man took a few hesitant steps. “That there’s nothing he can do. I’m old and just got to live with it.”
“Orthopedist?” she asked.
“And a damn neurologist. Every test in the book.”
She nodded. So he’d already consulted the Western medical specialties.
“Damn quacks,” he muttered.
“You poor thing.” Taki rose and approached the man. Before beginning, she asked what she always asked, even in her yoga classes. “Do you mind if I touch you?”
“What for?” he asked, eyes wide, but now looking at her with interest.
“Maybe I can help.”
* * *
WHEN THE INTERCOM BUZZED, Reese muted the sound on the DVR and rubbed his tired eyes, irritated by the interruption. Agent Rivas was probably correct that no clue to Claudia Romero’s location existed in this two-year-old videotape deposition, but he had to try. Perhaps she’d casually mentioned a second home or a place she liked to escape to on holiday.
Where the hell was she? Why hadn’t she contacted him? And why had Claudia refused to accept protective custody until her ex’s trial? Jury selection would begin in less than three weeks. The woman couldn’t possibly think she was safer on her own.
“What is it?” he said into the speaker. Reese reached for a roast beef sandwich delivered twenty minutes ago and loosened the plastic wrap. The sharp fragrance of the horseradish made him realize how hungry he was.
“Taki is here to see you,” Joanne said. “Shall I show her in?”
Reese dropped the sandwich and paused the DVR, already moving toward the long hallway to the reception area. “I’ll get her,” he told a startled Joanne as he strode past her desk.
Javi Rivas, out in the trenches working seedy pawnshops, reported an hour ago that a knock-out blonde named “Wacky” or “Tacky” had flashed photos of the bowl in some of the worst sections of Miami. He needed to put a stop to that immediately.
What had possessed the woman to search on her own?
She’d already annoyed him by dropping off the photos this morning and disappearing—here and gone before he could inform the receptionist to ask her to wait, that he needed to speak to her.
Taki was obviously in a hurry to make herself the next crime statistic in Miami-Dade County.
Reese opened the door to the waiting area and came to a shocked halt. Taki stood in the center of the room, her graceful hands probing the naked back of Robert Shinhoster.
“Ah. This is the place,” she said, stroking her index finger across the bony ridge of the old man’s spine.
Reese wasn’t sure which surprised him more, the surreal sight of the two of them or his irritated reaction. Taki’s hands were all over Robert Shinhoster, an injured federal worker who had been driving the entire office crazy about his case for months, but why should he care?
She was so focused on Shinhoster, she hadn’t heard the door open.
“Okay,” she told Shinhoster, dropping her arm. “I want you to mash up a chili pepper, mix it with a white skin cream, and rub it on this spot. But wear plastic gloves when you work with the preparation because it might irritate your hands. And don’t use the cream right after a hot bath or shower.”
“What will that do?” Shinhoster asked.
“The capsaicin in the pepper confuses the nerves and you focus on a temporary mild burning more than the ache in your back. I also recommend willow tea for its anti-inflammatory properties, massage—lots of gentle massage—and hot packs alternating with cold. When the inflammation goes down, start yoga classes. This time next year, you might be pain free.”
“Excuse me,” Reese said.
Taki looked over and smiled. “Hi, Reese.”
He hooked his hand under Taki’s arm to draw her away from a dazed-looking Shinhoster and out of the room.
“Hey, thanks,” Shinhoster yelled as the door closed.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Reese demanded when they faced each other in the long hallway.
Taki’s sapphire eyes clouded at his words. “I was helping that man. He’s in a great deal of pain.”
“And he’s trying to squeeze money out of the U.S. government for his supposed pain.”
“Only because he thinks he’s been cast aside. Poor dear feels disliked because he worked for the Internal Revenue Service. He says no lawyer will believe an auditor could get a bad back.”
Reese stared into her earnest face and realized the woman was absolutely serious. “And where did you get your medical degree?”
“I’m not a doctor,” she said, straightening her slender shoulders. “I’m an herbalist.”
“Then why are you behaving like a private detective?”
She blinked twice. “What?”
One thing at a time, Reese told himself. He glanced at the openmouthed receptionist who followed the conversation with keen interest.
“Let’s go to my office,” he said, motioning Taki ahead of him.
The effortless, regal way she moved reminded him of silk flowing over smooth skin. Taki appeared to glide more than walk. She looked curiously around her, her gaze peering into every open room along the corridor.
“Hold my calls,” he told Joanne as they passed her desk and entered his office. He closed the door and turned to Taki, whose gaze had zeroed in on his view of the sparkling water of Biscayne Bay.
“Please tell me you’re not trying to practice medicine,” he told her.
“I certainly know better than that,” she said. “I didn’t charge Mr. Shinhoster a thing. My advice is always free.”
Reese shook his head, imagining the headline on the front page of the Miami Herald: Unlicensed Yoga Teacher Caught Prescribing Drugs in U.S. Attorney’s Office.
“He can take my advice or ignore it. It’s his choice.” She shrugged. “But just think. If I cure his pain, then he’ll leave you alone. If he listens to me, he could probably return to work soon, but I think he’ll probably opt for retirement.”
Reese stared at her. “You discussed his future employment plans?”
“He needed someone to talk to. But enough about that. I have news.” She waved her hand, apparently intending to leap to a new subject. “I have a lead on the bowl,” she announced, excitement shining in her sky-blue eyes.
“A lead?” Reese placed his hands on his hips and leaned forward. “No doubt from one of your pawnshop visits?”
She
