Lifeguard

Chapter 45

BACK IN THE FLORIDA OFFICE, Ellie scanned the Boston office report on the murder of David Kelly and another man two days earlier in Brockton. She felt just awful – the murders could have been her fault.

It had been a bloody, professional job. A knife wound under the fifth, left rib, the blade viciously jerked up into the heart. Whoever did that meant for the victim to suffer. And the other guy – the one with the skate blade in his back, a career criminal named Earl Anson with roots in Boston and south Florida.

And something that disturbed her even more: Ned’s fingerprints were all over the crime scene.

How could she have totally misjudged him? Either he was the most cold-blooded killer she had ever heard of or an incredibly cold-blooded killer was after him. Someone who knew whom he would contact in Boston. Someone who wanted something Ned had.

Like stolen paintings, maybe.

Ned was tied to seven murders now. He was more than the prime suspect. His face was on every police department fax machine. He was the subject of the largest manhunt in Boston since – what? – the Boston Strangler.

No, Ellie thought as she closed the file, picturing the scene. No way it could have gone down that way. Not after how Ned had talked about his brother. No way she could see him killing Dave. No! Not possible! She pulled out the scribbled notes she’d made after her abduction:

BC Law School. The hope of the family now…

The police had found an art book at the scene with a page ripped out. Van Gogh’s famous portrait. So now Ned knew, too.

Keep looking, Ned had begged her. Find Gachet.

Then there was Tess. How was she connected to all of this? Because she had to be connected. The police reports had come up sketchy on her. To the point of zero. Her IDs led nowhere. Her hotel bills had always been paid in cash.

A strange sensation tickled her brain. You ever felt yourself falling in love, Ellie?

Get real, she told herself. Bet sane! The guy had kidnapped her and held a gun on her for eight hours. He was wrapped up in seven murders. There were as many law enforcement agents out looking for him as there were for bin Laden. Could she actually be feeling jealous?

And why was it that in spite of all the evidence, she actually believed this guy?

Go back to the art, Ellie told herself. The key was in the heist. That was the feeling she’d had from the beginning.

The cable was cut – the thieves knew the alarm code. Could it be that the person behind the heist had panicked that the police would put two and two together when they realized the thieves had used the alarm code? Cut the wires in the hope of hiding the fact the code had been revealed? If Ned’s buddies never stole the art, someone else did. Who?

The same two words. Inside job.

Chapter 46

ELLIE WAITED PATIENTLY as a champagne-colored Bentley convertible pulled through the opening gates and crunched toward her on a long white-pebbled driveway.

“Agent Shurtleff.” Stratton stopped in the circular drive, acting surprised. He was wearing golf clothes, and the expression on his face showed that he was about as pleased to see her as a heavily sliced drive into the woods.

“Nice job on the arrest up in Boston,” Stratton said, getting out of the car. “Don’t suppose, in all that time you and Kelly got to spend together, you managed to come up with anything on my art?”

“We have lines out to dealers and police agencies all over the world,” Ellie said, trying not to scowl. “Nothing’s turned up on the radar so far.”

“Nothing on the radar, huh?” Stratton smiled behind Oakley sunglasses. “Well, let me let you in on a little secret…” He leaned close and whispered sharply in Ellie’s ear, “They’re not here!”

Stratton headed into the house and Ellie followed. A housemaid came up and handed him a few messages. “And what about that little friend of yours? The lifeguard who managed to break through my security? Is he under the radar, too?”

“I guess that’s why I’m here,” Ellie said, her voice echoing in the huge alcove. “Truth is, we’re not certain anyone actually broke through your security.”

Stratton turned around, exasperated. He raised his shades up on his bald brow. “I would’ve thought that having a gun held to your head by this man would have rid you of that ‘inside job’ theory. How many has he killed now? Five, six? I admit I didn’t go to detectives school, but it’s not exactly a stretch to think maybe he might have my paintings too.”

Ellie felt her face muscles twitch. “I’ll only take a minute of your time.”

Stratton glanced at his watch. “I have a lunch meeting at Club Collette in about twenty minutes. I guess that leaves me about one minute to hear your latest brainstorm.”

Ellie followed him, uninvited, into his study and Stratton threw himself behind the desk into a tufted leather chair.

“You remember I was questioning why the alarm cable was cut, even after the maid recalled that intruders had the interior code?” Ellie took a seat across from him and opened her satchel.

He circled his hand impatiently. “Surely we’ve gone beyond that one?”

“We will,” Ellie said, producing a manila envelope. “Once we can figure out what to do with this.”

She pulled out a plastic evidence bag and placed it on the desk in front of him. Inside was a flattened-out piece of paper. Stratton looked at it, and the cocky smirk on his face melted away.

10-02-85. His alarm code.

“It’s not exactly a stretch, is it,” Ellie said, biting her lip, “for us to be puzzled why your thieves had such an avid interest in the date of your first IPO?”

“Where did you find this?” Stratton’s face grew taut.

“On one of the bodies of the people murdered in Lake Worth,” Ellie replied. “I think I asked you before if you could provide a list of everyone who had access to your alarm code. I believe you mentioned a caretaker, the housekeeper, your daughter, Mrs. Stratton, of course…”

Stratton shook his head, as if amused. “You really fancy yourself a hotshot detective, don’t you, Agent Shurtleff?”

Ellie felt her spine tighten. “Sorry?”

“You have a degree in art,” Stratton said. “Your job is to assist other agents in matters of provenance, I believe, and authenticity. I imagine it must be very difficult for you to have such an admiration for beauty and have to spend your life chasing down the wonderful objects that other people own?”

“My job is to uncover fakes,” Ellie said, shrugging. “Whether they’re on canvas or not.”

There was a knock on the door. Liz Stratton stuck her head in. “Excuse me.” She smiled at Ellie, then a little dully to Stratton. “Dennis, the tent people are here.”

“I’ll be right there…” He looked up at her and smiled. Then back to Ellie: “I’m afraid our money-wasting moment is over now, Agent Shurtleff.” He stood up. “We’re getting the house ready for a little gathering Saturday night. The Shoreline Preservation League, wonderful cause. You should come. We just got our settlement from the insurance company. There’ll be all sorts of new art on the walls. I’d like your opinion.”

“Sure,” Ellie said. “You overpaid.”

Stratton kept looking at her with a smug smile. He put his hand in his trouser pocket and came out with a wad of bills, credit cards, some change and left it on the desk. “As long as we understand: one of my jobs, Agent Shurtleff, is to protect my family from people making accusations about our private affairs.”

Ellie scooped up the evidence bag and was about to put it back in the envelope. Something made her stop and stare.

“You a golfer, Mr. Stratton?”

“Play at it, Agent Shurtleff.” Stratton smiled. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

Among the wad of bills and loose change Stratton had dumped on his English leather desk was a black golf tee.

Chapter 47

WHEN I LEFT PHILLY’S, I jumped in Dave’s Subaru. I figured I had some time before the bodies were detected – a day, at most – and by then I had to be miles away. But miles where?

I drove wildly, seeing over and over again the horrible image of my brother sitting there like some kind of gutted animal. Knowing I had dragged him into this. Seeing his stuff all over the car – schoolbooks, a pair of beat-up Nikes, CDs, Dave’s Muzak.

I ditched the car in some podunk town in North Carolina and found some salesman in a used-car lot who sold me a twelve-year-old Impala for $350, no questions asked. I went into the men’s room of a roadside diner and dyed my hair. Then I carefully sheared most of it off.

When I looked in the mirror, I was a different person.

My thick blond hair was gone. Along with a lot of other things.

I thought about ending my life on that trip. Just making a turn off some remote stop on the highway, driving this old ruin of a car off a cliff, if I could find a cliff. Or a gun. That actually made me laugh. There I was, wanted for seven murders and I didn’t have a gun!

And I might have – ended it on that trip. But if I did, everyone would think I was guilty and had killed the people I loved. And if I did, who would look for their murderer? So I thought maybe I’d just go back to Florida, where it all had started.

In a twisted way it made sense. I’d show them. The cops, the FBI, the whole world. I didn’t do it, didn’t kill anyone – well, except that one murderer up North.

So about a day later I rumbled my clunker over the Okeechobee Bridge into Palm Beach. I parked across from the Brazilian Court. I sat staring at the yellow-hued building, smelling the breeze off the gardens, realizing I’d come to the end of my journey – right where it all had started.

I closed my eyes, hoping some karmic wisdom would hit me about exactly what to do next.

And when I opened my eyes, I saw my sign.

There was Ellie Shurtleff coming out the front door.

Chapter 48

THERE WERE A couple of ways she could play it, Ellie decided.

Turn what she had found over to Moretti and let him handle it. After all, the Tess McAuliffe homicide wasn’t even their case. Or toss it in the lap of the Palm Beach PD. But Ellie had already seen the star treatment Stratton seemed to get from them.

Or she could do what every cell in her body was crying out to do.

Take it a step forward. Just one or two more steps… What could that hurt?

She had the assistant she shared at the office print a photo of Stratton from the Internet and jammed it in her purse. She left word for Moretti that she was headed out for a few hours.

Then Ellie climbed in her office Crown Vic and headed up the highway, back to Palm Beach.

She knew Moretti would have a coronary, and a smile crossed Ellie’s lips: Fuck the art!

Crossing over the bridge on Okeechobee, she headed for the Brazilian Court. It was a whole lot quieter now than a few days before.

Ellie went into the lobby. An attractive blond guy was behind the reception desk. Ellie flashed the FBI badge hanging loosely around her neck. She showed the man Dennis Stratton’s picture. “Any chance you’ve seen this person around here?”

The desk clerk studied it for a second and then shrugged no. He showed it to a colleague. She shook her head. “Maybe you want to show it to Simon. He works nights.”

Ellie flashed the photo around to the door staff and then the restaurant manager. She showed it to a couple of waiters. Everybody shook his head, no. It was a long shot, Ellie reminded herself. Maybe she’d come back at night and try Simon.

“Hey, I know that dude,” one of the room-service waiters said. She’d found him in the kitchen. His eyes lit up as soon as he saw the face. “That’s Ms. McAuliffe’s friend.”

Ellie blinked. “You’re sure?”

“Sure I’m sure,” the waiter, Jorge, exclaimed. “He comes around here every once in a while. Good tipper. Gave me twenty bucks to pop a bottle of champagne.”

“You’re saying they were friends?” Ellie asked, feeling her pulse come alive.

“You could call them friends.” Jorge tossed a smile. “Like, I gotta learn how to get me some friends like that, too. Hard to figure, short bald dude with someone who looked like that. Gotta figure he had bucks, right?”

“Yeah.” Ellie nodded. “Lotta bucks, Jorge.”

Chapter 49

I TURNED THE IMPALA into a half-full lot on Military Trail south of Okeechobee. Next to Vern’s Tank and Tummy and Seminole Pawn, a long way from the mansions on the beach.

The place looked more like some run-down shipping office or one of those whitewashed stucco huts that housed seedy, ambulance-chasing lawyers. Only the handful of retuned Vespas on the sidewalk and the cracked Yamaha sign in the window gave it away.

Geoff’s Cycles. NATIONAL MINI RACING CHAMPION. 1998.

I parked the car and stepped inside. No one at the counter. I heard the sound of an engine being revved in the back. I wedged through shelves of helmet boxes into the garage. I saw a half-finished bottle of Pete’s Wicked Ale on the floor and pair of beat-up Addidases sticking out from under a gleaming Ducati 999. The engine revved again.

I kicked the sneakers. “That thing run like an old lady having a coughing fit, or does it just sound like one?”

An oily face wheeled out from under the blocks. Close-cropped orange hair and a fuzzy smile. “Dunno, mate. Guess that depends on how fast the old bag can run.”

