Driven by concern, Campbell stepped outside to a sky opening to a torrential rain. A barrage of icy droplets pricked her face and clear vision was impossible, but she knew the approaching car was a compact, and that it was traveling fast. And it was almost upon her.

Her memory was working better than her vision, and she reached a hand out into the driveway. Yet no sooner did she step out onto the walkway than she realized the driver didn’t intend to slow down. Worse yet, she heard the car accelerate.

It was going too fast to miss her and far too fast to make the necessary ninety-degree left turn out onto the drive.

Campbell flung herself backward. Although she struck hard against the booth’s rough stone exterior, she kept her eyes open and focused her attention to try to catch a closer look at the maniac speeding by.

The car was a Grand Am. The driver was—

“Maida?” Campbell gasped. “Maida, stop!”

Ignoring the pain in her back, Campbell launched herself after the car. Brakes squealed and the rear end swung wildly through that first impossible turn. She got close enough to slam her hand on the trunk, but either Maida Livingstone didn’t hear her, or the sound had the opposite effect and frightened her.

After several stumbling strides, Campbell gave up and stared in horror as the car accelerated again. The elderly widow was racing toward the next hairpin turn.

Also by HELEN R. MYERS

NO SANCTUARY

FINAL STAND

DEAD END

LOST

MORE THAN YOU KNOW

COME SUNDOWN

While Others Sleep
Helen R. Myers

www.mirabooks.co.uk

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A special salute to Texas Bluegrass singer Terri Hendrix, who inspired many of the characters in this book with her song about night wolves, those individuals who either suffer from insomnia, work, or otherwise maneuver through life while others sleep. Also thanks to the Longview Police Department and Longview Board of Education for their strong public access commitment.

To the Hide-Away-Lake Book Club and residents who asked that I feature a character who has experienced my own too-close encounters with lightning—I hope this adds insight. Your lovely development was, indeed, the inspiration for Maple Trails, even though I had to relocate it. But I will always cherish your graciousness and hospitality.

Finally, ongoing appreciation to my editor Valerie Gray and always to my agent Ethan Ellenberg. Couldn’t have done this without your wisdom, support and humor.

Violence can only be concealed by a lie, and the lie can only be maintained by violence.

—Alexander Solzhenitsyn

Nobel Prize lecture, 1973

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

1

Maple Trails, a gated retirement community

Longview, Texas

11:30 p.m.

A lightning-fractured sky, followed by the quick crack of thunder, gave clear warning that the approaching storms weren’t only accelerating across Texas, but intensifying. Precipitation would be welcome in this section of the piney woods where residents continued to miss out on replenishing rains due to another El Niño in the Pacific. To the most grateful, the storm would serve as a lullaby.

To Campbell Cody, it felt like a combination of mockery and curse. Standing with her hands on her hips as the overly warm February wind tugged at her hair and khaki uniform, she had to wonder—would tonight be the night she got deep-fried? Like the answer of answers, the next bolt shot into the earth with the precise and deadly trajectory of a smart bomb achieving a direct hit on her nerves, elevating her tension to a level she had experienced all too often in the last fourteen months. She turned her back on the intimidating scene, but the damage was done. Dark memories, rife with immutable images flashed before her—scenes from another night filled with fury: a domestic disturbance turned Code 30, followed by a torment-filled wait in Emergency and, days later, a funeral. She could almost hear the condemning voices of the bitter and the bereaved within the gusting wind.

Another crack of thunder snapped her back to the present. It came as fast as it took Internal Affairs to convince her that her career with the Longview Police Department was over.

Uneasy as she was with what was about to befall the area, Campbell had anticipated trouble hours ago. Company policy required all staff to review the latest weather report and the local news, and to make notes on significant alerts coming over the police radio scanner before reporting to their posts. These procedures were twice as strict for the daughter of Yancy Cody, owner of Cody Security, Inc. The company might only be a regional name in the expanding and increasingly complicated world of corporate and private protection, but they were a growing one thanks to a solid reputation—another reason why she could not succumb to old vulnerabilities tonight. But neither could she rid herself of concern over what could become a worst-case scenario.

Two air masses were colliding over the Lone Star State tonight, resulting in a system that was powerful enough to evolve into one of those freak, heart-of-winter storms that sent eighteen-wheelers flipping, splintered houses, and ripped apart lives. It was no time for man or beast to be outdoors, and while, technically, she could avoid that, the stone-and-glass gatehouse marking the entrance to the private and exclusive retirement community of Maple Trails could be just as dangerous. Come what may, it was Campbell’s post until her twelve-hour shift ended at six the next morning, and there was no use wishing she could have avoided working tonight.

Her father had always been as selective in scheduling staff as he was in hiring new employees, and that practice was all the more evident at this exclusive community just outside the eastern perimeter of Longview’s city limits. Maple Trails had been the firm’s first sizable client, and personnel were not arbitrarily switched from one location to another. In addition, no one worked at a Cody-protected site who didn’t know it as well as their own home. Unfortunately, that could catch them in a bind. Morton “Munch” Robbins, who should have had Campbell’s shift tonight, had split open his thigh earlier in the day while testing his newly repaired chain saw, and Doug Sutton, their backup, had developed pneumonia. She would not be relieved until tomorrow, even though this was her fourth twelve-hour shift without a break. Company guidelines prohibited staff working without adequate rest, but Campbell refused to complain. Her father had just come through his own health scare and needed support, not whining.

“Another week, ten days tops, and we’ll be back to normal,” Yancy had assured her six hours ago as she’d prepared for work. “The background checks on the new applicants are coming in as clean as I expected, and we should be ready to start training by Friday.”

She wasn’t the only staff member who hoped he was right. These were challenging times for security firms, and investigating the people who were issued badges, carried guns and had access to private homes and the most privileged areas in corporations needed to be screened with increased care.

The next sky-to-ground flash had Campbell ducking deeper into her fluorescent-yellow rain gear, but there was no escaping the high-pitched crack that left the earth shuddering. Pushed by the wind, she stumbled to the gatehouse and reached for the hand radio.

“Gate to Patrol One, over.” She released the speaker key.

“Patrol One” came the static-filled reply. “Seen any flying cattle yet? Over.”

Campbell appreciated Ike Crenshaw’s attempt at humor. The widower and grandfather of five was often her partner on these shifts, and since the movie Twister, he’d been referring to that cow scene whenever this region came under a storm alert.

“Not yet, and the likelihood of having a shot of tequila anytime soon is nil, so I guess spotting Day-Glo pink pigs with wings is out, too. Listen, Ike, you’d better go ahead and pull into the recreation center to get some solid shelter. The lightning has become downright ugly. Over.”

“You’re the one out on the ledge. Over.”

Built on a slight bluff, the entrance to the Trails, as it was sometimes called, did seem precarious, especially as the driveway cut a serpentine path through the terraced ground, which, after four hairpin turns, spilled onto Highway 259. Highway 259—or 59 as it was known farther south—was frequently used as a reliable alternate route for drug traffickers using Houston as a hub.

The gatehouse was built of the same stone as the semicircular walls that flanked it. On each side, the walls bore the distinct three-foot-high brass nameplates of the beautifully designed community.

When weather conditions grew treacherous, those on duty were instructed to dive into the deepest corner of the booth, tuck under the built-in desks and cover up with a blanket from the first aid closet for protection from breaking glass and other flying debris. However, Campbell was one of the few people in Tornado Alley who didn’t live in fear of them. She had her own particular dread.

“I’m about to retreat into my hole,” she told him. “But I’ll sit this out better if I know you aren’t parked under some ancient old tree or playing Good Samaritan by chasing hyper pets at the risk of your own safety. Over.”

“No way I can do that—not with the arthritis this storm is aggravating. You know where to find me, then. I’ll holler as soon as the worst is past.” The radio cracked as another flash streaked across the sky. “Now, get off this thing. Over’n out.”

Reassured about her partner, Campbell headed for the first aid closet to get a blanket, but paused again at the sound of an engine. It was coming from inside the development. They didn’t monitor exiting traffic—guests could leave at will. Should it be a resident with a medical emergency, they were to call here for assistance. But with so many senior citizens in residence there were always extenuating circumstances.

Driven by concern, Campbell stepped outside to a sky opening to a torrential rain. A barrage of icy droplets pricked her face, and clear vision was impossible, but she knew the approaching car was a compact and that it was traveling fast. It was almost upon her.

Her memory was working better than her vision, and she reached a hand out into the driveway. She knew of several elderly residents who drove this type of vehicle and it concerned her to think of one in particular venturing out in these conditions. Yet, no sooner did she step down onto the asphalt than she realized the driver didn’t intend to slow down; worse yet, she heard the car accelerate.

It was going too fast to miss her. Far too fast to make the necessary ninety-degree left turn onto the road.

Campbell flung herself backward. Although she struck hard against the booth’s rough stone exterior, she kept her eyes open and focused her attention to try to catch a closer look at the maniac speeding by.

The car was a Grand Am. The driver was—

“Maida?” Campbell gasped. “Maida, stop!”

Ignoring the pain in her back, Campbell launched herself after the car. Brakes squealed and the rear end swung wildly through that first impossible turn. She got close enough to slam her hand on the trunk, but either Maida Livingstone didn’t hear that or the sound had the opposite effect and frightened her.

After several stumbling strides, she gave up and stared in horror as the car accelerated again. The elderly widow was racing toward the next hairpin turn.

