photograph—a bride, her gown weighted with seed pearls, a gossamer veil shading her beauty—was untagged. Michelle studied the picture, remembering the day in detail. Beside the bride was a handsome and gallant man in a gray Confederate officer’s uniform. He was leaning in to kiss his bride, and the look shared between them was one of total commitment and love.
Michelle traced the scar that was barely visible on the bride’s neck. She’d noticed it when she printed the picture, but she had no explanation for it. It looked as if someone had meant to cut the woman’s throat, but surely that wasn’t possible.
Michelle sighed. It was the finest picture she’d ever taken, but she didn’t have a signed release form. No matter how good, the picture would never be shown publicly. After she’d told Iggy about the man at the wedding trying to take her film, the editor had flatly refused to even consider using the Confederate wedding photographs. Michelle had printed this one, just for herself.
She put the last tag on a picture of two horses running in a pasture in a heavy mist. They were phantom creatures, coming out of the fog, nostrils flaring. She could almost hear the hoofbeats ring on the earth.
By tomorrow morning, the art critics would have reviewed her work. They were often unkind to magazine photographers who set up shop as artists. Only time would tell how they treated her.
Her cell phone rang, and she answered it with a smile. “Sure thing, Kevin. I’ll meet you in fifteen minutes. The guys are—” The sound of a knock interrupted her. “They’re here now, I think. Give me a few minutes to get them started, and I’ll meet up with you for that celebratory drink.”
Hanging up, she opened the door. Two men from Marco’s Gallery stood in the hallway, packing crates stacked neatly beside them. She showed them the numbered canvases.
“We’ll take care of it, Ms. Sieck,” one said. “Marco told us to use extra caution.”
“Marco is a good friend. Lock the door when you leave, and be sure and tell your boss I’ll be at the gallery by six-thirty this evening.”
Time for a Bloody Mary with Kevin, then a facial and massage. She’d scheduled her day to be as stress-free as possible. Tonight she’d be on public display.
Clutching her handbag, she hurried to the curb to flag a taxi. This was the day she’d been waiting for. Ten years of hard work—and twenty years of dreaming. It was all out of her hands now.
LUCAS ENTERED THE AUSTIN office complex of the U.S. Marshals Service, his boots tapping on the polished tile floor. How many mornings had he come into this same office ready for a day’s work? Not until Lorry Kennedy had he ever thought about quitting. Now the time was on him. He’d tendered his resignation and had only to turn in his badge and gun.
In twenty minutes, he’d no longer be a federal marshal.
As he walked down the corridor to the office, he thought about the ranch he’d bought in the Hill Country. His new life would involve cattle and horses and hard physical work. It was the remedy he’d chosen to help him deal with the death of his brother, and he was relieved to see that his fellow officers had honored his decision to quit. No one had made any effort to dissuade him.
When the official part was over, he accepted the handshakes of his fellow officers, a few jokes and back slaps, and then it was done.
As he left the building, he saw Frank Holcomb, his former partner. Frank had chosen not to be around when Lucas said his goodbyes to the rest of the guys.
“Is it official?” Frank asked.
“I’m an ordinary citizen.” Lucas had to admit he felt naked without his gun and badge. “It’s going to take some getting used to, but this is the way I had to play it.”
“I know.” Frank fell into step beside him. Once at the pickup, they stood awkwardly.
“You’ll come out to the ranch. Soon. Right?” Lucas asked.
“You bet.” Frank extended his hand. “I’ll miss you, Lucas.”
“Not too much.” The moment was tougher than Lucas had expected. “Be careful, Frank.”
“Will you be there for Antonio’s appeal?”
Lucas felt the knot of anger that had precipitated his need to quit a job he loved. “I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“You take care till then.”
They stood in the Texas sunshine as traffic passed beside them.
“You, too.” Lucas got in the truck and pulled out into the street. It was hard to close the door on this life. Really hard. But the murder of his brother by Antonio Maxim and the near death of the only witness to that murder—Lorry Kennedy, aka Betty Sewell—had pushed Lucas too close to taking the law into his own hands.
He had to leave Antonio Maxim to the legal system while he focused on the future. Or else he’d be swallowed whole by the past.
He aimed the truck north. He had fence to ride. With enough time and enough miles on a horse, maybe he could find peace.
THERE IS NOTHING LIKE a cool summer night in Manhattan. The city is alive all around me. While I love D.C. and the nearness of my most beloved Clotilde, I do enjoy a bit of Big Apple hustle.
Eleanor is preparing her speech for the linguistics conference in the morning, and I took the opportunity to sneak out and head to Marco’s Gallery.
I want a peek at that long-legged siren who had Lucas so “het up” at Lorry’s wedding. He was worked up good, and while 90 percent of it may have been about the photographs, the other 10 percent was that strange chemistry that sometimes happens between a man and a woman. Or a handsome black cat and his feline love.
New York is the easiest city in the nation to get around. A solitary black cat taking a relaxing ride on the subway doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. I can ride beneath the city to any destination. Although, while I love New York, I have to say, if I were picking a destination spot, it would be Egypt. Now that was a trip to remember. The Egyptians understand that cats are gods, and well they should.
Here’s my exit, and it’s up the stairs and into the streets of SoHo. I’m so glad I snooped into Miss Shutterbug’s glove box and found her schedule for the photography exhibit. I can’t wait to see what her pictures look like.
I’m a little early, but the crowds are beginning to gather. Ah, the young, beautiful and sophisticated people of the city are in attendance. There’s the star of the moment getting out of a limo. Wow! Be still my heart. She is a knockout in that little black dress with the crisscross straps. She is gorgeous, no doubt about it. Now let’s see about talent and brains.
A few people are giving me stares, but most people don’t even notice me. In a city of a thousand stories, no one is interested in one lone black cat. I’m almost invisible, which is why I’m such a successful private detective. Tonight, though, I’m off the clock. This is strictly for my pleasure.
Yeah, baby. And this exhibit is fine! The photographs are incredible. Miss Shutterbug has talent, in spades. As to the brains, perhaps that isn’t important. She has enough talent to cover any lack of common sense.
The