Then his eyes bulged as wide as if I’d crawled out of a crypt in Dawn of the Dead. “Holy Shit, Ned!”

Geoff Hunter dropped the wrench and hopped to his feet. “It is you, Ned. Not some body double for Andrew Cunanan?’

“It’s me,” I said, taking a step forward. “Whatever’s left.”

“Mate, I’d like to say you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Geoff said, shaking his head, “but, frankly, I was hoping you were a whole lot farther away from this sorry-assed place than here.” He wrapped his greasy, oil-stained arms around my back.

Champ was a Kiwi, who’d been on the world minicycle racing tour for several years. Once, he even held the tour speed record. After a bout or two with Jack – Daniel’s – and a sticky divorce, he ended up performing motorcycle stunts in cycle shows, like jumping over cars and through hoops of fire. I’d met him working the bar at Bradley’s. You put anything crazy enough in front of him and chased it with a beer, Champ was in!

He went over to a minifridge and opened a Pete’s for me. Then he sat on the fridge. “I figure you’re not here for the brew, now, are you, mate?”

I shook my head. “I’m in deep shit, Geoff.”

He snorted. “You think just ’cause my brain’s half fried and I’m drunk the other half of the time, I can’t read the papers, Ned? Well, that might be true – but I can turn on the TV.”

“You know I didn’t do any of that stuff, Champ.” I looked him in the eye.

“You’re preaching to the choir, mate. You think anyone who actually knows you believes you’re going around the country, killing every bloke you meet? It’s the rest of the world I’d be worried about. I was sorry about those friends of yours, Ned, and your brother. Just what kind of mess are you in?”

“The kind that needs help, Geoff. Lots of it.”

He shrugged. “You can’t be aiming very high if you’re coming to me.”

“I guess I’m coming” – I swallowed – “to the only place I can.”

Geoff winked, and tipped his beer toward me. “Been there,” he said, nodding. “It’s a long straight shot down from number one, ’specially when you can’t see straight in the morning, not to mention trying to drive it, taking spoon curves at one hundred eighty miles an hour. I don’t have much cash, mate, sorry. But I know how to get you out of here, if that’s what you need. Know these boats that sneak in past the Coast Guard down the coast a bit, whatever the hell they’re carrying. Guess they go back out as well. I bet Costa Rica sounds good about now, right?”

I shook my head. “I’m not trying to leave, Geoff. I want to prove I didn’t do these things. I want to find out who did.”

“I see…You and which army, mate?”

“I figure it’s that, or kill myself,” I said.

“Been there, too.” Geoff rubbed an oily hand over his orange hair. “Shit, seems I’m perfectly qualified to lend a hand after all. That, and I’m a sucker for a lost cause. But you know that, don’t you, Neddie-boy? That’s why you’re here.”

“That,” I said, “and no other place to go.”

“Flattered.” Champ took another swig of beer. “You know, of course, I get caught just in the general zip code with you, I could risk everything here. My business, the comeback.”

He got up and limped over to a sink, looking as if he had crawled out of a scrum after two hours of rugby. He washed the grease off his hands and face. “Oh, screw the comeback, mate… But we oughta get one thing straight before I commit.”

“I won’t put your ass in any danger, Champ, if that’s what you mean.”

“Danger?” He looked at me as if I were crazy. “You must be joking, mate. I fly through gasoline fires for three hundred bucks a shot. I was only thinking…You are fucking innocent, aren’t you, Ned?”

“Of course I’m innocent, Geoff.”

He chewed on the beer bottle for a few seconds. “Okay, that makes things easier… Anyone ever tell you, you’re a hard fucking bargainer, Ned?” Champ’s eyes crinkled into a smile.

I went over and extended a hand, then pulled him toward me. “I didn’t have anyone else to turn to, Geoff.”

“Don’t get all maudlin on me, Neddie. Whatever you got in store is a whole lot safer than the usual line of work. But before we crack a beer on it, you must have some kind of plan. Who else do we have in the pit?”

“Some girl,” I said. “I hope.”

“Some girl?” Geoff squinted.

“Good news is, I think she believes me, too.”

“Good to know, mate. We’ll overwhelm ’em with numbers. So what’s the bad news, then?”

I frowned. “Bad news is, she’s with the FBI.”

Chapter 50

“LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT.” Special Agent in Charge Moretti stood up at his desk, staring at Ellie. His jaw had dropped in something between shock and disbelief. “You want me to bring in Dennis Stratton for questioning for murder?”

“Look,” Ellie said, taking out the evidence bag containing the black golf tee from Tess McAuliffe’s room. “You see this, George? When I questioned Stratton at his home, he took the same black golf tee out of his pocket. They’re from the Trump International Golf Club. Stratton’s a member there. It ties him to the scene.”

“It ties in a couple of hundred other people,” Moretti said, blinking. “I hear Rudy Giuliani’s a member. You want to bring him in too?”

Ellie nodded. “If he was having a relationship with Tess McAuliffe, George, yes.”

Ellie opened her file, placing Dennis Stratton’s photo on his desk. “I went back to the Brazilian Court and showed this around. He knew her, George. He more than knew her. They were having an affair.”

Moretti stared right through her. “You went around to a crime scene that’s not even our jurisdiction with a picture of one of the most prominent men in Palm Beach? I thought we had an understanding, Ellie. You don’t get to look into the dead people. You get to trace the art.”

“They’re tied together, George. The art, Stratton, Tess McAuliffe too. A waiter recognized him. They were having an affair.”

“And what would you like me to charge him with, Special Agent? Cheating on his wife?”

Moretti came around the desk and shut his door. Then he leaned on the edge of his desk, towering over her, like a reproving school principal.

“Dennis Stratton isn’t some punk you slap up against the wall without real evidence, Ellie. You went back to the Brazilian Court, overriding my orders, on a case that’s not even ours? You’ve been baiting this guy from the beginning. Now you want to bring him in. For murder?”

“He had a relationship with the victim. How do we not look into it?”

“I don’t quite get you, Ellie. We’ve got a suspect who put a goddamn gun to your head in Boston, whose prints are all over two murder scenes. Whose brother turns up dead and who turns out to have been with this McAuliffe gal the day she was killed. And it’s Dennis Stratton you want me to bring in?”

“Why would Kelly kill the girl? He was falling for her, George. Stratton’s lying, George. He didn’t come clean about knowing the victim. He didn’t mention it when the Palm Beach police were there.”

“How do you know he didn’t mention it to the Palm Beach PD?” Moretti asked. “Have you checked their depositions on the case?” Moretti blew out a frustrated breath. “I’ll run it by the PBPD. I give you my word. How’s that, okay? You’re just going to have to learn to trust that the agencies assigned to see these cases through are doing their job. Just like you have to do, right? Your job.”

“Yeah.” Ellie nodded. She had taken it as far as she could.

“Just one more thing…” Moretti added, putting his arm around Ellie’s shoulder as he ushered her to the office door. “You ever go around me again on something like this, your next job’ll be investigating ‘going out of business’ sales for fraud in the stores down on Collins Avenue.

“Now that sure would be a waste of that fancy degree of yours, wouldn’t it, Special Agent Shurtleff?”

Ellie tucked the evidence folder under her arm. “Yes, sir,” she said, nodding, “it would be a waste.”

Chapter 51

ELLIE ROLLED HER KAYAK through a cresting wave, righting the craft as the next wave started to swell.

It was a beauty, and she held the kayak in a tight draw, climbing, anticipating the moment, as the wave peaked.

Then she hit the sucker hard. For a second Ellie hung there in stationary bliss, then released into the curl as though she were shot out of a rocket, cold spray slapping her face.

She was inside it, almost as if there were a tube. This is a ten. In the stillness, waiting for the wave to crash, she felt a hundred percent alive.

Finally the wave collapsed over her. She shot up, the kayak bucking in the air. She rode it for a few strokes, gliding in toward shore. Another wave bumped her from behind. Then Ellie slid up onto the beach. She shook the salt spray off her face.

A ten!

She thought about one more ride, then dragged the fiberglass craft out of the surf. She tucked it under her arm and headed back to the pink two-bedroom bungalow in Delray she rented, a block away.

These late-afternoon rides, after work, when the tide was high, were the only time Ellie could feel alone and free enough from the rest of the world to think. Really think. It was a bonus to moving down there: her own little world when something was troubling her. And it seemed as if everything were troubling her right now.

She knew Moretti wasn’t going to do crap about Stratton’s connection to Tess. They already had Ned wrapped up with a yellow ribbon. Fingerprints, a connection to the victims, kidnapping a federal officer.

Be a good little agent, Ellie said to herself. As Moretti said, this Tess McAuliffe thing, it wasn’t even their case.

Something drifted into her mind, something her grandfather used to say. He was one of those self-made men who had battled mobsters in the thirties. He called the bad guys “crumb-bums.” And he had built a small blouse factory into a large sportswear firm.

When life boxes you in a corner, he would always say, box back!

Ellie was sure that bastard Stratton was involved somehow. In the theft of his own art, maybe in Tess’s murder. The way he laughed at her, it was almost as if he were egging her on. Find something on me. I dare you.

So find something, Ellie. She dragged the fiberglass kayak up to her porch.

Box back!

Like that’s so easy, right? Still in her tight-fitting neoprene suit, Ellie rinsed the salt off the craft’s hull.

She was in the FBI, not the blouse business. There was a chain of command. She had this well-defined job. Someone she reported to. This wasn’t just some hunch she was following up on. This was going over people’s heads.

It was her career.

Ellie leaned the kayak against the wall and peeled off her rubber river shoes, shaking the spray out of her hair. That sure would be a waste of that fancy degree of yours, wouldn’t it? Moretti had sniffed. She was losing ground with him every day. And Ned? Why was she doing this?

“What’re you trying to do,” she muttered, shaking her head, exasperated, “let this guy destroy your career?”

She heard a voice from behind, scaring the wits out of her. Ellie spun around.

“Be careful what you wish for, Ellie…You never know what the tide will roll in.”

Chapter 52

“JESUS, NED!” Ellie’s eyes grew wide.

Or at least it looked like Ned, with his hair short and darker, and a four-day growth on his chin.

“Don’t be scared.” Ned put up his hand. “No abductions this time, Ellie. I swear.”

Ellie wasn’t scared. Just angry and aware this time. Her training kicked in. Her eyes darted to her holster on the coat-rack just inside the kitchen. This time, she was thinking, she was going to be the one in control.

She bolted toward the kitchen. Ned ran after, catching her by the arm. “Ellie, please…”

She spun wildly in his grasp. “Goddammit, Ned, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Guess I thought, given all the publicity” – he held back a smile – “your office just didn’t seem the place to meet.”

Ellie tried to pull away one more time, but he held her firmly, but not too hard. “I need to talk to you, Ellie. Just hear me out.”

She felt an urge to try and throw him, to go for the gun, but she had to admit that a tiny part of her was actually pleased, pleased that he was all right, anyway. That he was there. In her skintight suit, with his hand on her, she felt a little embarrassment take hold. She was blushing now. “What the hell are you doing, Ned?”

“I’m trusting you, Ellie. That’s what I’m doing. I’m showing you the new look. So what do you think?”

“I think when you get out of prison, you’ll be a helluva candidate for Extreme Makeover.” She pulled against him.

Ned relaxed his grip. “What I meant was, maybe you could start to trust me, too.”

She stood there, glaring at him. Part of her still wanted to make a run for the gun. The other part knew he wouldn’t even try to stop her. “It’s hard to trust you, Ned. Every time I do, someone else you’re connected to seems to turn up dead. You don’t just show up here like this. I’m a federal agent, not your AOL buddy. What the hell makes you think I won’t arrest you?”

“One thing,” he said, still holding her arm.

“What?” she asked, glaring back at him.

He let go of her arm. “I think you believe me, Ellie.”

