single-wide. There wasn’t even a sign of a campfire or broken lock to suggest that squatters had found the remote trailer.
Which was all the better.
Feeling as if time were chasing him, Cole hurried along an old deer trail until he came to a fork in the path. He turned unerringly toward the south and ended up at a dock where once his cousin had moored a dinghy. There was no longer a boat, and the pier was rotting, some of the boards missing. Cole shined his light across the dark water and heard a splash that was probably an alligator sliding from the bank.
Sweeping his flashlight’s beam over the shore, he located a solitary cypress tree with a split trunk. Bleached white, it stood a ghostly sentinel, and Cole sent up a silent prayer that it hadn’t been disturbed in the last year. Making his way to the far side, near the water, he found a hole between the bare, exposed roots. First he pulled on a pair of thick gloves. Then he tested the hollow by shining a light inside. He saw nothing, but it was dark, the slit in the roots barely larger than a man’s hand. He couldn’t be certain. Squatting closer to the bole of the tree, he withdrew a long-handled screwdriver from his tool kit and used it to poke and prod whatever might have taken refuge there. He didn’t want to surprise a sleeping water moccasin or other creature.
No animal hissed, barked, screamed, or flew from the opening, but his heart was pounding double-time all the same. He reached inside carefully and gently scraped at the dirt he’d piled inside until the tips of his gloves encountered something foreign. He smiled in the darkness. “Bingo,” he whispered, digging swiftly until he extracted a nylon fanny pack.
Slipping the unopened pack into his tool kit, Cole retraced his steps quickly, half running through the low brush and trees. He heard nothing save the sound of his own short breaths and thudding heartbeat. If anyone found him now, he’d have a lot of explaining to do.
Near the fence, he clicked off the flashlight, climbed over the old chain-link, and landed softly about twenty yards from his Jeep. Where he froze. Waiting. Catching his breath and watching for any hint that he’d been followed or that someone was nearby.
The seconds clicked by.
Nervous sweat trickled beneath his collar.
Somewhere to the east, an owl hooted softly, but he could see no figure in the darkness, detected no scent that shouldn’t be in the night air, heard no snaps of twigs or shuffling of feet.
Get moving. It’s now or never.
Ever alert, he started forward, and when no one jumped out at him, he walked quickly and surely until he reached his vehicle. He unlocked it, yanked open the door, and tossed his tool kit and dirty fanny pack inside.
He backed out of the lane carefully. No flashing red and blue lights were waiting for him, no burly cops with handguns or clubs. At the county road, he threw the Jeep into first and took off, eyeing the bag on the seat next to him. Only after he’d put five miles between himself and the single-wide and was heading through a small town on his way back to the city did he pull open the fanny pack zipper and reach inside. Plastic met his fingertips. He flicked on the interior light and caught a glimpse of the money. Fifteen tight rolls, each totaling a thousand dollars, banded and wrapped in a ziplock bag. Fifteen grand. Not exactly a king’s ransom, but enough to start him rolling again.
Blood money, he thought but didn’t really give a damn.
Montoya glared at his badge and flung it on the table. Sometimes the job just wasn’t worth it. In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator, grabbed a beer, and popped the top. The room was chaos, as he was in the middle of a major remodeling job. Some of the plumbing worked, some didn’t, and the common wall that had separated his shotgun-style rowhouse from the neighbor’s had been torn down. Now, to keep the heat in, Visqueen sheeting separated the two identical halves that would soon merge into one living area. The kitchen would be double its current size; they would have two baths and a second bedroom.
Eventually.
After two swallows of his Lone Star, he sat in a caned-back chair and absently patted the big dog’s head. Hershey, his girlfriend’s chocolate lab, licked Montoya’s palm. Montoya grunted, “Good girl,” but he wasn’t really paying attention to Hershey as he looked over a copy of the file he’d made of the Royal Kajak homicide.
There had to be something they’d missed, some piece of evidence to tie Cole Dennis to the crime. Correction: some piece of evidence that they hadn’t fouled up—or lost. They’d had, in their possession, a torn piece of black fleece that had matched a rip in one of Dennis’s pullovers, but the scrap had been lost before it had been tested for blood splatter or epithelials or as a fit into the sleeve of a sweater they’d discovered in Dennis’s hamper. Trouble was, the pullover itself had no blood spatter on it, just a hole, so they had nothing concrete. And even if the missing piece were to suddenly turn up, it would be the only part of the shirt with incriminating evidence, so what were the chances of that? Still, it was a departmental screwup they couldn’t afford, especially with a man like Cole Dennis.
Which meant, apart from Eve Renner’s word, there was no proof Dennis had even been at the cabin.
“Damn,” Montoya muttered, shaking his head. They hadn’t had enough to hold the bastard, and their prime witness had come up with a severe case of amnesia.
So now Dennis was free.
Montoya wondered if Eve Renner had intentionally sabotaged their case. She and Cole Dennis had been lovers. But then why finger him in the first place?
Shoving stiff fingers through his short-cropped hair, he scowled so hard his face hurt. The thought of that slime-bag of an attorney walking on the homicide caused the stomach acid in Montoya’s gut to start roiling.
Hershey gave a short, high-pitched bark and lunged for the front door. Her tail was already pounding against the side of a chair, kicking up dust.
Abby was home.
Montoya’s bad mood eased a bit.
The front door rattled, opened, and Abby Chastain paused on the porch to shake out her umbrella then folded it and dropped it into the stand near the door. The dog went nuts, wiggling like crazy. As she stripped out of her raincoat and hung it on the curved arm of a hall tree, Abby caught Montoya’s eye. She flashed him a sexy grin that caused an immediate shot of lusty adrenaline to spurt through his blood. “Hi.”
“Back atcha.”
“Sorry I’m late, but I stopped for takeout. Just a sec…Hey, you. Miss me?” she asked her squirming dog, kneeling down to scratch the lab behind her ears. Hershey whined and pushed her head into her chest. “Yeah, me too.” If possible, Hershey’s tail thumped even harder. “Hey, slow down,” Abby commanded, nearly falling over and laughing.
Montoya couldn’t help but smile. His bad mood disappeared as she straightened and dusted her hands. “Now, that”—she motioned to Hershey—“is the kind of homecoming I expect, Detective.” She reached through the open door and pulled a white plastic sack and her portfolio from the porch swing, where she’d left them so that she could open the door.
“You want me to wiggle my fanny and whine at you?” Montoya scraped back his chair.
“For starters, yeah. And then, oh, I don’t know, you could nuzzle my face and lick me all over.”
She smiled at him. God, she was beautiful. Though she’d tied her hair back, some of the