“No!” she yelled. Convinced her friend had gone mad, she ran after her, frantically waving her arms. “Mai—”

A deafening crack and a flash of blue-white light to her left locked the cry in her throat. Simultaneously, some instinct ordered, “Drop!” But with a demon’s speed, lightening shot through a pine.

Determined and merciless, the skeletal finger gripped her hand. Robbed of her remaining strength and control, of her very breath, Campbell collapsed onto the flooding road.

The devilish light vanished, leaving punishing rain…and the depressing image of the Grand Am reaching the main highway.

2

Southeast Longview Texas

1:02 a.m.

While driving north on Highway 259, lightning struck close, close enough for Jackson Blade to turn his head away. If he hadn’t, he might have missed the white car parked to his right at the back of the darkened restaurant.

Even though the deadly bolt went to ground as close as a block away, he instantly lost interest in the storm. He squinted through the rain-splattered passenger window of his El Camino for a better view of the compact car, with its front end almost kissing the Dumpster, but he saw something that had him braking fully and lowering the passenger window.

The vehicle was a Grand Am and it was blocked from behind by two patrol cars. Driving rain and activity made it impossible to see whoever was in the front seat, but his experience told him this wasn’t a routine license check or a Lovers’ Lane scare.

He turned the vintage Chevy into the next driveway. The sloped ingress led him up to a house-turned-office where he quickly inspected the privacy fence running between the properties. There would be no easy view from this vantage point, but there were several breaks in the fence. If he was willing to risk getting struck by lightning, and ruining his signature leather jacket, he might be able to answer some nagging questions without being spotted.

Pushing aside his disgust at having lost the vehicle he’d been following through the city, Blade parked and made his way to the closest set of broken slats. What he saw chilled him as much as the rain sluicing under the neckline of his clothes.

Whether the car below was the one belonging to the person he’d been keeping an eye on these last weeks or not, there was serious trouble below, serious enough for the EMTs to have arrived at the scene. One medic hurried up front to the driver. In the break between moving bodies, Blade saw blond hair, enough of it to determine the victim was female. His concern deepened.

Right model car…the hair matched, too.

Accepting that he needed to get down there if he was to get answers, he eased through a wider section of broken fence and leaped off the slick grass and red clay to the asphalt. He lingered in that crouched position in the deeper shadows provided by the storage shed, hoping to recognize one of the cops. It would be less problematic—not to mention dangerous—to have a semifriendly present. Then a third patrol car pulled in behind the others.

Damn, Jackson thought. His identity was about to be compromised beyond what he was willing to risk. Whatever he could learn here wouldn’t offset the dangers of being seen by someone he didn’t know—or didn’t trust. But as he started to retreat, one of the officers spotted him.

Blade almost swore out loud. She would have to be one of the rookies.

“You—freeze! Up slowly. Show me your hands.”

Tight-lipped, he did as directed. The pounding rain had him shrinking deeper into his jacket and muted the intentional heel-dragging of his well-worn Tony Lama boots. He knew what he looked like under normal conditions, and the weather and harsh light only made that worse, especially to an inexperienced cop. If he couldn’t get away, he wanted to attract the attention of her partner. In the meantime, he hoped the rookie didn’t panic.

“Hands!”

To his relief the female officer’s second warning caught the attention of someone else. Though Blade’s primary focus stayed on her and the .9 mm she gripped between her hands, he risked a glance toward the middle-aged man, who’d been slipping on his rain gear.

“You going to just stand there with your mouth open and let her shoot me, Parsons?” he drawled to the squinting cop.

As he peered at him, Phil Parson’s expression turned into a sneer. “I should,” he finally replied. “Might get a citation for enforcing the mayor’s ‘clean up the city’ program.”

“Your daughter seems to like what she sees.” Blade allowed a benign smile. Inside, however, he seethed. The asshole knew dressing like an assistant D.A. or rookie FBI agent could get him killed. Maybe his reply was a low blow and an outright lie—he only knew Parson’s daughter from the photo he’d seen on Phil’s locker door—but if the cop wanted to trade insults, Blade would have the last word. His work, his survival depended on it.

Not surprisingly, veins protruded at each side of the older cop’s eyes, spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. “Fuck you, Blade. My girl hasn’t been within miles of you. As soon as we got her out of that—that joint and into rehab, she became her old self again. She’s off of everything and I’ll kick any SOB who says otherwise.”

“Relax. I heard she’s one of the lucky ones.”

The cop’s cheeks puffed as he collected himself. He cast his confused partner a quick look as though wishing he could somehow retract his outburst from her memory. “Damn fool,” he grumbled at Blade. “What did you say that for, then?”

“Wanted your attention. I’m in a hurry.”

“You got it.”

Blade nodded at the car behind the two officers. “What’s wrong with her?” At this point he could definitely tell the driver was female and that she was lying back against the headrest.

Ignoring his partner’s continued stare, the broad-faced man shook his head. “Belly shot. And I suspect you know she’s small.”

“If she’s who I think she is,” Blade replied.

“Doesn’t look good. The EMTs just said they can’t risk waiting to stabilize her here.”

The technicians were, in fact, already removing her from the vehicle and making quick work of loading her into the ambulance. Although he’d seen scenes like this many times—too many—Blade kept his face blank, his tone flat. “Has she said anything?”

“Nah. Nothing sensible, anyway.”

“Come on, Phil, before I have to worry about a bullet in the back as well as the front.”

“Just what is going on here?” the female officer demanded.

Another close flash of lightning, followed by a loud peal of thunder, had Sergeant Parsons cringing. In the next moment, he snapped, “Put that thing away before somebody gets hurt.” To Blade he said, “It sounded like she mumbled something, but it could have been a moan. So what’s up with her? She something to you? We haven’t spotted a purse yet. Our check on the plates identifies the owner as Raymond Holms. Car could be stolen for all we know.”

Blade nodded, though he didn’t offer what he knew about the matter. He simply replied, “I’ve just seen her here and there.”

“And?”

New sirens were sounding in the north. He couldn’t tell if they were heading this way, but it was a good bet. “Who called this in?”

The female officer stepped forward. “I did. We were at the traffic light and I saw a dog sniffing around the car. The dog was on its hind legs and leaning into the window. I guess he smelled the blood. I’m Cathy Miles. I just started this week.” She took a step forward as though about to extend her hand.

“Give him your phone number while you’re at it,” Parsons muttered.

The rookie’s tentative smile vanished. “I—I’ll go see if they need—” Swallowing hard, she beat a fast retreat.

“Smooth,” Blade murmured.

Parsons waved away the criticism. “Hey. I’m sick of being given all the females to train. I feel like some kind of one-man feminist nursery school.”

“Ever think it’s because somebody thinks you’re a good teacher, or are you determined to be pissed because she’s cute and you can’t do anything about it?” Having seen and heard enough, Blade was ready to retreat himself. “Who’re they sending to take the case?”

“Snow.”

Always tenacious, Detective Gordon Snow took his time. Everyone else’s, too, but Blade would vote for the Snowman’s brand of caution any day. “I’m going to the hospital.”

“I’ll let him know that’s where he can find you.”

“Uh-uh. You forget I was here.” Blade pointed a finger over his shoulder. “Make that clear to your partner, too—and that if our paths cross again she never uses my name if anyone else is around. If there’s something Snow needs to hear, I’ll make sure he gets the information. You know how I operate, Phil.”

Despite the initial tension between them, he suspected Phil Parsons would oblige. The guy was a good cop, even if he was an old-school redneck when it came to women. Parsons would remember that Blade’s role in the world of night wolves required extreme caution.

The storm was moving east and Blade made it to Good Shepherd Medical Center in five minutes. Parking his two-tone gray 1982 El Camino between two larger trucks, as far away from the tall security lights as possible, he sprinted to catch up with the ambulance. He could see the EMTs wheeling the victim through the automatic glass doors of Emergency.

Only an arm’s reach from the entry himself, he collided with another person. He heard a surprised, pained gasp, and then a woman fell hard onto the concrete, immediately curling into a tight fetal position. Blade’s religious workouts kept him extremely fit, but she wasn’t exactly Tinkerbell. When they’d collided they’d been shoulder to shoulder, and while she was slim, his impression of her was of toned muscle, too.

A split second later it registered with him that she wore a uniform. He squinted in the harsh light to read the patch on her sleeve. Cody Security. His lips twisted. Just what he needed—appeasing a wannabe.

Impatient to get inside, Blade extended his hand. “Come on, I’ll help you up.” Meanwhile, his attention had returned to the EMTs. He wanted to make sure he knew where they were going.

“Back off.”

The harsh warning, accompanied by a sting as his hand was slapped away, jerked his attention back to the security guard. She might be a mess—as soaked as he was and blue from the cold—but she had a great head of hair. No amount of rain could diminish the toffee-gold in that long plait. His gaze lingered for a second too long.

“Are you deaf?” she demanded.

Once again Blade found it necessary to raise his hands. “I only want to know if you need some help from inside?”

Instead of answering, she rolled to her knees and struggled to her feet. It was as clear as a traffic signal for him.

“Good girl. So watch it in the future, okay?” Leaving her to her injured pride or whatever, he resumed his race inside.

The waiting room and hallways of Emergency were flooded with people tonight, and it was only Tuesday. Most of the dazed souls he passed appeared to have been dragged out of bed. The rest looked in dire need of one.

Blade didn’t have to worry about getting by the reception desk. The clerk had all the work she could handle dealing with people looking for information about loved ones. He passed through another set of glass doors and strode by the nurses’ station, relying on what always worked for him—confidence. But his step faltered moments later.