Ellie took another quick glance toward the gun, but she knew it didn’t matter. She wasn’t going for it. Ned was right. She did believe him. She felt her body coil up with frustration. Then she finally gave in, staring into his eyes. “Did you kill that woman, Ned?”

“Tess?” He shook his head. “No.”

“And your brother? What happened to him?”

“All I did was go see him. That was after I met with my father. Ellie, my brother was dead when I got there. My brother, Ellie. Whoever did it was waiting for me. Nearly killed me, too. Someone sent him, Ellie. He thought I had the paintings. I still don’t even know who he was.”

“His name was Anson. He was a two-bit enforcer from south Florida with a record a mile long.”

“So, don’t you see… that proves it. Someone sent him from here.”

Ellie narrowed her eyes. “You live in south Florida, don’t you, Ned?”

“You really think I knew him, Ellie?” He reached into his pocket and came out with a folded-up piece of paper. “Look, I have something to show you.”

She recognized it instantly. The page ripped out of the art book. Van Gogh’s Dr. Gachet.

“Dave was trying to show me this when he was killed. He wasn’t trying to turn me in. He was trying to help me, Ellie.” Ned’s eyes were like some helpless, pleading child’s. “I’ve got nowhere to go, Ellie. Gachet’s real. You have to help me find him.”

“I’m a federal agent, Ned. Don’t you get it?” She touched his arm. “I’m sorry about your brother. I truly am. But the only way I can help is for you to turn yourself in.”

“I think we both know it’s a little late for that.” Ned leaned back against the porch rail. “I know everyone figures I took the art. Tess, Dave… my prints are all over the place. You want the truth, Ellie. It’s not about that anymore – clearing myself. Whoever sent that sonuvabitch to kill Dave was looking for the art. We both know that no one’s going to continue looking if they have me.”

“Will you please get real, Ned.” Ellie felt tears of frustration biting at her eyes. “I can’t join up with you. I’m with the FBI.”

“Get real, huh, Ellie?” Ned seemed to sink. “You don’t think every day I wake up and wish this wasn’t real…” He backed off to the edge of the porch. “I made a mistake coming here.”

“Ned, please, you can’t go back out there now.”

“I’m gonna find out who set us up, Ellie.”

Ned jumped off the deck and Ellie realized her heart was beating wildly. She didn’t want him to leave. What could she do? Make a play for the gun. Was she going to shoot him?

He stood on the ground and winked up at her on the porch in her dripping wetsuit, his gaze drifting to the kayak. “Nice board. What is it, a Big Yak?”

“No,” Ellie said, shaking her head. “A Scrambler.”

He nodded approvingly. The lifeguard, right. Then he started to back away into the night.

“Ned!” Ellie called.

He turned around. For a second they stood staring at each other.

She shrugged. “For what it’s worth, I liked you better blond.”

Chapter 53

WHEN DENNIS AND LIZ STRATTON threw a party, the A list people came, or at least the people who thought they were A list.

Ellie had no sooner walked through the door than a fashionably clad waiter put a tray of caviar canapés in front of her and she was face-to-face with some of the prominent people in Palm Beach art society, or so they would tell you. Reed Barlow, who owned a gallery on Worth Avenue, leading around a gorgeous blonde in a low-cut red dress. Ellie recognized a stately white-haired woman who owned one of the more ostentatious collections in town, with a tanned man half her age on her arm, a “walker.”

Ellie felt a little uncomfortable just to be there. All the women were dressed in designer gowns with major-league jewels, and she was in an off-the-rack black dress with a cashmere cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. Her one accommodation was the diamond solitaire studs her grandmother had left her. But in this room no one would notice.

She waded deeper into the house. Champagne seemed to flow at almost every turn. Magnums of Cristal, which Ellie knew cost hundreds of dollars a bottle. And caviar – a huge bowl rested in the hand-carved body of a swan sculpted in ice. In the den a quintet of string players from a Florida symphony. A photographer from “The Shiny Sheet” getting the ladies to jut a hip, angle a leg, turn on their brightest, whitest smiles. All this for charity, of course.

Ellie caught a glimpse of Vern Lawson, the Palm Beach head of detectives, standing stiffly on the edge of the crowd, wearing an earpiece. Probably racking his brains over what she was doing there. And along the walls stood at least five barrel-chested men in tuxedos, hands behind their backs. Stratton must have hired half the off-duty cops in Palm Beach as security.

A small crowd was buzzing in the corridor leading to Stratton’s living room. Ellie went over to see what all the commotion was about.

Her jaw dropped.

She was staring at Matisse’s Still Life with Violin, one of the most famous examples from his cubist stage. Ellie had seen it once at the MoMA in New York. She’d heard it had changed hands recently in a private sale. But seeing it there on Stratton’s wall, suddenly she felt angry. That’s why he had invited her. The SOB was trying to rub it in her face.

“So, I see you found the Matisse, Agent Shurtleff.” A haughty voice startled her from behind.

Ellie turned. Stratton was wearing a collarless white shirt and a cashmere blazer, a smug, self-satisfied expression on his face. “Not a bad example, on such short notice. Perhaps not as explosive as the Picasso, but what can one do…A collector has to fill his walls. Even if I had to overpay.”

“It’s lovely,” Ellie said, unable to hide her appreciation of the painting itself.

“There’s much more…” Stratton took her by the arm and led her to a group of admirers staring at a well-known Rauschenberg on another wall. That one must’ve gone for ten million alone. And on the steps leading into the great room, on two wooden easels, were stunning El Greco drawings: studies, she recognized, from his famous The Opening of the Fifth Seal of the Apocalypse.

Masterpieces.

“Whoever’s advising you on your art is doing a better job,” Ellie said, looking around.

“So glad you approve.” Stratton smiled, clearly enjoying himself. “And all dressed up, I see. Come, have some champagne. There must be a nephew of someone rich and famous floating around here who would find what you do for a living completely refreshing.”

“Thanks,” Ellie sniffed up at him, “but not tonight. I’m working.”

“Working?” Stratton seemed amused. “Well, that will set you apart in this crowd. Let me guess, you think that Ned Kelly character is in the house?”

“Kelly… no.” Ellie looked at him. “But I was wondering if the name Earl Anson means anything to you?”

“Anson?” Stratton shrugged and took a deep, thoughtful breath. “Should it?”

“He was the man killed along with Kelly’s brother up in Boston. Turns out he was a hood from around here. I thought it might ring a bell.”

“Why would it?” Stratton said, nodding across the room to a familiar face.

“Because he was up in Boston looking for your three paintings.”

Stratton waved across the room to his wife, greeting guests in an off-the-shoulder gown that looked like Prada. Liz Stratton smiled when she saw Ellie.

“You keep forgetting,” Stratton said, barely shifting his gaze, “it’s four. There were four paintings stolen. You always seem to overlook the Gaume.”

“An innocent man was killed up there, Mr. Stratton. A law student,” Ellie came back at him.

“One less lawyer,” Stratton said, and laughed at his own tasteless joke. “Now, I’m afraid I have other guests.”

“And what about Tess McAuliffe?” Ellie said, grabbing Stratton at the elbow. “Am I confused about her, too?”

Stratton’s face grew taut.

“I know you were seeing her.” Ellie stared at him. “I can tie you to the Brazilian Court. You were having an affair with Tess.”

Stratton’s gaze suddenly hardened. “I think we should have that champagne now, Ellie.” He latched onto her arm. “Out on the veranda.”

Chapter 54

MAYBE SHE SHOULDN’T have said what she did. She knew she had gone too far. But she wanted to throw it in his face and watch the haughty smile disappear.

Stratton dragged her through large French doors leading onto the vast terrace off the ocean. They were outside before she could resist. He’d dug his fingers into her arm.

“Get your hands off me, Mr. Stratton.” Ellie tried to pull away without making a scene – like taking him down in the middle of this crowd.

“I thought you might like to see the Fratesi marbles out here,” Stratton said as they passed a couple wandering on the terrace. “I shipped them from a villa outside Rome. Seventeenth century.”

“I’m a federal agent, Mr. Stratton,” Ellie warned him. “Twenty-first century.”

“A federal fucking bitch is what you are,” Stratton said, muscling her over to a remote section overlooking the sea.

Ellie looked around for someone she could yell to if things got really bad. A band was starting to play inside. If this got back to Moretti, she’d be toast.

“It seems our talk the other day didn’t impress.” Stratton yanked her across the tiles to a fieldstone ledge.

“You’re a pretty little girl, Ellie. You know how pretty little girls have to be careful in today’s world. Even when they’re with the FBI.”

“You don’t want to take this any further,” Ellie said, trying to pull away. “You’re threatening a federal agent…”

“Threats? I didn’t make any threats, Agent Shurtleff. All the threats came from you. Tess was private. I liked to fuck the little bitch, that’s all. I don’t know how she died. I don’t much care. But as an observation, when pretty little girls do things, like, say, jog on the beach, or better yet, sea-kayaking… Look, Ellie…You never can tell how rough it gets out there in the surf.”

“I’m going to tie you to Earl Anson.” Ellie glared back at him.

Her cardigan fell off. Stratton had her by the arm, a grin on his face she didn’t like, staring at her shape and her bare shoulders. “You must look cute in a wetsuit, Ellie. Maybe I’d like to see some more of you myself.”

Chapter 55

WHAT WAS THIS ?

I was out on the jetty, overlooking Stratton’s house, when I saw it all unfold. I’m not sure why I was even there. Maybe because that was where it all began; where Mickey and Bobby and Barney had been set up – and I was out of answers. Or because it burned me that Stratton could be in there celebrating about something while my life was falling apart.

Or maybe because it seemed that I’d been watching parties like this from the outside my whole life.

Whatever it was, I watched this guy in a navy blazer dragging a girl onto the terrace, maybe fifty yards away. He forced himself against her on the stone ledge. Shit, Ned, you’ve hit the bottom now, I groaned. I figured I was in for some peep show of the idle rich doing it under the stars.

Suddenly I realized the girl was Ellie.

I went closer. It was Ellie! And the guy in the blazer, Dennis Stratton. I’d seen his picture in the papers. But I was wrong. There was nothing amorous going on. He had her by the arm and they were arguing. Ellie tried to pull away.

I inched closer, crouching near a rock wall. Their words started to come clear. Something about Tess… something about this being a private matter. Was I hearing this right? What did Tess have to do with Stratton?

Then Ellie said, “I’m going to nail you for fraud – and murder!”

That was all I needed to hear, but the bastard started threatening her. Ellie was trying to twist away. “You’re hurting me.”

I hoisted myself up the concrete seawall and onto the ledge of the terrace.

Then I jumped down off the ledge onto the terrace a few feet behind the two of them. It all happened quickly after that. I jerked Stratton away and nailed him with a solid right. He went down hard on the terrace.

“You want to put your hands on somebody,” I said over him, “c’mon, how ’bout me?”

Stratton looked up as if he were dreaming. He rubbed his jaw. “Who the hell are you?”

I turned to Ellie and did a double take. She was beautiful. In a cute black dress, shoulders exposed. All made up. And diamond studs sparkling in her ears, nice ones. She was staring at me with her mouth open.

I was hoping I hadn’t shocked her so much that she’d say my name.

She didn’t. Instead, Ellie took hold of my arm. “I was wondering where you were. Let’s get out of here.” She looked at Stratton, who was slowly getting to his feet. “Love your party, Dennis. I’ll be seeing you soon. Count on it.”

Chapter 56

“THAT WAS BAD, NED,” Ellie said, hustling around the side of Stratton’s house. “You could’ve been caught.”

“I thought that was the plan,” I said, guiding her past a couple of parking attendants at the front gate. “I get caught.”

She made a right turn onto the beach. I was half expecting her to stop, pull out her gun, and arrest me right there. Then it hit me, what I had heard up on the terrace.

