis lives with his wife in the Boston Mountains. In addition to mystery/suspense novels, he also writes humorous short stories, and novellas.

Thank you for reading _Portrait of Conspiracy_. Did you enjoy this novel? Would you like to read more intrigue with Philip and Sandra? The second story, Bones and Black Pearls, is scheduled for release in 2014.

Connect with me online to learn about other stories I've written:

blog: http://www.jmdavisauthor.wordpress.com

Twitter: <http://www.twitter.com/jmdavisauthor>

Facebook: <http://www.facebook.com/jmdavisauthor>

## ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I received the help and encouragement of many during the writing of this work. First, I wish to thank my wife, Marsha, who suffered through the first draft of this story, and was willing to read every subsequent revision.

Many thanks to Dusty Richards, Velda Brotherton, and the other talented members of the NWA Writers Workshop who have helped me become a better fiction writer one night a week, since October of 2009. Around five o'clock on Thursday nights, Dusty and Velda drive into town, from opposite directions, to offer their help and encouragement to a room full of writers who want to improve their craft. These two have been making that drive for over twenty-five years. I am one of the hundreds of writers they've helped.