The EMTs were already leaving the second triage unit. He didn’t like the look of it. When he saw their expressions, his first question was “Did she ever say anything?”

The older of the haggard-faced men glanced his way, but appeared intent on continuing past him. Blade took no offense. It had been a grueling forty-eight hours, and his usual five o’clock shadow was beyond disreputable. There wasn’t much he could do about genetics—in his work his swarthy coloring usually proved an asset—nor could he help his bad timing. He needed answers. Determined to get them, he quickly blocked the men’s path and stuck his ID in their faces.

The technician closest to him blinked a few times. “Ah. Okay…no. She never said a word. She was already flat-lining in transit. They were never able to bring her back.”

Blade made the badge disappear as quickly as he’d flashed it. “Thanks.”

“That it?” The technician looked unsure that the questions were over.

“Unless you know who killed her?”

“Somebody as lost as she was.”

He had that right. Blade wasn’t surprised at the guy’s reaction—people in emergency care tended to see the same view of the world that he did.

“If only we’d been able to get to her a few minutes sooner,” the man continued.

Blade frowned. “I thought the wound was such that she wouldn’t have pulled through?”

“But I think we might have briefly revived her. Maybe long enough to get some kind of statement. It’s not in the job description, but we know it’s part of what’s asked of us. Somebody took a helluva risk leaving her in that condition.”

The two men moved on, leaving Blade to consider that bit of speculation. It took the reproachful stares of passing hospital personnel to remind him that this was nowhere to do his thinking, and he followed the men out.

Beyond the Emergency doors, he was held up by a group who had just received similar news to his. He shut his mind to the sobs, his eyes to the anguish, and stepped around them. Directly ahead was Ms. Cody Security in intense dialogue with a nurse.

“Sorry, ma’am,” the harried nurse said. “Maybe they did just bring her in, but I don’t have paperwork on any shooting victim.”

The EMT who’d spoken to Blade paused on his way out and backtracked. “You know the kid who was shot?” he asked the security guard.

Bewilderment had her smoke-gray eyes appearing all the larger. Under different circumstances Blade would have been tempted, wanting to linger and find out her name. It was her fierce grip on her upper left arm that snapped him back to attention. Could he be responsible for that? Her jacket was flight-style like his, only canvas. It would have offered no protection whatsoever when she fell down.

“Kid…?” She shook her head in slow motion as though caught up in some dream. “No. The woman in the white Pontiac. A Grand Am. She’s seventy-nine. Five-two…though she insists it’s still five-three. She wears a platinum blond wig.”

“Right car, close hair, wrong driver,” the EMT said. “Our passenger was an eighteen-year-old girl.” He glanced at his partner. “What was the name Phil gave us?”

“Holms. Well…maybe.”

Blade watched the woman frown in confusion and barely heard her murmur, “I guess I made a mistake.”

The EMT shrugged. “Good luck.” He and his partner moved on.

The nurse looked ready to escape, too. Blade stepped closer and said to her, “Maybe you’d better get the lady some help. I think her arm—”

“It’s nothing,” the guard interjected, staring at something light years beyond his left shoulder. But when she did focus on him she physically recoiled, as though backing from the deepest of black holes, bringing her up hard against the admittance desk. “Son of a—” While she checked the curse in time, she directed all of her pain at Blade. “Will you please get lost? It was just a little lightning, okay?”

3

Maple Trails

5:45 a.m.

But nothing was okay, and as dawn approached, Campbell had new symptoms to apply to her definition of sick-of-mind and sick-at-heart. Being on the phone again with her father wasn’t doing much to help that.

“No, there’s still no word on Maida,” she told Yancy. “I’m ready to notify the sheriff.” Since they were located just beyond the city limits, the property fell under the jurisdiction of the Gregg County Sheriff’s Department rather than the Longview Police.

“Give her another hour,” Yancy replied. “I know you two have grown particularly close in the last year, but she still has a right to her privacy.”

Campbell switched from rubbing her arm to massaging the intensified throbbing building in the middle of her forehead. “I know, I know. You warned me of this very possibility, of not keeping some professional distance, and whether you believe it or not, I have. But you weren’t the one to witness what happened.”

“I wish it had been me there last night. Then you wouldn’t be hurting now.” Yancy sighed. “Look, you’ve been to the hospital and we’ve both listened to the police scanner throughout the night. There’s been nothing to indicate she’s had an accident, so why not give her family time to wake calmly. I’m still betting she’s over at their place, but even if she’s not, it’s not fair to upset them before we can say with certainty there’s a legitimate problem.”

He was as resistant to what she’d told him about Maida’s deteriorating relationship with her only son and his family as he was to the reason for the woman’s strange departure. Earlier, he’d suggested the sirens going off around town warning of a tornado in the area was what had scared Maida out of her home. That could be, but Campbell wasn’t convinced—and he’d pushed her close to the end of her patience. She wanted answers.

“If you knew a twister was headed here, wouldn’t you call me to make sure I was secure?” Yancy asked. “And wouldn’t you check with me directly afterward to see if I needed anything?”

“Stop with the fairy tales—we aren’t a good example for any of this. What’s more, Maida thinks her daughter-in-law Patsy is more attracted to Dwayne’s pension fund than she is to Dwayne and she’s disgusted that he can’t see that. This is a dysfunctional iceberg, Dad.” Campbell paused as she saw a familiar bronze compact pull in. “Kelsey is here. Have you updated her about this?”

“No. I thought you’d prefer to do that. I didn’t want to risk getting any facts wrong or anything.”

Campbell couldn’t completely repress her annoyance. It wasn’t facts he was concerned about. After all, she’d been careful to be explicit as she detailed information to him. He was, she suspected, continuing to believe she was overreacting. Now she had to update Kels without putting Yancy in a bad light, because a junior partner didn’t challenge the senior one in front of staff, no matter how badly he had stumbled.

“Fine,” she replied. “Just FYI…I’m leaving a set of the notes I made, so all staff will have firsthand data to work from.”

“I’d like to see them first.”

“You’ve heard me over the phone. There are no surprises. Everyone needs to be on the same page—and fast,” she added.

“You’ll bring the original for me to review?” he asked, the command clear.

“After I go over and recheck Dogwood Lane.”

“You said Ike’s been there twice since the storm. Both times he’s reported the same thing—the garage is empty. Besides, you’d have been the first person to see her if she came back,” Yancy said.

“That doesn’t mean there isn’t something of value to note, something that might give us a clue as to what sent her charging out of here. It was dark the last time he checked around the house.”

“It still will be for a while yet. Dyle or Travis should be driving up at any second. Have one of them inspect the house as soon as they check in.”

“They’ll have plenty to do closing off areas around the marina that suffered wind damage, and then checking the vacant homes on the east rim of the lake, which Ike says appears to have taken the brunt of the storm. Besides, one of Maida’s neighbors might be outside inspecting their property. You know they’re more likely to talk to me about her than anyone else.”

“Yeah, but you’re hurting,” her father said again. “Kelsey may not hear it in your voice, but I do. Let Ike go as soon as the others relieve him. You can tell him particular places to check.”

What was draining her faster was convincing her father that she knew how to do her job. “The guys are already on the clock and Ike left the premises five minutes ago. He’s beat, too, Yancy. In any case, I have to stick around. No one has arrived at the administration office yet, and you know they aren’t likely to before 7:30.”

“You can’t sit there half the morning waiting on them. Besides, you and I need to talk first.”

“Administration deserves to know something could be wrong.”

“Damn, Belle, what are you trying to do, send me back to the hospital? Slow down. Maida Livingstone is downright obdurate about people invading her privacy.”

“I’ve had nothing but time to sit here contemplating worse-case scenarios. We don’t want Bryce Tyndell undermining us with the Residents’ Committee and suggesting that we kept things secret due to misconduct or neglect.”

“That tight-collared prick would do it, too,” Yancy muttered. “How he’s managed to keep his job as operations manager for this long, I don’t know.”

Campbell could visualize Yancy’s sun-bronzed face hardening into a craggy mask. Bryce remained a chink in Cody’s well-oiled machine and she saw no sense in rehashing what wasn’t going to change, at least not today.

With her characteristic burst of energy, Kelsey Mc-Graw swept into the small building swinging her knapsack routinely full of bottled water and assorted veggie or fruit munchies. During her last physical, the ex-lifeguard, former Miss Galveston had learned she was borderline diabetic and had announced she wasn’t succumbing to pills or injections.

This morning her focus was all on Campbell. One look at Campbell’s coloring and overall condition and she demanded, “What’s wrong?”

“Hear that?” Campbell said into the phone. “Kels just walked in. I’ll see you as soon as I’m through.”

“All right. But under no circumstances do you use your key over at the house, understood? I don’t care what understanding you have with Maida. You don’t have it in writing, you protect your—our asses.”

She rolled her eyes as she caught Kelsey’s questioning glance. “I know the drill. Unless we spot Maida through a window bleeding or otherwise in distress, we need authorized personnel—namely Bryce Tyndell or a member of the Gregg County Sheriff’s Department—to give us permission to enter her residence.”

As soon as Campbell hung up, Kelsey stopped putting away her supplies and faced her. “What’s up with Maida that has you and Boss One all tied in knots?”

Campbell took a moment to get her breathing back under control. One of the problems she was experiencing as a result of the lightning strike was muscle and nerve pain. The more agitated she became, the worse the throbbing became down her left side.

“She went off in a crazed rush during the storm last night.”