“You think it’s Stratton?” I looked at her, a little dazed.

Ellie didn’t answer.

I stopped walking. “You said you were going to bust him for murder and fraud. You think it’s Stratton?”

“You got a car, Ned?” Ellie said, ignoring me.

I nodded vacantly. “In a manner of speaking…”

“Then go get it. Now. I don’t want to know you here. Meet me back in Delray.”

I blinked. She wasn’t arresting me.

She glared impatiently. “I don’t think you need directions, do you, Ned?”

I shook my head, and as I started down the street, a grin spread across my face. “You believe me, don’t you?” I called.

Ellie stopped at a navy sedan. “You believe me,” I called again.

She opened her car door. “That was stupid, Ned. What you did.” She softened. “But thanks…”

The whole drive to Delray, I wasn’t sure what Ellie really meant back there. The new, paranoid me was sure I was going to come face-to-face with a roadblock of cops and flashing lights. All she had to do was turn me in and Ellie could make a career for herself.

But there were no roadblocks. No cops jumping out at me when I pulled around the corner from her house near the beach in Delray.

By the time I knocked on the front door, Ellie had changed. Her makeup was off, the diamond earrings gone. She had on a pair of jeans, white tee, a pink waist-length sweatshirt. You know what, though, she still looked beautiful.

“Let’s get one thing straight, ” she said as I stood in the doorway. “You’re going to jail. You were involved, Ned, whether you killed those people or not. I’m going to help you with the guy who killed your friends, and then you turn yourself in. You understand? You got it?”

“I understand,” I said. “But there’s something I have to know. You and Stratton on the terrace…You were talking about Tess.”

“I’m sorry you had to hear that, Ned.” She sat on a stool at the kitchen counter. She shrugged. “She and Stratton. They were seeing each other. They were lovers.”

Those words slammed into me.

Tess… and Dennis Stratton. A hollow feeling rose in my chest. I guess I’d kidded myself a bit. Why someone like Tess would want someone like me. But Stratton? I sank onto the couch. “For how long?”

Ellie swallowed. “I think until the day she was killed. I think he was with her after you.”

The sinking feeling was starting to simmer now – into anger. “The police know this? They know, Ellie, and they’re after me?”

“Seems nobody wants to take on Stratton. With the possible exception of, say, me.”

All of a sudden things started to become clear. What I’d heard up on Stratton’s terrace. Why Ellie hadn’t turned me in. Why I was there. “You think he did it, don’t you? You think he set up my friends? That’s he’s Gachet?”

Ellie came over and sat on the coffee table in front of me. “What I’m starting to think, Ned, is if your friends didn’t steal Stratton’s art, who did?”

A smile crossed my lips. I felt this weight draining out of my shoulders. For a moment I wanted to take Ellie by the hand, or hug her. But the joy quickly faded. “But why Tess?”

“I don’t know yet.” Ellie shook her head. “Did she ever say anything to you? Maybe she knew about you and your friends beforehand. How did the two of you meet?”

“On the beach. Near where I worked…” I thought back.

I was the one who had gone up to her. Could it be possible that she was in on it? That I’d been set up? No, that was crazy. It was all crazy. “Why would Stratton want to steal his own art?”

“The insurance maybe. But it’s not like he needs the money. Maybe to cover up something else?”

“But if that’s the case, where was the art when Mickey and the guys went to take it?”

A light blinked in Ellie’s eyes. “Maybe someone beat them to it.”

“Someone else? Who? Tess?” I shook my head defiantly. “No way.” But one thing I couldn’t put away, and it didn’t make any sense to me. “If Stratton set up his own heist, if he has the paintings – why did he need to send a guy to kill Dave? Why is he still coming after me?”

We looked at each other. I guess we came to the answer at the same time.

Stratton didn’t have the art. Someone had double-crossed him.

Chapter 57

I HAD A SUDDEN sinking feeling. This was going to be bad. “Listen, Ellie,” I said, “I haven’t been entirely truthful with you.”

Here eyes narrowed. “Oh no. What is it?”

I swallowed, uneasily. “I think I might know someone who was involved.”

“Okay,” she said, “and you were going to share this with me when, Ned? Another old friend?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Actually… my father.”

Ellie blinked a couple of times. I could see her trying to remain calm. “Your father! I know he has a record, Ned. But just how in the hell is he involved with seven murders?”

I cleared my throat. “I think it’s possible he knows who Gachet is.”

“Oh,” Ellie grunted, staring incredulously at me, “I thought it was something important, Ned. Is it possible you could maybe have told me this, say, before I threw my career away by bringing you here?”

I told her how Mickey never made a move without him, my conversation with him at Fenway Park.

“Your father knew you were going to visit Dave?” Ellie asked, wide-eyed.

“No,” I said. The thought was too gruesome. Even for Frank.

“You know, from what you’re telling me,” Ellie said, “we’re going to have to bring him in.”

“It won’t do any good,” I said. “First, the guy’s a pro, Ellie. He’s spent a quarter of his life in prison. Second, there’s nothing to play against him. He’s sick, Ellie. Dying of some kidney disorder. He’s not going to roll over. He was willing to let his own son take the fall.

“Anyway, he’d never have killed them. Mickey was like a son to him. Now he’s lost two because of his messes.” The image of Dave’s body came back to me. “Not to mention me.”

Ellie kept surprising me. She reached out and took hold of my hand. “I’m sorry, Ned, I truly am, about your brother.”

I wrapped my fingers around hers. I looked into her face and braved a smile. “You know I don’t have those paintings, don’t you, Ellie? You know I didn’t kill any of those people. Mickey, Tess, Dave…”

“Yes,” Ellie said, nodding, “on all counts.”

Something changed for me as I looked into those soft blue eyes. Maybe it was the way I had seen her at Stratton’s party. Adorable but so brave, standing up to him. Or what she was doing for me now. The risk she was taking. It felt so good, after so long, to have someone on my side.

“Ellie?” I said.

“Yes,” she murmured. “What now?”

“Don’t arrest me for this…”

I placed a hand on her cheek and kissed her gently on the lips.

Chapter 58

I KNEW THAT wasn’t the smartest thing to do. I half expected her to jump up and shove me away: Have you lost your mind?

But she didn’t. Ellie just sort of lifted her chin and parted her mouth, and her tongue danced around mine a little, soft and warm. The whole thing took both of us by surprise. Suddenly I had my arms around her and I was pulling her against me, until I could feel her heart beating against my chest. You know, sometimes it takes just one kiss to find out if the sparks are really there. They were.

I held my breath as we let go. I was scared of what she was going to say. I brushed a wisp of hair out of her eyes.

Her eyes were sort of blinking – as though maybe she wasn’t sure about what had just happened, either.

“It’s not right, Ned.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Ellie. It was just that it was so good to finally hear that you believe me. And you were looking so cute up on that terrace. I guess I was overwhelmed.”

“Not that.” She looked at me and curled a little smile. “That part was great. I was just thinking about Stratton. He’s got these amazing new acquisitions. If he did this theft for the insurance, why press finding the stolen art? He’s got what he wanted.”

“Maybe he wants them back,” I said. “You know, have his cake and eat it, too.”

“Listen,” she said, focusing herself, “don’t get attached to this, Ned. This was basically a handshake. To reflect our new working agreement.”

I tried to pull her close again. “I was hoping we might take it straight to contract form?”

“Sorry,” she sighed. “Call me old-fashioned, but you’re a wanted man and I’m the FBI. Besides, there’s work to do.” She reached out and pulled me up. I was surprised at how strong she was. “You gotta go. You won’t be offended, will you, if I ask you to leave by the back door?”

“No,” I laughed, “it’s become part of my regular routine.”

I went to the porch door and slid it open. I looked back at Ellie. I didn’t know if it was a mistake, what we’d done. Or if it would happen again. I understood the risk she was taking with me. Our eyes met.

I smiled from the door. “Why are you doing this, Ellie?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m boxing, Ned.”

“Boxing?”

“I can’t explain right now. You gonna be okay?”

I nodded. “Well, whatever it is, thank you, Ellie.”

“I told you, it was just a handshake,” she said with a wink.

I shook my head. “I meant for believing in me. Nobody has in a long while.”

Chapter 59

THE TALL MAN was hunched down in the front seat of the tan Ford, resting the Nikon on his lap, about fifty feet from Ellie Shurtleff’s house. He was getting too old for this. And these cars were too cramped. He was thinking about the old days, when you could really stretch out your legs in a Cougar or a Grand Am.

He saw someone leaving Ellie Shurtleff’s house from the back. Okay, he thought, angling the Nikon, time to shift into gear.

Holy Shit! He jumped up, did a double take. That was Ned Kelly walking into the street.

It was definitely Kelly. He clicked off a few frantic shots. Click, click, click. He felt as if he were having a heart attack.

All he was supposed to do was keep a tab on sweet little Ellie. He never expected anything this good. He followed Kelly down the street and zoomed in with the lens.

Click, click.

Of course, he knew the schmuck was innocent. Obviously the FBI gal felt that way, too. Or she was in cahoots with him.

He started thinking about what he should do. He could run up and arrest Kelly. Build a whole career on this. Get his face on the front page of USA Today. Course, then he’d have to explain what he was doing keeping tabs on Ellie.

He zoomed in and took a last shot of Ned Kelly climbing into some old clunker. Close-up of the North Carolina plates. Another shot on Kelly’s face. Guy didn’t look too bad for the wear and tear.

Oh, you got balls, honey, the tall man had to admit. The whole world was out looking for him, and look where he was – at your house.

The tall man put down the camera and, flicking a matchbook deftly through the fingers of his right hand, watched Kelly drive away.

Diminutive, he thought, nodding to himself, but ballsy.

Chapter 60

BY THE TIME I got back to Champ’s cycle shop it was close to midnight. To my surprise, I spotted a light on inside. Then I saw Champ’s Ducati parked by the Dumpster.

“Late night?” I heard him say as I slipped in through the door connected to the garage bay. Champ was sitting down with his feet up on the counter, his chair angled back, and the omnipresent bottle of beer. The TV was on. Jay Leno interviewing Nicole Kidman.

“National Pride Night?” I said, taking a seat in a chair next to him.

“She’s an Aussie, mate. I’m Kiwi,” Geoff replied, a little peeved. He offered me a beer. “I don’t assume you know last night’s curling results just ’cause you were born up near Canada, do I?”

“Guilty,” I said, and clinked my bottle to his. I leaned back next to him with my feet up, too.

“So, how was the party, mate? Any good women?”

“One,” I said.

“These tall bitches…” Geoff ignored me, nodding toward Nicole on the TV screen. “Always found them a little difficult to handle myself. Legs get in the way. I know this one gal -”

“Champ,” I interrupted, “do you want to hear about what happened tonight?”

“Actually,” he said, lowering his chair and facing me, “if you must know, I want to tell you what a well-formed decision you made when you signed me up. This gal I was mentioning is a real night owl. She’s a clerk twice a week. At the Brazilian Court.”

I brought down my feet and stared. “Okay.”

“First, you may have to accept, mate, that that pretty Aussie girlfriend of yours wasn’t all she led you to believe.”

“I think I’m past that,” I said.

He pivoted and faced me, forearms on knees. “Seems that she had some frequent visitors to her room there. Some prominent ones. How does the name Stratton sound to you, Neddie-boy?”

“Like old news,” I said with a sigh of disappointment. “Dennis Stratton. He was seeing Tess. I’m already there.”

“You’re barely in the neighborhood.” Geoff shook his head with a smile. “I’m not talking the old man, mate. I’m talking Liz Stratton. Dennis’s wife.”

He saw my shock and rocked back, taking a self-satisfied swig of his beer. “Whadya think, I got a knack for this sort of work, or what, Neddie-boy?”