“Madam Livingstone on Dogwood, who’s been warned how many times about speeding on the grounds?”

“The very one. The same person who happens to hate driving in the rain so much so that she’ll cancel an appointment. It’s her cataracts.”

“Apparently they weren’t bothering her last night.” Blue eyes that usually twinkled with goodwill darkened with concern. “This is for real? It didn’t start raining until almost midnight.”

“And she has yet to return,” Campbell added.

“Huh.” Kelsey stashed her satchel and purse in the file cabinet she used as a locker. “Was she alone?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe not for long,” the model-thin blonde said.

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe she decided to ride out the storm with a gentleman friend.”

Even miserable, Campbell appreciated the idea. “No one would be happier than me if she was rushing to meet some pill-invigorated dish.”

Another wave of gnawing pain struck Campbell, all but stealing her breath. She quickly reached for three more Tylenol, downing them with what was left of her bottled water. One more dose remained in the container and she doubted it would help any more than the others had. Her next choice would be Scotch—at Yancy’s where she could crash in the spare bedroom. This would be her smartest move if she wanted to avoid being targeted by cops with long memories and deeper prejudice. She spent far too much time keeping the past from crushing her, and now those memories compounded her physical condition and sent her into another spasm of pain.

She doubled over at the waist. It didn’t fool Kelsey, who dropped to her knees to peer at her.

“Campbell? Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I told you. It was a rough night.”

“Got it, Ms. Understatement. Tell me the rest…did Maida clip you with a fender or something as she left? What?”

Campbell thought of what the internist told her. “It would have been better long-term, if she had.”

Those intelligent blue eyes under the curtain of shaggy, genuine blond bangs exhibited some fast calculations. “Long term…oh, hell. You were struck again, weren’t you? Why aren’t you at the hospital? You need X rays, an MRI.”

Aside from being a health nut, twenty-seven-year-old Kels was a quick study. These days, Campbell rated her memory better than her own. Kelsey had also been present during Campbell’s last close encounter with lightning.

“I’ve seen a doctor,” she told her. “Don’t give me that look.”

“Why not? You leaving your post?”

“So I went to Good Shepherd for more than one reason.”

Kelsey narrowed her eyes. “There was a shooting. I was listening on my radio. The victim was just a kid. Wait…you thought it could have been Maida?”

“All I heard was that a white Grand Am was involved. There was no question in my mind but to rush to the hospital to find out more.”

“Stacie,” Kelsey said, thinking out loud. “Stacie…”

“Holms.”

“It drives me nuts to think of kids driving around in that kind of weather, never mind at such an hour.” It was then that Kelsey focused on the tear in Campbell’s slacks. “That bolt really flattened you. It didn’t happen in here on the linoleum, did it?”

“No, and not outside. Well, not here. Some creepy biker dude knocked me over outside Emergency.”

Kelsey looked practically starstruck. “You were run over by a Harley after being struck by lightning?”

“No.” Campbell rocked until she didn’t feel the need to scream. “He just looked the part—I didn’t see any bike. I don’t know who he was other than someone in a hurry.”

Looking somewhat disappointed, Kelsey inspected her from head to foot. “Tell me straight, how bad was the jolt this time?”

How bad…? She thought of the movie Six Degrees of Separation, of astronauts at NASA struggling against Gs…all the comparative situations Campbell’s tired mind could rattle to the surface. “You might say I shook hands with the devil,” she said, massaging the worst area.

Kelsey rose. “This is nuts. Can we shift someone around and I’ll do your running for you so you can rest? I know you’re off tonight, but—”

Catching on, Campbell put a quick stop to the idea. “If we fiddle with that schedule one more time, none of us will know who’s on deck when or where. Not to worry. I’d as soon stay busy. Lying there trying to sleep would turn me into an AA candidate.”

Looking as if she wanted to press the issue, Kelsey refocused on the clipboard containing the list of those who had entered the park in the last twenty-four hours, and any notes about unusual conduct. She opened her mouth to speak.

“Maida’s odd departure isn’t listed there because I just didn’t have time last night to include it. My priority was to make the most accurate notes I could in case we need to call in reinforcements,” Campbell said, to get the jump on Kelsey’s next question. The idea of needing the next level of law enforcement made her stomach roll; nevertheless, she calmly indicated the other pad on the desk. “Do me a favor. After you go through the list, add an abbreviated version in the log.” A copy of it would be forwarded to Administration and the other copy would be filed at Cody Security.

“Will do.” Kelsey studied the detailed notes. “How strange…maybe she had a bad reaction to medication.”

“The way she was driving, I could believe it. But then why hasn’t anyone found her?” Campbell collected her things, including her two-way radio that would be dropped off at the office for recharging. “Don’t hesitated to holler if you hear or see anything while I’m up the road.”

“Do you want me to feel out her buddies if they happen to pass by?”

The residents of Maple Trails were guaranteed their privacy, and it was a rule that kept echoing in Campbell’s mind. “Only if they pause while exiting and bring her up first. We don’t want to start a panic, especially when we don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

“True. Okay.”

Kelsey’s gaze dropped momentarily to the gun on Campbell’s hip. Kels was about to take her second-grade qualifications and wouldn’t be eligible to carry a weapon for a while yet. She had recently voiced doubts about wanting to go that far in this field, and the mystery behind Maida’s whereabouts brought the reality of the job into a clearer perspective than ever.

“Be careful.”

With a nod, Campbell headed for Maida’s residence. It didn’t offend her that Kelsey had exposed a hint of reserve or doubt about her as much as the job. They’d only known each other for a year, and she knew true trust took far longer. Besides, rumors remained fluid throughout the grapevine about her much-publicized resignation from the Longview Police Department.

The Jeep’s heater had just begun to thaw her aching body by the time Campbell made it up Dogwood Lane. Parking in front of the ranch-style dwelling, she thought again how much it resembled a smaller version of Cody headquarters, Yancy’s own home. This creamy white-brick rendition was more elegant though, comparable to anything in Dallas’s Highland Park or Houston’s River Oaks. Most of the credit had to go to Maida. Despite her age and the number of trees on the lot, she kept the lawn meticulous, the flower beds free of weeds and debris. She loved puttering in the yard, even through the cold snaps during winter. But this morning a large branch from her favorite pink dogwood dangled like a broken arm. On the lawn lay the culprit—a heftier limb from a towering black oak. It would break Maida’s heart to see such loss.

Strolling up the curved sidewalk, Campbell picked up the newspaper, setting it on the iron-and-redwood bench at the front door. If the Jeremys or the Smarts were watching from their living-room windows across the street, they would observe typical behavior, since she often stopped by Maida’s for a cup of coffee at the end of a shift. But once she glanced around, she concluded that she was the only person up and about this morning, for every house she could see had plastic-wrapped newspapers lying untouched in the yards.

Relieved, she made her way to the back of the house, testing locks and peering into the windows of the garage door to make sure she was also correct about the Pontiac being gone. The rear patio doors had sheers covering them, but the heavier drapes were wide open. That struck her as unusual.

Typical of many in her generation, Maida was always concerned with discretion and safety. “Be paranoid and live another day,” she’d declare in her musical voice, a finger wagging at whomever she felt needed a warning. Why hadn’t Maida closed the drapes last night? Had she been watching the storm from here before rushing from the house? Not likely. The storm had approached from the northwest, which was her front yard.

Glancing down, Campbell saw the shortened broomstick that was lodged in the aluminum track of the sliding glass door—Maida’s economical version of a dead bolt. The woman could spend thousands on a couch no one would ever sit on, but if a piece of wood could offset the expense of a computerized alarm system, she would rush to the discount store and buy out their stock of cheap brooms.

Cupping her hands beside her eyes, Campbell peered inside. No lights had been left on, and overcast skies were slowing dawn. For once, she wished Maida had a dog or cat: a curious, devoted pet that would move the damn sheers so she could get a better view.

With a sigh, she cast a frustrated glance up and down the alley. In keeping with the neighbors’ landscaping decisions, Maida had opted not to close in her yard. That was all right, since she didn’t have to worry about a pet disturbing the neighbors. Also, the Trails’s privacy fence on the far side of the alley blocked intrusion and noise from the farm-to-market road beyond. But it did feel rather bare and lonely this winter day. More leaves and branches littered the alley, but there was no real damage…

Her gaze fell on Liz Junior.

Maida had won the life-size black ceramic cat with violet eyes—à la namesake Elizabeth Taylor—in a bingo game at the recreation center along with its purple ceramic ottoman. It sat at the corner of the patio…or it had. The wind must have knocked the gaudy, but amusing, figurine onto the concrete.

“Now who’s going to help her do the newspaper crossword puzzles?” she murmured to the beheaded figurine.

Wondering what else was going to go wrong today, Campbell reached for her radio and returned to her vehicle.

4

6:27 a.m.

Finding that the Maple Trials administration office was still locked, Campbell continued on to Cody headquarters. This time she beat receptionist-dispatcher Beth Greer, and punched the entry code on the keyboard lock to gain access inside. She found Yancy in the kitchen pouring himself a mug of coffee.

“You want one of these or something stronger?” he asked.

He didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder, but Campbell refused to be impressed, guessing he’d spotted her arrival on one of the outside cameras. Or maybe he’d called Kelsey after she’d left the Trails. What she cared about was whether he’d taken his medicine—and the vitamins she’d bought for him.

She went straight to the refrigerator and helped herself to a Diet Pepsi.

“Poison.”