Chapter 61

A LOT OF THINGS had shocked me since I left Tess’s suite at the Brazilian Court and thought my life was about to take off. But what could Stratton’s wife have to do with Tess?

Ellie and I had settled on a code if I needed to contact her at the office. I’d use the name Steve, as in McQueen. And I did, first thing the following morning. I told her what Champ had told me.

“I think we have to talk to Liz Stratton, Ellie.”

“First,” she said, “I think we have to find out who Liz Stratton really is.”

I had a trump card I’d been holding back, and I was thinking now might be the time to use it. “I may have a way.”

“No, you don’t do anything,” Ellie shot back. “You stay put. I’ll get you when I know something. You comprende, Steve?”

So I played it like a good little fugitive. I spent the day holed up in the small room above Geoff’s garage, picking through some microwave lasagna and his John D. MacDonald crime novels, watching the news on TV. The next day, too. Ellie didn’t return my calls. I felt like Anne Frank hiding from the Germans. Except it wasn’t just the Germans who were after me, it was the whole world. And it wasn’t some doctor’s family who was protecting me, or Brahms I was hearing through the walls, but some loony cycle racer blaring U2, revving up his Ducati.

Late that next afternoon, Geoff banged on the floor. “Team meeting,” he yelled. “Coming up the stairs. You decent, mate?”

I figured “decent” meant my T-shirt and boxers, and “team meeting” was “beer time, four P.M.” I swung open the door.

To my surprise, there was Ellie, and Geoff hanging back with a grin.

“I want to thank you, mate, for your keen sense of discretion in keeping it just between us, and the fucking FBI, that you are here.”

“Guess you two have met,” I said, kicking open the door. I scrambled around for a second, putting my legs into a pair of jeans.

Ellie peeked around the disgusting storage room – boxes of spare parts; cycle catalogs strewn all over the floor; the unmade cot I’d slept in – trying to find a place to sit. “Nice digs…”

“Thanks,” Geoff said, kicking a box of twisted rims out of the way. “Used it many times myself. And I have to admit,” Champ said, nodding, approvingly at me, “when you said FBI agent, Neddie, I wasn’t exactly thinking Jodie Foster.”

She did look cute in a black suit and pink top, but not very cheery. “What’d you find out about Liz?”

“Not much.” She took a beer and tipped it obligingly toward Geoff. “The woman’s untouchable. Her maiden name’s O’Callahan. An old Florida family. Lawyers and judges, mostly. About as private and influential as you can get. She went to Vanderbilt, worked for a while at her daddy’s law firm. She married Stratton about eighteen years ago. I’m told she was his access into the circles that financed many of his business deals.”

“We have to talk to her, Ellie.”

“I tried,” Ellie sighed. “I wanted to question her without drawing the attention of my office. But I hit a wall with the family lawyer. Only with Stratton present, and even then only with a presubmitted list of questions.”

“Christ, the tart’s tighter than a nun in a condom factory,” Geoff said, then gulped a swig of his beer.

“Nice,” Ellie scrunched up her nose. “Stratton keeps her totally under wraps. She doesn’t even go out for lunch without guards. I don’t have enough to bring her in for questioning.”

“Jesus, Ellie, you’re the FBI…”

“What do you want me to do, run this by my boss? What we need is someone in her circle. Someone who can get to her. Make her talk. And I don’t have any contacts there.”

As I said, I had a trump card. And it wasn’t worth holding any longer. I rolled the beer bottle around in my hands. “I may have a way.”

Chapter 62

SOMEONE SAYS HE’S your friend, but you never really know. Life has taught me that there are always barriers that get in the way. Like the rich siding with the rich, whatever side they’re on. What is it I hear the English say? There are no lifelong friends, or lifelong enemies. Only lifelong interests. And I guess you never know what those interests are until you try.

So the next morning I made the call. I might as well have been a sixteen-year-old asking a girl out for the first time. I was never so nervous dialing a number in my life.

“It’s me, Neddie.” My mouth went dry as soon as I heard him answer.

I waited. No reply. I started worrying I had made a mistake. I could be getting us all in an awful lot of trouble.

“You sure dropped the hose in the deep end – for a pool boy,” Sollie Roth finally sighed.

I didn’t laugh. He didn’t mean for me to. That was Sollie’s way of being dead-on serious. “You said something, Sollie, as I drove away. You said a man doesn’t run off in the middle of the night. That no problem was too big to solve. Maybe I should’ve listened to you. I know how things look now. What I need to know is, do you still mean that, Sollie?”

“I never turned you in, son, if that’s what you’re looking for. I said I was sleeping when you took off.”

“I know that,” I said, feeling a little ashamed. “Thanks.”

“No thanks needed,” he said matter-of-factly. “I know people, kid. And I know you didn’t do those crimes.”

For a second I hung my head away from the phone. I swallowed thickly. “I didn’t, Sollie. I swear to God. But I need some help to prove it. Can I trust you, Sollie?”

“You can trust this, Ned,” the old man said. “I’ve been where you are now, and I learned that the only thing that’s gonna keep you from spending the rest of your life in prison comes down to the quality of your friends. You have those kinds of friends, Neddie-boy?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. My lips were dry. “What kind are you, Sollie?”

I heard him chuckle. “In matters like this,” Sol Roth said, then paused. “The highest, kid. The highest.”

Chapter 63

“SO WHO ARE WE meeting here?” Geoff pulled the bike into the parking lot across the street from St. Edward’s Church and cut the ignition.

Green’s was a luncheonette/pharmacy situated on North County, a sleepy throwback to a bygone time. When JFK was president and Palm Beach held the Winter White House, Kennedy and Washington staffers would party all night, attend early mass at St. Ed’s, then spill into Green’s for a jolt of joe and some waitress sass while still in their tuxes.

The man we were meeting was sitting in his corner booth, under the window, wearing a powder blue V-necked sweater and golf shirt, a Kangol hat next to him, his thinning white hair plastered tight against his scalp. He had the Wall Street Journal open and wore a pair of reading glasses.

He looked more like some retired accountant checking his stocks than the man who was going to save my life.

“So, you got some kind of ringer, mate?” Champ elbowed me, sweeping the room for whom we were going to meet. “That’s why you’re holed up with me. Someone really on the inside.”

“I told you, Champ, trust me.”

I shuffled over to the table. The man seated there took a sip of coffee and folded the Journal into an even square.

“So you never turned me in,” I said with a grateful smile.

“Why would I want to do that?” He looked up. “You still owe me two hundred dollars from gin.”

I grinned broadly. He did, too. I put out my hand.

“It’s good to see you, son,” Sol said, shaking my hand and cocking his head a bit at how I’d changed. “Seems you went to an awful lot of trouble just to cut your hair.”

“Time for a change,” I said.

“You want to sit down?” He moved his hat and looked at Geoff. “This is the fellow you were speaking about?” He squinted a bit uncomfortably at Champ’s striking orange hair.

“Either of you mind cutting me in?” Champ stared blankly, wondering what the hell was going on.

I grinned. “The pit just got a little more crowded, Champ. Say hello to Sollie Roth.”

Chapter 64

“SOL ROTH!” Geoff did a double take, eyes wide. “Like in the Palm Beach Downs Sollie Roth? And the dog track? And that hundred-foot Gulf Craft docked at the marina over there?”

“Hundred and forty,” Sol said, “if you’re counting. And the Polo Club and the City Square Mall and American Reinsurance, if you need the entire résumé. Who are you, son, my new biographer?”

“Geoff Hunter.” Champ stuck out his hand and sat across from Sol. “Of the single-lap, 1000cc superpole speed record. Two hundred fifteen miles per hour. Two twenty-two, if they could ever fix on the blur. Face to the metal, ass to the air, as they say.”

“As who says that, son?” Sollie took Geoff’s hand a little tepidly.

A waitress wearing a Simpsons T-shirt came up. “What can I get you boys? Mr. Roth?”

I did my best to hide my face. Two other tables were calling for her. She rolled her eyes at Sollie. “Now you know why I drink, Mr. Roth.”

I ordered scrambled eggs with a little cheddar thrown in. Champ ordered some kind of elaborate omelet with peppers, salsa, Jack cheese, and tortilla chips sprinkled in. A short stack of pancakes, home fries. Sollie, a soft-boiled egg on whole-wheat toast.

We chatted for a few minutes in soft voices. About how I’d made the right move by calling him. He asked how I’d been holding up and said he was really sorry to hear about my brother. “You’re dealing with very bad people, Ned. I guess you know that now.”

Our breakfast arrived. Sollie watched as Champ dug into his thick omelet. “Been coming here thirty years, never saw anyone order that before. That any good?”

“Here” – Champ pushed the plate across – “it would be an honor. Try some, Mr. Roth.”

“No, thanks,” Sol said. “I’m trying to live past noon.”

I put down my fork and huddled close to him “So, you make any progress, Sol?”

“Some,” he said with a shrug. He mopped his toast in the goopy egg. “Though some of what you hear is going to hurt you, kid. I know you were keen on that girl. I did a little checking around with my own sources. I’m afraid it’s not quite what you think, Neddie. Dennis Stratton wasn’t using Tess. It was the other way around.”

“The other way around,” I said. Liz was setting him up. “What do you mean?”

Sol took a sip of coffee. “Liz Stratton was actually behind her husband’s affair with this girl. More than behind it, Ned-die, she orchestrated it. Set him up. She had the girl on a retainer.”

I blinked back, confused. “Why would she be doing that?”

“To discredit him,” Sol replied, spooning another packet of Cremora into his mug. “Everyone knows this Stratton marriage isn’t exactly what it seems. Liz has wanted out for a long time. But he’s got a stranglehold on her. Most of the money’s in his name. She was going to set him up and walk away with everything he’s got.”

“You know I heard about these tarts who…” Geoff gobbled a forkful of omelet.

I held him back. “So, what are you saying, Sollie? Tess was hired? Like some kind of actress…Or scam artist?”

“A little more than that, kid.” Sol pulled out a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his sweater. “I’m afraid she was a professional.”

It was a faxed copy of a police rap sheet. From Sydney, Australia. I was staring at Tess’s face. Her hair was pulled back, her eyes downcast. A different girl. The name on the rap sheet was Marty Miller. She’d been arrested several times, for selling prescription drugs and for prostitution in King’s Cross.

“Jesus Christ.” I blinked, and sank back in the booth.

“She was a high-class call girl, Ned. She was from Australia. That’s why there was nothing on her around here.”

“ New South Wales,” I muttered, recalling our first day on the beach.

“Hmmph,” Geoff snorted, taking the sheet from my hand. “An Aussie. Not surprised…”

A call girl. Paid to screw Dennis Stratton. Hired to do a job. My blood started to simmer. All that time I’d been thinking there was no way I deserved her – and it had all been just a sham.

“So, he found out about her,” I said, clenching my jaw, “and had her killed.”

“Stratton’s got people who work for him who would do just about anything, Ned,” Sol said.

I nodded. I thought of Ellie’s doubts about the local cop, Lawson. The one who always seemed to be around Stratton. “That’s why the police are dragging their heels. They knew there was a connection between them. He owns them, right?”

“If you want to catch him, Neddie,” Sol said, looking at me earnestly, “I own a few things, too.”

I smiled gratefully at Sollie. Then I stared at the rap sheet again. Poor Tess. Such a beautiful face. She probably thought this was the payday of her life, too. That shimmering, hopeful look came back to me, the one I couldn’t understand. How she felt that her luck was about to change as well.

I’m going to get him, Tess, I vowed, looking at her face. Then I dropped the rap sheet onto the table. “Marty Miller,” I said, smiling at Sol. “I didn’t even know her name.”

Chapter 65

DENNIS STRATTON left his office in one of the financial buildings along Royal Palm Way a little after five.

His Bentley Azure pulled out of the garage and I started up my dingy Impala.