As he muttered, Yancy lifted and dropped her braid as though it was a door knocker and continued by. It was the only gesture of physical affection she would get from him for a while, a sign of how concerned and upset he’d been over her experiences last night.

“Be glad it’s not chardonnay,” she replied with equal crustiness. But Campbell’s lips twitched as she followed him. For all his insight into what made people tick, he was a big, clumsy lug when it came to personal relationships.

At six-three, and with his steel-gray hair cut in the renowned marine burr, he continued to resemble the toughie she’d always called him, although he was a good twenty-five pounds lighter since the prostate surgery he’d recently undergone. The white shirt and jeans that had become his uniform since establishing Cody Security were still too loose, but he never stopped trying to fool people that he’d gotten back all of his robust energy and gung-ho personality.

Following him into his office, she watched him ease himself into the black leather chair behind the desk. Behind him, on the wall, were credentials and citations. Campbell knew if he’d had his way, Yancy would have boxed them away years ago. She’d been the one to insist that clients would be impressed and reassured by them—proof of his training and skills. She suspected they meant more to him now than ever as he struggled to regain his stride.

Taking a sip of his coffee, he set it on the coaster. “I haven’t seen you looking this wiped out since—”

“I know.” Campbell hoped to cut short any lecture he’d been planning.

“Hurts worse than you’ll admit.”

Yancy’s conversational approach was to state conclusions like a twenty-dollar fortune-teller. It used to drive Campbell nuts, until she realized he took no pleasure in anyone’s pain or defeat, he simply believed in shorthand and shortcuts whenever possible.

“When you start fessing up, I will too.”

His grunt could have been a chuckle and he indicated his pen and pencil holder. “Well, your mother said you got your stubbornness from me. Feel free to bite down on one of my freshly sharpened No.2s if it gets so bad your teeth start to itch. In the meantime, tell me more about what you think is going on.”

“I’m done guessing. I’m going to dig up more answers.” Too weary to simply stand and in too much pain to sit without rocking, she wandered around his office.

“Maida has to be at her son’s house, that’s all there is to it. Her family would have screamed bloody murder until they had squad cars lined up at the gatehouse if she hadn’t arrived.”

“If they knew she was coming.”

That possibility had Campbell’s mouth going dry again, and she took a deep drink of her soda. “The only way we can determine whether they did or didn’t—or if she even spoke to them—is to go inside the house and check her answering machine.”

“Forget it. If we get to where that becomes our only choice, we call the sheriff and hand things over to his department. I mean it, Belle. You know Tyndell won’t let us into the house under these vague conditions—and he’s our only option if we don’t contact the sheriff.”

His expression reflected her feelings about having to call in the local authorities. “Fine, then I’m ready,” Campbell said. “But let me pay the family a courtesy call. Regardless of his neglect, and Patsy’s resentment of her mother-in-law, Dwayne eventually does what needs to be done.”

“Because his mother is going to leave him more comfortable than he probably is.”

Far more than he deserves to be, Campbell thought, rubbing her thumb over the condensation on the soda can. “We need him working with us not against us, especially since the procedure for filing missing persons reports has been upgraded. With the National Crime Information Center program at officers’ fingertips, it takes nothing for police departments to research a subject on their computers. The only people who will get criticized now are those who delay reporting a missing person in the first place.” This was basically the same technology that was allowing the Amber Alert to go national.

“One big problem,” Yancy said. “Maida wouldn’t qualify for priority listing. She might be over seventy, but she’s fully cognizant and no real threat to herself or anyone else.”

Campbell signaled for his patience. “I have to confide something she hasn’t told anyone yet. There’s a health wrinkle aside from the cataracts.”

Yancy didn’t hesitate. “Alzheimer’s?”

“Osteoporosis. Advancing fast.”

“How would that influence a situation like this?”

“She wants to live in her own home as long as possible.” Campbell knew she had to confide more. It didn’t matter that this was her father, the head of a company that held privacy and confidences as sacred. She saw it as breaking her word to a friend. “She’s had two episodes of allergic reactions to medication. The first time she simply developed hives around her neck and her eyes swelled shut. The next time she had some trouble breathing.”

“She called you and you didn’t get her to the hospital?”

“She told me afterward. She took Benadryl and used cool packs. They worked.” Campbell stopped pacing to face her father. “I was as upset as you are when she confided this. That’s the point. Maybe she’s had another reaction, a worse one, but was determined not to involve or inconvenience me and tried to get to Emergency on her own. You know how proud some of these people are.”

“You said yourself, she’s not at the hospital.”

“Dad, a favorite figurine is lying broken on her patio. At first I assumed the storm did it. Ike must have thought so, too, because he didn’t mention it when he checked her place for me. She was fond of the silly thing. Call me crazy, but if she watched it break in the storm, or she accidentally broke it while trying to secure something…well that could have had a powerful emotional effect.”

Yancy’s eyes, usually a stormy, cooler gray than her own, warmed, but not with intellectual appreciation. “Belle, listen to yourself. I’m proud of your thoroughness. Just don’t be quick to assume responsibility in any of this. If Maida didn’t take her medication, that was her choice. If she left the premises instead of calling you at the gate to ask for EMS help, again, so be it. What I’d like you to consider is that she confided only as much as she did so you would cut her some slack regarding rules and regulations. Are you sure she’s not involved with some guy?”

Campbell’s initial reaction was indignation. “She’s not a teenager whose brain has logic gaps as wide as the Gulf. In any case, if she was involved with someone, I think he would be on the premises. Maida doesn’t often leave the Trails these days. I’ve told you that, or has your medication affected your memory?”

Yancy snorted and reached for his coffee. “Calm down. I just want to know we’re all on the same page when we hit that big alarm button.”

“Punch it, Dad, because I am alarmed, and I’m trained not to be,” she replied quietly.

“We’ve had a perfect record here providing security to the property—no burglary, no assaults, no murders.”

But they’d had a few stalkings and embezzlements. “As I said before,” Campbell replied, “her family is the type to push litigation if something goes wrong. Maida has said enough about their lifestyle to suggest their debt situation would benefit from a quick cash settlement.”

“Parasites.” As he spoke, Yancy massaged his abdomen. “Well, you’d better get to it, then.”

His growing paleness troubled her. “You’ve had a difficult night yourself, worrying about me on top of the others.”

“I’m just reminded that we need to hire new staff, that’s all.”

But they couldn’t afford to without new clients. Naturally, they couldn’t take on new clients without more employees, and for that they needed some interim financing. Right now, no bank was going to give them a loan until Yancy’s next physical certified a clean bill of health. Adding to their problems were 9/11 regulations to incorporate into their daily procedure—as was the case for everyone in the law enforcement and security business. They’d also lost a small bundle putting two employees on full-time debris search after the Columbia shuttle tragedy.

Campbell moistened her lips, preparing to broach a subject she’d been debating privately. “Have you considered taking on another partner, Dad?”

“I have the one I want, that’s enough.”

His tone left no room for discussion. As touched as she was, Campbell couldn’t help feeling that her father had made the legal changes to the corporation merely as a gesture to keep her psychologically afloat. For her part, she didn’t feel she brought enough to the company to warrant such pride and defense, aside from six years’ experience as a Longview police officer, which had yielded no savings, no legitimate investigative experience—just the academy training.

“Nothing has changed over at LPD that I know of,” she continued. “I’m still a greater liability than an asset to you. If you considered that offer from National—”

“Not today, Belle.”

The nation-wide security firm had approached him just before her resignation from the LPD and his surgery. Even then Yancy declared he would close before surrendering his company to them. But a person could change his perspective.

“Dad, I was pulled over again on Friday. There wasn’t any ticket or anything, but the officer took his damned time, especially after I told him I was on my way to a dental appointment. He just goaded me in the hopes that I’d do something foolish.”

“Bastard. Who was it this time?”

“That’s irrelevant. The point is, I’ll continue to be harassed until I physically make myself scarce, or they get the backbone to do that for me.”

The word “permanently” didn’t need to be spoken.

Yancy slapped his hand down on the desk blotter so hard that his coffee mug almost went flying. “Dammit! You’re moving in here. If you didn’t see the need before—”

“I’m not going to let a handful of ignorant bullies control me.”

“Bullies with badges. Come on, move in. You know this place feels like a museum half the time.”

“Invite Cheralyn to move in with you.” He’d ended his budding relationship with Cheralyn Eastman the same day he’d returned from the clinic with his diagnosis. When the suggestion earned her a glowering look, she countered it with a one-shouldered shrug. “You’re alive. You’re going to be around awhile. Why deny yourself good company?”

“Your love life is off-limits, but you get to give me advice?”

Campbell averted her gaze. “It’s only been a year.”

“Fourteen months, and that’s a lifetime when the guy proves to be a—”

“Dad.” In no shape to go three rounds with the champ, Campbell saluted him with her can of soda. “Message received. I’ll let you know what I learn from Maida’s family.”

5

7:30 a.m.

The Saunders lived in an upscale development, a spare mile northwest of Maple Trails. New roads framed by concrete curbing as white as fresh-squeezed toothpaste stretched around groves of dogwood, live oak and a relatively new planting of native pine. Safe ground for Campbell, since this area was also outside of LPD jurisdiction and private security systems were the fashion.

Locating the correct address, she parked in front of the two-story Tudor, badly designed in gray brick. As she approached the leaded glass and oak front door, she took special note of the teal-colored Ford compact with the battered front end tucked in the upper corner of the driveway. It reminded her of Maida’s concerns about her granddaughter’s poor driving record to date. Right now, though, all she cared about was that the senior Saunderes’s vehicles were still in the two-car garage.

A considerable amount of noise from inside the house reassured her. She rang the front doorbell, waited a good half a minute and rang again.

Suddenly she saw blurred movement beyond the thick glass, then the door swung open and Dwayne Saunders scowled at her. He was dressed in the uniform of an executive—starched white shirt, red tie, soft-leather gray loafers and belted gray slacks that did little to conceal a slight paunch momentarily sucked in. Campbell allowed that he cleaned up well. She was less impressed with his puffy face and unhealthy coloring.

“Yes?” he demanded.

Amazons weren’t his type; she could see it by the stiffness entering his features as he registered her uniform and that they stood eye to eye. In turn she schooled her expression into what she hoped was something less icy than her usual countenance of late. Maybe he remembered her from Maida’s last birthday party—or maybe not, since he’d behaved like a petulant teenager dragged to a family event against his will. She had not forgotten that sullen mouth and close-set eyes.

“Sorry to intrude, Mr. Saunders, but I’m—”

“Yes, yes. I remember.”

“Good. I need to ask you about your mother.”

“What? Why? Is she sick?”

“I hope not, sir. We’re being thorough, nonetheless. Are you aware that she left the estate late last night in a rush and hasn’t returned?”

“My mother? She never drives after dark. She has night blindness.”

Jerk, she thought. He clearly had forgotten about the cataracts. “I witnessed it myself, sir. And although it was quite stormy—”

He shook his head and began shifting, ready to close the door. “It didn’t get bad until late, what…midnight? She would have been asleep for hours. You must be mistaken.”

Campbell softened her tone. “There’s nothing wrong with my vision, Mr. Saunders. Have you been in touch with your mother?”

Before he could answer, a svelte blonde dressed in chilled-peach satin appeared at his side followed by a waft of Organza perfume. “What’s going on, Dwayne? You promised you’d take Debra and Marc to school so I can make my hair appointment. They have to leave. Now.”

“I said I’d do it, Patsy.”

Campbell pretended not to notice the rising notch of tension in his voice. “Hello again, Mrs. Saunders. I’m Campbell Cody with Cody Security. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but we’re concerned about Maida.”

Despite the early hour, the woman looked fresh and fashionable even in a house robe. In contrast, Campbell was never more aware of her appearance—stained and torn uniform and frizzing hair. Whatever mascara and lip gloss she’d put on last night had been bitten off or washed away hours ago. Add to that, she was almost half a foot taller than the woman. No amount of slouching would improve that contrast, so she stood tall and let Maida’s son and daughter-in-law think what they would.

“What’s she done now?” Blue-eyed Patsy sighed.

Campbell was aware of Dwayne momentarily shutting his eyes.

“I swear, that woman should sell that house once and for all before we all go as loopy as she is.”

“She’s missing, Patsy.”

Bristling at the subtle rebuke from her husband, Patsy directed new disdain at Campbell. “Excuse me? How can she be missing in her own house with security all around her? You mean you’ve lost her.”

“She’s not ours to lose.” Campbell had met her type too often to be annoyed. “She is a free citizen, fully cognizant and deserving the respect due to anyone her age. That said, she left the estate under unusual circumstances last night and hasn’t returned. We’re hoping you might know something about the matter.”

“Unbelievable,” Patsy drawled. “In the same breath you insist she’s of sound mind and then have the gall to admit—”

A sudden crash in the kitchen followed by a pained cry had both husband and wife racing into the interior of the house. Since they didn’t slam the door in her face, Campbell followed.

In the middle of the kitchen, amid shattered glass and splattered orange juice, Debra Saunders, Maida’s seventeen-year-old granddaughter, stood staring at the TV. On the screen was Wanda White of KLTV, the Longview-Tyler station, sharing the overnight tragedy regarding the teenage girl found mortally wounded behind a local restaurant.

“EMTs worked valiantly to save the teenager, but Stacie Holms was pronounced dead shortly after arriving at Good Shepherd Medical Center.”

“Stace.” The word was both an anguished whisper and a protest. Then with a wrenching sob, Debra Saunders covered her face with her hands. “Oh, my God. Oh, no…”

Campbell felt for the teen. She couldn’t forget that she herself had crossed paths with the victim last night at Good Shepherd. A girl who, as luck would have it, had driven the same car Maida did. Was there information here that needed to be reported to the investigating team?

“You’re a good friend of Stacie Holms, Debra?” Campbell asked.

Patsy Saunders spun around. “What do you think you’re doing? You need to leave, Ms.—Officer. This is a family moment.”

“Mrs. Saunders, I’ll make this as brief as possible, but I’d like to ask Debra—”

“Get out!” An adamant Patsy pointed with fierce determination to the door.

Knowing she was way out on thin ice jurisdiction-wise, Campbell held up her hands and obeyed, with a veneer of calm that vanished once she was back in the car.

“Dammit!” She struck the steering wheel with the palm of her hand.

She’d had no business trying to quiz the kid. Not only was she overreaching her authority, she was jeopardizing any form of cooperation with the adults. At this point she doubted Dwayne or Patsy would ever talk to her unless it was to press charges for neglect.

6

8:03 a.m.

“Why didn’t you call?”

Back at the offices, Campbell took her father’s annoyance as the minimum penance due. “I thought what I had to report was better said in person.”

Ushering her in, Yancy shut the door to his office, leaving Beth Greer, his efficient though curious young receptionist-dispatcher to wonder. Normally, he had an open-door policy, unless he was interviewing a prospective client, or was on a conference call, or was lying down when it didn’t pay to fib about his weakened state. This didn’t look like one of those.

“So?”

Campbell eyed the TV remote in his hand. “Have you heard anything more from Maple Trails while I was gone?”

“There’s additional damage to the houses down from the marina. Never mind that, what did the Saunders say? Was the daughter there by chance?”

As he spoke, Yancy aimed the remote at the unit behind his desk. When Campbell saw the screen go blue and read Video, she understood. He’d seen the news, too.

“Debra, yes. She was watching TV in the kitchen. She took the news hard.”

“Figures. There may be about twenty-five hundred students at the high school this year, but I reckon, by the time they’re seniors, the kids all have a good idea who everyone else is in the class.”

Campbell wondered if his instincts had meandered down the same path as hers. “I tried to find out how well Debra knew the Holms girl after questioning her parents about Maida, but Patsy turned alpha female. Sorry. It would have been helpful for us to have something to offer the authorities if we need to ask them to bump up a search for Maida.”

Yancy signaled his agreement of that with a slight shift of his thick eyebrows. “What did her loving son have to say about his mother’s whereabouts?”

“He doesn’t have a clue. That is, he says he hasn’t a clue. The commotion with Debra prevented me from probing his memory a little further.”

“So, for the moment, Maida has been forgotten? Maybe conveniently?”

The VCR tape momentarily captured her attention. Campbell knew what was coming. Even so, she experienced a pang at the sight of the crime scene, the white Grand Am behind the news anchor. “That’s it. That’s the 911 I heard on the scanner last night. Look at the car—see what I mean? That’s why I let you and Ike talk me into going to the hospital. When I heard that the victim was being rushed to Emergency, I wanted to check on her myself. Don’t ask me why I didn’t listen for a better ID to make sure it was Maida.”

“It’s definitely one of those freak situations. Sorry as I am for the kid, I can’t help feeling this is buying us time.”

Campbell understood. This brought them back to Dwayne. But before she could say anything, the intercom buzzed.

Yancy stopped the VCR and hit the TV’s mute button before reaching across his desk. “Yes, Beth?” he said into the machine.

“State police on line one, sir.”

Yancy grabbed the receiver. “Dolan—good of you to get back to me so fast.”

Exhausted in too many ways to count, Campbell was slow to figure out who Yancy was talking to. Wondering what he was up to, she watched his narrow-eyed stare as he looked beyond the miniblinds out to the street. As a state trooper, Yancy had cut a distinguished figure in his uniform, intimidating enough for most of her friends to give their old home a wide berth—a reaction he encouraged, since there were a number of pranksters in her circle.

“Okay, thanks. I’d appreciate that, Dolan. We’ll get it faxed to you as soon as I get the additional information confirmed.”

The moment he hung up, Campbell was already leaning across the desk. “You called Captain Wheat?”

“Didn’t think it could do us any harm. He always said he owed me for finding his boy’s Harley before that chop shop spread the parts across the country. He checked on overnight activity in our area. Says so far there are no reports of anyone matching Maida’s description, and no one’s called in to check on anything bearing her car’s plates. I guess you could call that good news.”

To a point. They could be reasonably sure she hadn’t had an accident or been stopped for reckless driving or speeding. But that left plenty of other possibilities.

“At least we can delay talking to Tyndell.”

Campbell couldn’t believe Yancy was suggesting that. “How do you figure? Patsy may stay preoccupied with their daughter’s emotional state, but I’d be surprised if Dwayne hasn’t already gone back to wondering about my visit. I’ll bet there’s already a call from him on Maida’s answering machine, and another on the main office’s switchboard.”

“He’ll wait, thinking she might be in the shower, and try again.”

“Listen to me. He may not be the son Maida hoped for, but he knows what she expects from her chief beneficiary. I’m the one who’s going to shower and change. Then I’m going back to the Trails and track down Bryce. I’d rather suffer his company than watch him in a TV press conference with Dwayne.”