I’m not entirely sure why I had the urge to follow him, but what Sollie had told me really pissed me off. I had seen Stratton in action on the terrace with Ellie. I guess I just wanted to see firsthand what this asshole was about.

Stratton swung around at the light and continued over the bridge into West Palm. I followed, a few car lengths behind. He was busy talking on the phone. I figured even if he noticed, there was no way a guy in an old clunker like mine would register on his mental radar.

His first stop was Rachel’s out on 45th Street, a steak-house where you can wolf down a large porterhouse and watch strippers on the stage. A bouncer greeted him as if they were old friends. All the pretension of class with his big house and the fancy art. Why was I not surprised?

I pulled into a Rooms to Go parking lot across from Cracker Barrel and waited. After fifty minutes I almost decided to call it a night. Maybe half an hour later Stratton came out with another man: tall, ruddy, white-haired, a navy blazer and lime green pants. One of those “I can trace my roots back to the Mayflower” kind of faces. They were laughing and smirking.

They both climbed into the Bentley, put the top down, and lit up cigars. I pulled out behind them. Blue bloods’ night out! They headed down to Belvedere, past the airport, and turned into the Palm Beach Kennel Club. VIP parking.

It must’ve been a slow day, because the attendant rolled his eyes jeeringly at my wheels, but he seemed happy to take my twenty and slip me a clubhouse pass. Stratton and his buddy headed up on an elevator to the fancy seats.

I took a table on the other side of the glass-enclosed clubhouse. I ordered a sandwich and a beer and felt obliged to go up to the window every once in a while with a couple of two-dollar bets. Stratton seemed to be into it, though. He was loud and garrulous, puffing on his cigar, peeling off multiple hundreds from a huge wad on every race.

A third person came to the table: a fat, balding guy, suspenders holding up his pants. They kept betting wildly, ordering bottles of champagne. The more they lost, the more they laughed, throwing big tips to the stewards who took their bets.

About ten, Stratton made a call on his cell phone and they all stood up together. He signed for the bill – it must’ve been in the thousands. Then he put his arms around the other two and headed back downstairs.

I paid my check and hurried after them. They piled into his Bentley. They had the top down and were all smoking cigars. The Bentley was weaving a bit.

They crossed back to Palm Beach over the middle bridge. Stratton wrapped around to the right and turned the Bentley into the marina.

Partytime, huh, boys?

A gate rose and a guard waved them through. No way I could follow. I was definitely curious, though. I parked the car on a side street and climbed back up onto the walkway of the middle bridge. I headed up the ramp. An old black guy was fishing off the bridge farther ahead. The spot gave us a bird’s-eye view of the marina.

Stratton and his cronies were still winding around the dock. They walked to the next-to-last berth and climbed aboard this enormous white yacht, Mirabel, the kind of gleaming white beauty you couldn’t take your eyes off. Stratton acted as if he owned it, greeting the crew, taking the others around. Trays came out – food, drinks. The Tres Assholes had the party thing going: booze, cigars, sitting around on Stratton’s yacht as though they owned the world.

“Oooh-wee,” the black fisherman up the way whistled.

Three long-legged model types were making their way in high heels along the dock. They climbed aboard the Mirabel. For all I knew, they might’ve been the same girls who were performing at Rachel’s that night.

Stratton seemed pretty familiar with one of them, a blonde in a short red dress. He had his arm around her, introducing the others to his friends. They started passing around drinks and pairing off. The fat one started dancing with a thin redhead in a waist-baring T-shirt and denim skirt.

Stratton dragged Red Dress onto a bench seat. He started kissing and feeling her up. She wrapped a long leg around him. Then he got up and took her by the arm, a bottle of champagne in the other, and with a joke to his buddies disappeared below.

“Some show,” I said to the fisherman.

“Many the night,” he said. “Sure beats the red tail this time of year.”

Chapter 66

“WHERE DID YOU GET THIS?” Ellie rose from her kitchen table, staring at Tess’s rap sheet.

“I can’t tell you that, Ellie.” I knew how pathetic that sounded. “But it’s from someone with clout.”

“Clout?” She shook her head. “This isn’t clout, Ned. The police don’t even have this information. I’m risking everything by getting involved, and you can’t tell me who else you’re talking to?”

“If it makes you feel any better,” I said sheepishly, “I didn’t tell him about you, either.”

“Oh, great, Ned,” Ellie chortled, nodding, “that just makes everything swell. I always knew this was an inside job. Now I have no goddamn idea whose.” I saw her thinking. “If Liz set up her husband on this affair…”

“I know,” I said, finishing the thought for her, “she could’ve set him up on the art, too.”

Ellie sat back down, an expression that was part realization, part puzzlement. “Could we be all wrong about Stratton?”

“Let’s say she did set up her husband on this.” I sat down next to her. “Why go after my buddies? And why did they have to kill Dave?”

“No,” Ellie said, shaking her head, “that was Stratton. I’m sure of it. He was double-crossed. He thought it must’ve been you.”

“So who the hell is Gachet, Ellie? Liz?”

“I don’t know…” She took out a pad of paper and scribbled some notes at the counter. “Let’s just stick with what we have. We’re pretty certain Stratton had a hand in killing Tess. Clearly, he found out about the scam. And if he did, chances are good he knows his wife was behind it, too.”

“Now we know what all the bodyguards are about,” I snorted. “They’re not so much to protect her. They’re there to make sure she doesn’t run.”

Ellie curled one leg under the other, yoga-style. She picked up the rap sheet. “I figure we can either take this and hand it over to the PBPD. Who knows what they’ll do with it…”

“The person who gave it to me didn’t want me to do that, Ellie.”

“Okay, Ned.” Ellie looked at me a little crossly. “I’m game. What did he want you to do?”

“Clear myself, Ellie.”

“Clear yourself, huh? Meaning what, you and me?”

“This woman’s in a shitload of danger, Ellie. If we could get to her… If she could help us prove a connection between Stratton and Tess, maybe even the art, that would be enough, right?”

“What do you want to do, kidnap her? I told you, I already tried -”

“You tried your way, Ellie. Look -” I spun around and faced her – “don’t ask me how I know this, but I was told Liz Stratton has a standing lunch date on Thursdays down at Ta-boó on Worth Avenue. That’s the day after tomorrow.”

“Who told you this?” Ellie stared at me, a little angry now.

“Don’t ask.” I took her hand. “I told you, someone with clout.”

I searched her eyes. I knew what a risk she was already taking. But maybe this could clear me. Liz Stratton obviously knew some things.

Ellie smiled fatalistically. “This person you know has enough clout to get me out of the jail cell next to you when all of this comes out?”

I squeezed her hand. I smiled a thank-you.

“You know there’s still the little matter of the bodyguards, Ned. They’re always around her. And we can’t exactly have you coming out in public, can we? At Ta-boó.”

“No,” I agreed, shaking my head, “but fortunately, Ellie, I know just the guy.”

Chapter 67

“SO HOW DO I LOOK?” Geoff grinned, peering coolly over his Oakleys. “Clean up pretty well for an outback grease monkey, if I say so myself. Credit the Pob store in town.”

The well-appointed front room and bar at Ta-boó was filled with the in crowd of Palm Beach. Blondes, blondes everywhere, women in pastel-colored Polo cashmere with Hermès bags; men in their Stubbs & Wootton slippers and sunglasses, Trillion sweaters draped over their shoulders, picking at stone crabs and Caesar salads, some of the best grub in Palm Beach. Several patrons looked as if they had stepped in out of the mansions on Ocean Drive.

“George Hamilton’s got nothing on you,” Ellie said, glancing over Geoff’s shoulder across the room.

Liz Stratton was seated at a corner table, having lunch with three girlfriends. Her two bodyguards were at the bar, one eye on Liz, the other drifting to another slender blonde who had just climbed out of a Lamborghini.

“Just soaking up the view,” Geoff said, smiling, “until I spring into action. Never know when I’ll get invited back here to the island.”

Ellie sipped her Perrier and lime. Her stomach had a riot going on inside. Just to be sitting in Ta-boó, she must be out of her mind. Up till now, she could make the case that she was doing her job. In a few minutes, though, if things didn’t go so well, “aiding and abetting” would be a gift plea for her.

The key was to get Liz Stratton out of the restaurant and keep the bodyguards there. Ned was waiting in back with the car. They would whisk her away, and hopefully Liz would be as eager to talk as they were to hear her.

“Jesus,” Geoff said, craning his neck and nudging Ellie with his elbow, “tell me that’s not Rod Stewart at the bar?”

“That’s not Rod Stewart. But I think I see Tommy Lee Jones.”

A waiter named Louis came up and asked if they were ready to order. “Stone crabs for me,” Geoff said, closing the menu, as though he did this every day. Ellie ordered a chicken salad. She had a receiver in her ear, wired to Ned in back. They just had to wait for the right time to make a move. Oh, brother…

A few minutes passed. The waiter came with their meals. All of a sudden, Liz Stratton stood up with one of her friends. They headed toward the ladies’ room.

“It’s happening now, Ned,” Ellie said into the wire. She cast a cautious eye at the bar. “Watch my back, Champ.”

“Just my luck. Food looks great,” Geoff groaned, looking at his just-arrived crab claws.

Ellie got out of her seat and made a beeline to Liz, intercepting her in the back of the restaurant. Liz blinked back a vague look of recognition.

Ellie leaned in as if to give her a kiss. “You know who I am, Mrs. Stratton. We know about you and Tess McAuliffe. We have to talk to you. There’s a back door straight ahead. We have a car outside. We can do this real smoothly if you come now.”

“Tess…” she said hesitantly. Then a quick eye to her guards, “No, I can’t…”

“Yes, you can, Liz,” Ellie said. “It’s either this or you go down for extortion and accessory to murder. Just don’t look behind, and follow me out the door.”

Liz Stratton stood there, unsure what to do.

“Believe me, Mrs. Stratton, no one’s looking to lay any of this on you.”

Liz Stratton twitched back a nod. “Suz, you go ahead,” she told her friend. “I’ll be in in a second.”

Ellie put her arm across Liz’s shoulders and quietly tried to propel her forward. “Ned, we’re coming out,” she said.

One of the bodyguards got up. He stood there, watching for a second, trying to gauge what was going on.

Ellie pushed Liz through the door. C’mon, Champ, now! Do your thing.

“G’day, mates.” Geoff stepped up to the bar, blocking their way. “Either of you know where a guy might find a ticket to the Britney Spears Dance America concert at the Kravis?” I think it’s at the Kravis.

“Fuck off,” the bodyguard with the ponytail said, attempting to push past him.

“Fuck off?” Geoff blinked, stunned. He kicked the legs out from under the big one with the ponytail, knocking him to the floor. “I take my Britney very seriously, mind you, and I don’t care for anyone making her seem like some cheap passed-around tart.” He grabbed the second guy by the arm and hurled him up against the bar. A tray of drinks toppled, glass shattering.

A pretty brunette bartender with the nametag Cindy yelled, “Hey, cut it out!” Then, to the other bartender, “Andy! Need a little help here. Bobby! Michael!”

Suddenly, Ponytail reached inside his jacket and pulled out a gun.

“On the other hand, mate,” Geoff said, backing away, palms up, “anyone who sticks her tongue down Madonna’s throat for the whole world to see is a bit of a slut in my book.”

He pushed a barstool at the startled bodyguards, then made a dash for the front door.

“It is you!” he said, knocking into Rod Stewart at the bar. “Loved the last album, mate. Very romantic. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Chapter 68

“THIS IS NED KELLY,” Ellie said, pushing Liz Stratton into the backseat of her FBI car.

Liz stared, shocked and confused at what she was hearing.

“He’s an innocent man, Mrs. Stratton, who’s being framed for murders we think your husband committed.”