“Well, while you’re burning all cylinders, start making a list of Maida’s friends and the places you know she frequented when she did leave Maple Trails. If it turns out that we do have to make this an all-out search, that will save us some time.”

“Good point. By the way, I’ll get cleaned up here so you don’t have to nag me about doing more driving.”

“I’m overwhelmed.”

Less than an hour later Campbell found Yancy sitting on the edge of Beth’s desk. Between his guilty look and her big calf eyes, Campbell suspected she’d been their prime topic of conversation.

“You have a big mouth,” she said, certain Yancy was the guiltier of the two.

“I was only telling Beth a little about Maida. Remember the time she was baby-sitting for her grand-son—oh, heck, it was three years ago—and she intentionally ran over that rattlesnake?”

Campbell didn’t believe his story for a second—she knew he’d told Beth about her latest lightning experience—but the snake story was an amusing one. Maida’s aim was way off and she’d only broken off the snake’s rattles. Her grandson had been so upset that Maida asked one of the security guards to take the creature to the vet to see if they could reattach them.

Shaking her head, Campbell headed toward the door.

“Hey—if you’re going back to Maple Trails, why aren’t you in uniform?” Yancy called after her.

She simply lifted a hand in farewell, not yet ready to explain.

7

Northwest of town

8:03 a.m.

Certain the ceiling would rot and collapse on him before he would sleep, Blade kicked free of the tangled sheet and blanket, and swung his legs to the floor. The room spun before him in a dusky blur thanks to the combination of fatigue and the bourbon he’d downed to block out what he’d seen last night. Beyond the closed drapes the birds outside sounded as if they were in serious competition for screen time in a Hitchock remake.

Food. Slowly, it registered that they must be impatient for their day’s ration of seeds, especially since the storm had returned winter to Texas. On the heels of that realization came a taste of February chill against his bare skin and he glanced around, wondering what new damage the storm had caused on the roof or a window. Nothing would surprise him, since he’d made no improvements and only the most mandatory repairs to this three-room shack since taking on the lease almost a year ago.

Blade had decided on this remote eyesore for a reason other than economics; it also ensured protection and relief from all but the most determined solicitors. The place was a far cry from his roots, but then that was what set black sheep apart from others. He owned few creature comforts—a king-size bed obtained at a furniture closeout sale, and a thirteen-inch TV found in a closet that he’d pounded and shaken until it gave him enough picture to check on the news and the weather. His existence made Thoreau appear like the Hugh Hefner of his day.

Before he turned into something from the Ice Age, Blade directed his weary self into the pea-green bathroom in search of a revitalizing hot shower.

Minutes later, in the fifties-style white-and-black-tiled kitchen, he put on water for coffee. Dressed in worn jeans and a black sweatshirt, he dragged on boots, preparing to feed his raucous wake-up service. But as he approached the door, he locked gazes with the four-legged squatter who’d arrived between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Blade suspected people who expected Santa to bring them a cute, cuddly puppy had dumped the beast in the country.

The brindled behemoth was neither cute nor cuddly, and when it growled, it sounded like gargling. Glaring at him out of one topaz eye, it peered through the window of the kitchen door, then launched itself into the air, leaping onto the picnic table, causing the dilapidated remains of rotting redwood to groan as it teetered.

Issuing his own throaty response, Blade back-tracked and hoisted the fifty-pound sack of dog food from the pantry. “Shit,” he muttered at its depleted weight. It was only Wednesday and it was already half empty. He’d bought the stuff over the weekend.

As he emerged from the house, the dog greeted him by throwing back his basketball-size head and making another of those drowning growls. Then he shook his head, shooting mucus from his flapping jowls like skeet at a firing range.

Blade tried to duck behind the bag. “You ugly piece of—knock it off!”

Once the assault was over, he slammed the bag on the patio and folded back the top until the crunchy pellets were exposed. “There. The Four Seasons Special of the Day. Knock yourself out.”

Circling to the back of the house, Blade opened the vinyl garbage can and picked up the other fifty-pound sack—almost as depleted—of birdseed and filled the two feeders at opposite sides of the unfenced yard. Returning to the kitchen, he gave the mutt a wide berth, but even with its head thrust inside the sack, the dog growled.

Once back in the kitchen, Blade removed the .9 mm stuck in the back of his jeans and set it on the counter. He hoped not to need the weapon out here—the animal seemed to be repaying his kindness by acting as a self-proclaimed security guard—but he wasn’t big on trust. It was misplaced trust and bad judgment that had landed him here in the first place.

His coffee ready, he turned on the TV and sipped the scalding liquid while waiting for the static and snow to clear. As he eyed the date on the calendar, Blade realized yesterday had been a childhood friend’s birthday.

“—We now join Troy Boreman at Longview High,” the no-nonsense news anchor began. “Troy, what’s the latest there? Have any of the students come forward to add new information on Stacie Holms?”

The reporter in the windbreaker shrunk deeper into his thin jacket. “Carmen, as you can imagine, students and staff remain in shock. These kids went home yesterday focused on their basketball team’s division play-off chances, and possible spring break excursions for the seniors. This morning those same seniors have been hit with the tragic reality that one of their own will not be graduating with them in May.

“From those I’ve spoken to so far,” the reporter continued, “eighteen-year-old Stacie Holms was a quiet girl who, while not part of the sports or academic scene, had a close circle of friends. We’re hoping to speak with them later.”

“Troy, are the police on the premises to ensure the students’ safety, since we don’t know why this terrible thing happened?”

“As you can see behind me, Carmen, police presence is strong—here for crowd control as much as for safety concerns. But as you know, the school already has a full-time member of the LPD based here, as does each of the middle schools—part of the department’s proactive methods of law enforcement.”

Nodding, Carmen murmured, “Good report, Troy. Keep in touch.”

Blade switched off the TV and leaned back against the counter to finish his coffee, and to think. Ordinarily, he didn’t pay much attention to the juvie stuff. Tough as this episode was, it didn’t compare to the number of lives snuffed out daily where he came from due to poverty, drugs, gang activity and plain old domestic violence. Kids here tended to die from sports accidents or from reckless or drunken driving. And yet he had been aware of Stacie Holms and her group for a while now; in fact, he’d seen them earlier last evening.

The teens were memorable, what the good old boys called “show ponies”—miles of hair and makeup as expertly applied as any runway model’s, their nubile bodies shown off to distraction by skin-tight jeans and T-shirts. The middle-class Four Musketeers were regulars at Point East, a pizza-and-pool joint off Highway 80 frequented by an older crowd. The girls’ bravado and serious approach to the game of pool made them seem older, allowing the manager to give them an occasional break. They were good for business, inducing male customers to linger, which meant the booze flowed and the cash register sang.

Blade had been increasingly aware of them as the group’s apparent leader, Ashley, started spending more time flirting with a piece of bad news on his list. Luckily, bartender-manager, Truitt Hurley chased the kids out by 11:00 p.m.—earlier if he caught them trying to steal or sneak the harder stuff. Last night they stayed on the restaurant side and left immediately after dinner. Blade figured they’d heard about the bad weather due in from Dallas and decided to play it smart and dash for home. Now he wondered.

By the time he rinsed the mug and reclaimed the sack of dog food from the homesteading mongrel, Blade knew what he needed to do. It was time to see what people at HQ were saying. Daylight, however, was no friend.

Lieutenant Scott McBrill, the District C night patrol watch commander, and his boss, would be long gone by now. Day Command was handled by District A on the north side of town. Blade didn’t have much use for their lieutenant, aka Mr. Hollywood, but he doubted Ted Glass knew he existed. On the other hand, at 2:00 p.m. command transferred to District B in the heart of the city. That shift continued until 10:00 p.m. and was under Lieutenant Gene Poteet, who did know him and who saw Blade as a way to climb over McBrill promotion-wise. Blade would detour entire neighborhoods to stay out of Poteet’s reach.

Everything in the LPD was portioned into threes. The three districts were also divided into three patrol beats: 10, 20, 30 for A, 40, 50, 60 for B, and 70, 80 and 90 for C. The theory was that neighborhoods should get to know the officers watching over them and vice versa. It was an inspiring and ambitious attempt to reestablish the nostalgia of the foot cop of days gone by. Blade supposed it was working in the outer neighborhoods fairly well, where some officers actually lived around the people they protected. But undercutting that were the major highways running through the south and east sides, bringing traffic that inevitably chiseled away at the community’s stability.

Minutes later, he backed a dusty, two-tone brown pickup out from behind the detached garage. The rusting eighties-model Ford was his camouflage, so common in the rural south that it passed virtually unnoticed on the streets. Exactly what Blade wanted when he had to leave his hideout without the cover of darkness.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into the rear of District C station. Taking no chances, he passed empty spots near the doors and parked behind a couple of transport vans, opting for exercise and caution over convenience.

Like his truck, his clothes offered a chameleon’s protection. Gone was the look-at-me leather jacket, the macho gold necklace and scuffed Tony Lamas. For this trip he wore his oldest jeans with the ragged hems, a plaid flannel shirt that had never seen an iron and that was left open over a ripped undershirt. Add the cheap athletic shoes, and he could pass for any poor yokel trying to figure out where the city had towed his wreck, or hoping a stolen trailer had, indeed, been found. With the excess gel showered away, his overgrown black hair fell low over his brow, another way to alter the shape of his face and avoid eye contact. Blade tried not to expose his eyes, aware their near aqua color were his most distinguishable feature; however, there were times when wearing shades drew more attention, and visiting a police station was one of them.

“Hey.”