I turned from behind the wheel and peered into Liz Stratton’s eyes. They didn’t look outraged or angry at what was going on. Only a little afraid.

“He’ll kill me,” Liz said. “Can’t you tell – I’m scared to death of him. But I can’t hold this together anymore.”

“We’re going to put him away, Mrs. Stratton.” Ellie squeezed into the rear seat next to her. “But to do it we need your help.”

I hit the gas and gunned the car as soon as I heard the door slam in back. I went around the block and stopped on a side street.

Ellie turned and faced Mrs. Stratton. This was it, I knew. What Liz said in the next two minutes could save, or doom, me. “We know you set up Marty Miller to pose as Tess McAuliffe to have an affair with your husband.”

Liz swallowed, knowing there was no point keeping up the pretense anymore. “Yes, I set him up,” she said. Part of her seemed to smile while admitting it; another part seemed on the verge of tears.

“And, yes, I know he found out and had her killed. I know it was wrong, terribly wrong. But my husband’s a dangerous man. He won’t let me go anywhere without those goons.”

“I can make that end,” Ellie said, placing her hand on Liz’s shoulder. “I can tie him to the murder scene at the Brazilian Court. I just need to prove he found out about what you were doing.”

“Oh, he knew about it,” Liz Stratton sniffed. “He ran a security check on Tess. He traced a bank wire of mine to an account under her real name. He confronted me two days before the art was stolen.”

Liz pulled down her sweater and showed us two dark bruises around her neck. “This proof enough for you?”

I couldn’t wait any longer. I spun around. Liz knew enough that she could change everything that had happened to me. “Please, Mrs. Stratton, who stole the art? Whoever did murdered my friends and my brother. Who is Gachet?”

She placed her hand on my arm. “I promise you, Mr. Kelly, I had nothing to do with whatever happened to your brother. Or any of the others who died. But I wouldn’t put anything past Dennis. He’s crazy over his art. He wants it back more than anything I’ve ever seen.”

I looked at Ellie. She seemed as surprised to hear these words as I was. If Dennis Stratton didn’t steal his own paintings, then who did?

“Someone double-crossed him, Mrs. Stratton. I think you may know who. Who took the art? Who set this in motion? Was it you?”

“Me?” Liz’s mouth twisted into an amused smile. “You want to know what a prick my husband is, well, you’re about to find out. The art wasn’t stolen.” A glimmer of revenge flared in her eyes.

“Only one painting was.”

Chapter 69

ONLY ONE PAINTING was stolen. Ellie and I blinked at her, perplexed. “What are you saying?”

Suddenly I heard the roar of an engine coming from down the block. Champ, bent over the bars of his Ducati, was gunning the cycle straight for us. He decelerated in a flash, screeching to a stop next to our Crown Vic. “Time to go, Kemo Sabe. Posse’s on our tail. About a block behind.”

I looked up the street and saw a black Mercedes making the turn, speeding directly toward us.

“It’s me they want,” Liz said, looking at Ellie. “You don’t know these terrible people. They’ll do anything for my husband.” She turned to me. “You’ve got to go!”

She pushed open the car door and, before we could stop her, climbed out and started to back away. “Here’s what I’ll do. Come to the house,” she said. “Around four. Dennis will be there. Then we’ll talk.”

“Liz,” Ellie said, starting after her, “just tell me what you meant, only one painting was stolen? There were four.”

“Think about it, Agent Shurtleff,” Liz Stratton said with a smile, backing farther away. “You’re the art expert. Why do you think he calls himself Gachet?”

The black Mercedes veered toward Liz and started to slow down. “Come to the house,” she said again with a thin, fatalistic smile. “At four.”

Two men jumped out on the run and grabbed Liz Stratton. They glared angrily at us, stuffing her roughly into the backseat. I didn’t like leaving her, but we didn’t have a choice.

“Uh-oh, Neddie.” Champ glanced back up the street. He revved the Ducati. “We’ve got trouble.”

There was a second vehicle behind the Mercedes – a black Hummer – speeding directly for us. And this one showed no signs of slowing.

“Ned, get out of here.” Ellie started to push me out the door. “They’re after you, remember.”

I squeezed Ellie’s hand. “I’m not leaving you.”

“What can they do to me?” Ellie said. “I’m with the FBI. But I can’t be here with you. Go!”

“Ned, c’mon,” Geoff urged, revving the Ducati to a deafening pitch.

I jumped out of the driver’s seat of the Crown Vic and hopped on the back of Geoff’s cycle. Ellie waved. “I’ll call you when we’re clear.”

“Don’t worry about her, mate,” Champ said. “Worry about us!”

I locked my arms around his waist. “Why?”

“You ever been in an F-15?”

“No.” I looked behind. The Hummer was bearing down on us. It wasn’t slowing. In about three seconds it would be right on top of us.

“Neither have I.” Champ said, redlining the Ducati, “but hold on. I’m told it feels something like this.”

Chapter 70

THE FRONT WHEEL kicked up, the g-force threw my head back, and with what seemed like a supersonic blast, the Ducati rocketed away.

I felt as though I were being dragged by a jet taking off, holding on for dear life. I pressed myself into Geoff’s back, certain that if I loosened my arms for a second, I’d be hurled onto the concrete like a bouncing ball.

We flew down the street in a tuck, headed in the direction of the lake. I took a glance behind. The Hummer didn’t even stop. It was coming after us for sure.

“Get out of here! They’re coming!” I shouted above the roar into Champ’s ear.

“Your wish is my command!”

The Ducati’s engine exploded and I was thrown back hard as we shot past homes at a hundred miles an hour. My poor, abused stomach tightened in a knot. A stop sign was coming up pretty quick. Cocoanut Row. The last intersection before the lake. There was only one way to go down here, north. Champ slowed just a little. The Hummer was barreling fast behind.

‘Which way?” Champ shouted, glancing back.

“Which way? There is only one way,” I said. Right. We were still only a block or two from the poshest shopping street in all of Florida. There could be cops around.

“That’s what you think,” he said.

I felt this monstrous downshift and Champ’s Ducati slid into the intersection – and hairpinned sharply to the left.

I think my stomach was left somewhere behind. We were leaning so low, my jeans scraped against the pavement. We barely managed to avoid a head-on with a Lexus driven by some tourist with his bug-eyed family.

All of a sudden we were zigzagging down Cocoanut.

“How’s that for an exit, mate?” Geoff flashed back a grin.

It was as if we had jumped through the woods on some ski trail, and now we were on another trail, skiing against the flow. I looked around for a cop, exhaling with relief that one wasn’t in sight. Then I looked behind. The Hummer had screeched to a stop at the intersection. I thought for sure he’d yank a right and get out of there. But he didn’t! He swerved to the left – and was coming after us again.

“Jesus,” I shouted, squeezing Champ’s ribs, “he’s still on us!”

“Damn” – he shook his head – “those bastards have no respect for the law.”

He pressed the throttle, but now we were coming up on Palm Beach ’s busiest shopping street, Worth Avenue. We slowed for half a second.

“Always wanted to try this…” Champ gunned the bike again.

He jerked the Ducati to the left. Suddenly we were heading up Worth Avenue. Against traffic.

The wrong way!

Chapter 71

THIS WAS THE craziest yet!

We were zigzagging through oncoming cars, swerving out of people’s way. Tourists and other shoppers on the sidewalk pointed as if it were some kind of show. We cut between two cars, people pointing, their heads craning. I was praying I didn’t hear the sound of a police siren.

We dodged a man loading an SUV, then sideswiped an antique pedestal. It shattered into pieces on the ground. Oh shit…We drove past the Phillips Galleries. I glanced behind. Amazingly, the Hummer had made the turn and was still behind us, horn blaring madly against anyone blocking the way. It was as if the driver knew he had immunity if he got caught.

“Champ, we have to get out of here,” I said. “Get off this street.”

He nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.”

We made a sharp right, zipping into an entrance to the Poincietta Country Club. I glanced behind. The Hummer had made its way through the obstacle course of traffic. It was still following us.

Champ hit the accelerator and we picked up speed, approaching a golf course. Through hedges I could see golfers on a fairway. The Hummer was still closing.

I gripped Champ’s waist. “I’m up for ideas.”

“How’s your golf game, buddy?”

“My what?”

“Hold on!” He jerked the Ducati at a sharp right angle, sparks slashing up from the pavement. We blasted right through an opening in the hedges, branches whipping my face.

Suddenly we were off the road and in the middle of a perfectly manicured golf fairway!

Ten yards in front of us some poor guy with a five iron was about to play his shot to the green.

“Sorry, playing through!” Champ shouted as the Ducati sped past. Two golf partners in a cart looked on, as if they were in someone else’s crazy nightmare. Maybe they were. “Dogleg a bit to the right,” Geoff said. “I’d play a fade.”

He crossed the wide emerald green fairway, the Ducati picking up speed, every golfer standing agog. I yelled, “Champ, are you crazy, man?”

Suddenly we slipped through another hedge and were in the middle of someone’s backyard. There was a beautiful pool, a cabana, and a startled woman in a bathing suit reading on a chaise longue.

“Sorry,” Geoff said, waving as we weaved by, “wrong turn. Carry on.”

The gal immediately reached for a cell phone. I knew that in about two minutes the Hummer was going to be the least of our worries. The Palm Beach police would be on our tail. Whatever element of slapstick comedy this scene had was fading into full-fledged panic, fast – very fast.

We ducked through another opening in a hedge and emerged on South County. “All clear,” Geoff said with a wink. No way the Hummer could follow us.

Problem was, the island of Palm Beach is parallel to an inlet, and if you happened to be running from certain death, there are only a few ways off. We headed toward the South Bridge. I figured we were safe now, unless someone radioed the bridge. We passed a few mansions. Dennis Stratton’s house, too. I was starting to exhale.

Then I glanced behind.

Oh, man!

The Hummer was back on our tail. And so was a black Mercedes. Only this time it was worse. Way worse. A projectile zipped by my ear with this piercing whine. Then another.

The bastards were shooting at us.

I clutched Champ tightly by the waist. “Geoff, hit it!”

“Aheadaya, mate!”

The Ducati jerked, righted itself, then blasted forward into some kind of kited-up supergear.

We shot by more big-time mansions, the wind and the salt from the ocean breeze lashing at my eyes. I saw the speedometer hit ninety, a hundred, a hundred ten…one twenty. We both tucked our bodies as far forward as we could. Face to the metal, ass in the air. We put some distance between us and the two cars.

Finally we approached the end of a brief straightaway. Trump’s place, Mar-a-Lago, was on our right. We rounded a steep curve, and then…

The South Bridge was in sight.

I took a last look behind. The Hummer was about a hundred yards back. We were going to be okay.

Then I felt the Ducati go into a giant downshift. I heard Geoff yell, “Oh, shit!”

I looked forward and I couldn’t believe it.

A Boston Whaler was putt-putting its way up the Intercoastal. My heart was going putt-putt, too – only really fast.

The bridge was going up.

Chapter 72

THE BRIDGE BELL was clanging. The guardrail was already going down. A line of cars and gardeners’ trucks was starting to back up.

The Hummer was coming up behind us.

We had seconds to decide what to do.

Geoff slowed, falling in at the end of a line of cars. The Hummer slowed as well, seeing that we were squeezed in – caught.

We could do a 180 and try to get past them, but they had guns. Maybe we could zip around the circle and head farther south, past Sloan’s Curve, but there was no way off the island until past Lake Worth, miles.

“Okay,” I yelled over the sputtering bike. “I’m taking ideas here, Geoff.”

But he had already made up his mind. “Hold on,” he said, staring ahead, gassing the engine hard. “Tight!”

My eyes widened as I saw what he had in mind. “You know what you’re doing?”

“Sorry, buddy” – he glanced behind one more time – “this one’s new even for me…”

He jerked the Ducati out of line and gunned the huge bike forward, right under the guardrail. My stomach started to crawl up toward my throat. The bridge was opening now. First a couple of feet, then five, ten.

The bike started to climb up the slowly rising platform. “Stay bloody low!” Geoff yelled.

We zoomed up the ramp with the engine blasting, the g-force slamming my ribs. I had no idea how much space separated us from the other side of the bridge. I was tucked into a crouch, and I was praying.

We lifted off the edge of the road and into the air at about a sixty-degree angle. I don’t know how long we stayed airborne. I kept my face pressed to Geoff’s back, expecting to feel some out-of-control, spinning panic, then free fall, and finally the crash that would separate my body into parts.

But all there was, was this amazing sensation. How a bird must feel – soaring, gliding, weightless. No sound. Then Champ’s voice, whooping: “We’re going to make it!”

I opened my eyes just in time to see the tip of the oncoming bridge coming toward us, and we cleared it, our front wheel perfectly elevated. We careened off the pavement, my stomach lurching. I expected to fly off and braced for the crash, but Geoff held the landing.

We bounced a few more times, then he sort of touched the brakes and the bike glided down the platform. We’d made it! I couldn’t believe it.

“How’s that!” Geoff hooted, coasting to a stop in front of a backup of cars on the other side of the bridge. We were in front of a woman in a minivan, her eyes as large as dinner plates. “Eight-five on the dismount, maybe, but I’d say the landing was a perfect ten…” Geoff turned around and gave me a shit-eating grin. “Sweet! Next time, think I’d like to give that one a try at night.”

Chapter 73

ACROSS THE STREET from Ta-boó, the man in the tan car had watched the whole scene unfold, and he didn’t like one thing about it.

The first Mercedes pulled up, the doors flung open, and one of Stratton’s men dragged Liz Stratton into the backseat.

He squinted into the camera. Click, click.

Then Stratton’s boys in the Hummer peeled out after Ned Kelly and that Kiwi cowboy on the show-off bike.

“Dangerous folks,” he muttered to himself, clicking off one more shot. That son of a bitch better be able to really ride.

Then two of Stratton’s goons got out of their car and went up to Ellie Shurtleff.

For a second, that made him reach for his gun. Didn’t know if he should interfere. Some kind of argument took place. They started to get a little rough with her. The Shurtleff gal flashed her badge, standing up pretty tall in the saddle.

She had spunk, the man in the car had to admit. He’d give her that.

Setting up this scheme to get to Liz Stratton. Cavorting with a murder suspect.

“Spunk,” he chuckled, but not exactly a lot of shrewdness. All he’d have to do was pass along a print to the feds across the street and it wouldn’t exactly be a gold star for her career. Or the rest of her life, for that matter.

Stratton’s men backed off. Flashing the badge seemed to work, because after some jostling, they got back in their car. They drove the Mercedes close to the other car, then sped away. He took his hand off his gun. He was glad he’d decided to wait. This could get even bigger.

Maybe he should just pass along these prints. The guy was a wanted killer. She was taking a hell of a risk. What if she was involved in some way herself?

He watched the FBI gal get back in her car and drive away. “Not shrewd,” he said to himself again, tucking away his camera. He flicked a matchbook between his fingers.

But a shitload of spunk.

Chapter 74

ABOUT 3:30 that afternoon, Ellie met us back at Champ’s garage.

I was happy to see that she was okay and gave her a hug. I could tell by the way she held on to me, she’d been worried about me, too. We told her about the motorcycle chase.

“You’re crazy.” Ellie shook her head at Geoff.

“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug, as if reflecting on it. “I’ve often found the line between crazy and physically irresponsible to be quite blurred. Anyway, I thought it was a far cry better than having to party up with those guys in the Hummer. Given the circumstances, I actually thought things went pretty well.”

I shot a glance to the clock on Champ’s garage wall. It was getting to be that time. A lot could play out for us in the next hour or so. We could find out who stole Stratton’s art. I could be cleared of the murders. “You ready to go to Liz’s? Ready to nail Dennis Stratton?” I asked. Ellie seemed nervous, though – for her, anyway.

“Yeah,” she said. She caught my arm, her expression tight. “Just so you understand, that’s not the only thing that’s going to happen at Stratton’s today.”

She opened her jacket. A set of handcuffs dangled from her waist.

I felt my stomach shift. I’d felt strangely free for the past few days, following up on the crimes, maybe getting closer to catching a killer. I’d almost forgotten she was an FBI agent.

“If it all goes like we hope in there,” she said, that law-enforcement look back in her eye, “you’re going to turn yourself in. You remember the deal?”

“Sure.” I looked at her and nodded, but inside I was dying. “I remember the deal.”

Chapter 75

WE CROSSED OVER the middle bridge to Palm Beach mostly in silence. My stomach was twisting inside. Whatever happened at Stratton’s, I knew my freedom was about to end.

The town was eerily quiet for a Thursday in mid-April. There were only a few tourists and shoppers on or around Worth Avenue seeking out the late-season sales. A white-haired doyenne crossed in front of us at a light, in a fur wrap despite the April heat, her poodle in tow. I looked at Ellie and we smiled. I was holding on to anything I could right now.

We turned onto Stratton’s private street, just off the ocean. That’s when I realized something was wrong.

Two police cars were blocking the road, their lights flashing. Others were parked all around Stratton’s gate.

At first I thought that the reception was for me, and I was scared. That Liz had set me up. But no… An EMS truck was pulling through the gate.

“Get down,” Ellie said to me, turning around. I sank down in the backseat, my face tucked under my cap. Ellie lowered her window and flashed her shield to a policeman blocking traffic. “What’s happened?” she asked.

The cop took a quick glance at her ID. “There are a couple of bodies in the house. Two people shot. Never seen anything like what’s been happening lately.”

“Stratton?” Ellie asked.

“No,” the officer said, shaking his head. “One’s a bodyguard, they’re telling me. The other’s Mr. Stratton’s wife.”

He waved us through, but I felt my blood drain, and a feeling of panic grip me from head to toe.

Liz was dead. Our case against Stratton was dead, too. We had no way to prove he knew that his wife had set him up. But worse, we had lured poor Liz into this.

“Oh, Jesus, Ellie, we got her killed,” I said, feeling as if it were Dave all over again.

Ellie turned in through the gates into the long pebbled driveway. Three more patrol cars were parked in front of the house, as well as a second EMS van, its doors open.

“You wait here,” Ellie said, pulling up in front. “Promise me, Ned, you won’t run.”

“I promise,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.” Ellie slammed the door and ran inside. I felt as though something inevitable was about to happen. I knew it, in fact.

“I promise, Ellie,” I said, reaching for the door, “I’m not running anymore.”

Chapter 76

STRATTON WAS IN THERE.

Ellie spotted him in the foyer. Sitting in a chair, rubbing his ashen face, mirroring shock. Carl Breen, the detective Ellie had met in Tess’s suite, was sitting with him. And Ponytail, the pockmarked asshole who’d taken off after Ned and Champ, was standing smugly by.

“I can’t believe she would do this,” Stratton muttered. “They were having an affair. She told me. She’d been angry with me. I’d been working too hard. Ignoring her… But this…”

Ellie looked ahead into the sunroom. Her stomach sank. She immediately recognized one of the muscular bodyguards she’d seen at Stratton’s party lying face up on the floor. There were two bullet holes in his chest. But worse, so much worse, was the sight of Liz Stratton, lying back on the floral love seat across from him, still dressed in the same white pantsuit as she had on that afternoon. A trickle of blood ran down one side of her forehead. Vern Lawson was kneeling beside her.

Ellie had heard a cop talking on the way in. It was supposed to be a murder-suicide.

Like hell. Ellie felt her blood grow hot. She looked at Lawson, then Stratton, then back at Liz. What a complete sham!

“I knew she was upset,” Stratton continued to Detective Breen. “She finally told me about the affair. That she was going to end it. Maybe Paul wouldn’t let her go. But this… Oh, God… She seemed so happy just a few hours ago.” Stratton caught Ellie’s eye. “She went out to lunch with friends…”

Ellie couldn’t hold back. “I know you killed her,” she said to Stratton bluntly.

“What?” He looked up, startled.

“You set this up,” Ellie went on, teeming with anger. “There was no affair. The only affair was yours, with Tess McAuliffe. Liz told us everything. How she set you up. But you found out. You did this, Stratton, or had it done.”

“You hear this?” Stratton yelled, and rose from his chair. “You hear what I have to defend myself against? From this bullshit art agent!”

“I was with her,” Ellie said, looking at Breen, “only a couple of hours ago. She told me everything. How she arranged an affair to discredit her husband and he found out. How he was implicated in stealing his own art. Check at the Brazilian Court. Run the photos. You’ll see. Stratton was with Tess McAuliffe. Ask him what Liz meant, that only one painting was stolen.”

There was thick silence in the room. Breen peered at Stratton. Stratton looked around edgily.

“Maybe Liz did know something about the art,” Lawson said. He was holding a gun in a plastic Baggie. “It’s a Beretta.32,” he said. “Same kind of gun used in the killings over in Lake Worth.” He looked at Breen.

Stratton sat down again. His face turned a blank, shaken white.

“You’re not buying this?” Ellie said. “You think Liz Stratton stole the art? That she killed all those people?”

“Or her boyfriend.” Lawson shrugged. He raised the evidence Baggie. “We’ll see…”

“You got it all wrong,” Ellie said, eyeing the smirk creeping onto Stratton’s face. “Liz asked us here. She was going to lay it out for us. That’s why Liz Stratton’s dead.”

“You keep saying us, Special Agent Shurtleff,” Lawson finally said. “You mind telling us who you mean?”

“She means me,” a voice came from the entranceway. Everyone spun around.

Ned had entered the room.

Chapter 77

“THAT’S NED KELLY!” Lawson’s eyes popped.

Two Palm Beach policemen grabbed me and slammed me onto the tiled floor. A knee drove into the small of my back, and my arms were pinned behind me. Then my wrists were twisted into cuffs.

“I turned myself in this afternoon to Agent Ellie Shurtleff,” I said, my cheek pressed to the floor. “She met with Liz Stratton today. She was about to testify against her husband. Liz no more killed herself than I killed Tess McAuliffe. Agent Shurtleff brought me here to confront Stratton with the information, and turn myself in.”

I looked up at Ellie with a resigned expression, as one of the cops patted me down. She looked back at me with a blank stare. Why, Ned? The policemen dragged me to my knees, hands behind my back.

“Radio it in,” Lawson barked to a young plainclothesman. “The FBI, too. Tell ’em we just apprehended Ned Kelly.”

I was taken to a patrol car, pushed inside, the door slammed shut. I took one last look over my shoulder at Ellie. She didn’t wave. Nothing.

Less than fifteen minutes later I was at the holding cells in the Palm Beach police station. I was stripped, searched, photographed, and tossed into one of the cells. The place was really buzzing. Cops craned their necks for a look.

They didn’t charge me with anything right away. I guess the police were waiting to sort things out. I knew they had no direct evidence linking me with anything – other than the guy who killed my brother in Boston.

They were actually taking it easy on me. The Palm Beach cops were pretty good guys, and I eventually made a phone call up to Boston, looking for my father. My mother answered. He wasn’t home. “Listen, Mom, you have to tell him to come clean. My life is in the balance.” She hesitated a little, then started to cry. “Just ask him, Mom. He knows I’m innocent.”

Then I sat back and waited – for whatever was going to happen next.

In that cell, it all started to sink in. Mickey and Bobby, Barney and Dee. The horrible way they had died. I thought of Tess, poor Tess. So many victims. All killed by Gachet? Who the hell was he? There I was in jail – and he was out there, free.

It just didn’t seem right somehow.