His gaze first locked on black leather loafers. Glancing up, he saw a pair of tan Dockers, a navy sports jacket with a matching tie over a blue shirt. He met the wary scrutiny of Detective Alan Lefevre. Fair-skinned and blond-haired, the cop always appeared slightly sickly under fluorescent lights. While no friend, Blade had helped him solve a few cases—a significant one only last month.

“Slow morning?” he replied. “You’re usually out hustling by now.”

“One of my cases is going to trial today,” Lefevre replied.

“That explains the conservative attire.” Usually a flashy dresser, today Lefevre could pass for a discount department store manager.

“The defendant is Sonny Lykstra, the asshole who raped and murdered his ex-girlfriend’s daughter. I’m not taking any chances on this case. You got something for me?”

“When was I designated your personal bloodhound?”

“You said you had a lead on Longo.”

Ferrell Longo was another rotten apple in a depressingly bottomless barrel. “His name has come up a few times. If the roach crosses my path, I’ll step on him for you. I’m here to talk to Snow.”

“He’s out in the field.”

Probably interviewing the Holms family, Blade guessed. Since the hallway remained empty, he lingered. “What’s the consensus about the kid found shot last night?”

“They’re looking for a boyfriend, though they haven’t discounted an attempted carjacking. Depends what all comes up on the computer from the fingerprints lifted off the vehicle.”

The rain would have hurt there, but forensics should have something from the interior already. Either Lefevre didn’t know what or didn’t care, not being the case detective.

“Stacie Holms had a record.”

Although annoyed by the cop’s smug expression, Blade encouraged him with a lift of his eyebrows.

“Let me think what they said in this morning’s meeting…two misdemeanors and a felony. Shoplifting and vandalizing private property.”

As bad as the shoplifting was, it didn’t interest Blade. The vandalizing was another matter. He would bet anything it was the most recent charge; the question was, had it been a prank that got out of hand, or an escalation of violent tendencies? “How long ago?” he asked.

“I forget. Before Labor Day last year. My head is swimming with dates thanks to those goddamn lawyers. Snow did say the felony involved messing up some guy’s boat.” He snickered and his face grew flushed. “Little bitches must have downed a case of beer beforehand to do that kind of damage, if you catch my drift.”

Blade figured he might eat something after leaving here, so he chose not to ask for details. Still, stupid stunts were a far cry from murder.

A patrolman who used to work the night shift passed and shot him a condescending look. Blade decided it was time to move to a less-visible location. “Thanks for the update. If I can’t see Snow, I’ve gotta find a lonesome computer.”

As he began to pass, Lefevre asked, “Are you sure you don’t have anything for me?”

“Let me use your machine for five minutes and I might remember something.”

Lefevre swore. “You’d charge your own mother for toilet paper.” But he gestured for Blade to enter his office.

By the time he closed the door, Blade was sitting behind the detective’s desk and typing in Lefevre’s password.

“Feel free to help yourself,” the detective muttered.

“Just thought I’d save us both time.”

“I’m gonna change my password and then you’ll show more respect.”

“I doubt it.”

Lefevre pushed at a cuticle with his thumbnail. “Don’t be too sure. Even you may find yourself needing backup one day.”

“Not likely. Just tell the EMTs to bring an extra body bag.”

The cop’s taunting eyes lost their competitive gleam. “Doesn’t anything hit a nerve, Blade?”

“Not anymore. Relax, Lefevre. That also means I don’t have any plans to challenge you for lieutenant.”

“Like you’d stand a chance.”

Lefevre seemed buoyed by the reassurance, but already bored with the conversation, Blade was glad when the newest homicide file came up on the screen. “Stacie Rayann Holms. Born—an Aquarius. Figures.”

“You believe in that crap?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Then why did you—” The detective swore again. “You complain about wasting time. I don’t know why I bother with you.”

“Because having an extra pair of eyes and ears on the street pays off. Or have you convinced yourself that you found that murdering swine Pollard on your own?”

“Okay, okay. Why don’t you find me the Brown brothers instead of sticking your nose in this,” Lefevre said, nodding to the computer. “I suspect Snow will bring in her murderer before you hit the streets tonight.”

Blade barely heard him; he was absorbing new data on the deceased. “This could be interesting…there’s a father but no mother.”

“So? Maybe she’s dead.”

Possibly. Knowing for sure would shed some light on the situation. For instance, her car wasn’t something a father would buy a daughter when he was constantly being called down to the police station to pick her up. Had he been generous because she’d achieved good grades and had straightened up her act—at least at school—or was it to cover his own neglect? Or some abuse? The kid had managed to amass five speeding tickets since receiving the car, three of them remained unpaid. Blade didn’t like the vibes that came along with this information.

He also learned a .380 casing had been removed from the car. The initial consensus was that Stacie had exhibited little resistance to her attacker, but the autopsy report would confirm or refute that. At the moment, though, it did suggest she had known her killer, which would encourage Snow to grill her family, as well as her closest circle of friends. Or, could be that she’d picked up someone else after she dropped off the other girls.

“Come on, Blade, give me a break,” Lefevre said, checking his watch. “I’m due in court at one-thirty and I have to stop at the hospital for one of my own investigations, not to mention grab something to eat.”

Deciding he had the few facts available at the moment, Blade exited the file and the program and thought about what lay ahead. The other three of the Four Musketeers’ DNA had to be all over the car, making evidence analysis tedious for Forensics. And for Snow also, since it was logical to assume if Stacie had a record, they did, too. What a media field day this would turn into—kids who reject and rebel against society.

Preoccupied, he followed Lefevre out of the building. They were at the second set of glass exit doors when the detective suddenly swore, punched them open, and raced across the parking lot. As he slammed his hand on the Cody Security SUV, Blade ducked his head and quickly veered right until he was hidden behind a van.

Had he been spotted?

His concern proved unnecessary. Glancing around the van, he saw that Ms. Cody Security had her hands full with Lefevre.

“What’re you doing here?” the detective demanded.

8

Nuts, Campbell thought. She’d known this trip would be risky, that’s why she had arranged to wait out here. But to be caught so fast…

One of the few friends she had left in the LPD had been transferred to District C. Campbell hoped she could convince her to share what was known regarding Stacie Holms. She thought it would help her work with the Saunders family. Politics. Networking. She hated everything that stood for, but it was the technique du jour and it was her only other brainstorm since Bryce Tyndell remained WU like Maida—whereabouts unknown in Cody speak—having yet to show up at the office or to respond to her page.

She’d changed for this meeting thinking she would meet her friend at the mall, and wore the typical shopper attire—jeans, T-shirt and jogging shoes. Then she learned Taneeka’s car was being serviced and she would have to pick her up at the station. Campbell had hoped to meet her in the back parking area where there were few windows and fewer vehicles, but it was impossible to hide her Cody Security vehicle—especially from someone like the cop charging across the parking lot.

“I said hold it!”

Intimidating as Lefevre’s voice could be, it was the hard slap on the truck’s hood that had Campbell hitting the brakes. With sickly certainty, she knew her streak of bad luck had yet to change.

Detective Alan Lefevre stepped over to the driver’s window. All she knew of the big-boned and loudmouthed detective was that he’d been Greg’s distant relation through marriage. The scene he’d caused at Greg’s funeral made him a permanent part of that bad dream. Of all the people to run into…

“I said, why are you here?” he demanded.

“That’s none of your business.”

“You? On these premises? Guess again.”

She had a choice—create a bigger scene or cut her losses and opt for a hasty retreat. As loud as he was, if she drug this out, they were bound to attract an audience. Yet she didn’t quit easily.

“I don’t want any trouble. Five minutes is all I need.”

“To do what? Everyone knows you have an ax to grind.”

“If I did, I’d be at District B.”

“We’ve had transfers and realignments, something I suspect you know.”

She refused to respond to that. Getting a friend in trouble wasn’t an option, and accepting that she’d made a mistake in coming here, she let off the brake and jammed her foot onto the accelerator.

The launch into street traffic was almost as unnerving as running into Lefevre, and she barely missed a FedEx truck while, in her rearview mirror, she saw smoke rising as a minivan struggled not to rear-end her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gripping the steering wheel. “I’m sorry!”

Damn Lefevre. How was she supposed to know he’d been transferred? What were the odds that he would be leaving the building as she was arriving?

9

As soon as the coast was clear, Blade joined Lefevre in the parking lot and asked, “What was that all about?”

“You tell me.”

He wasn’t admitting to anything until he had to. “What are you talking about?”

“I can’t decide whether you were hoping she’d shoot me or if you were hiding from her.”

Blade knew better than to respond to either part of that observation. “You know, the less I’m recognized around here the safer it is for everyone.”

“It looked like you were hiding from her.”

“Never met her before. What’s your beef with the woman anyway?” He knew Lefevre usually salivated over the long-legged type, and Ms. Cody Security had the figure to be a Las Vegas showgirl.

Beneath his neatly trimmed mustache, Lefevre’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Campbell Cody is poison. Got one of our guys killed—her partner. My wife’s stepbrother. It happened a short while before you arrived, though people talk about it even today.”

“Now that you mention it, I do remember hearing something.” But back then he’d been preoccupied with his own misery, and with learning a new job. What intrigued him was the intensity of Lefevre’s anger. Maybe Campbell Cody deserved it, but for someone who didn’t work too hard at hiding that he cheated on his wife, Alan Lefevre seemed somewhat overzealous. “So, she was a cop?”

“Please. More like a bitch with a gun. Greg found out the hard way.”

“Her partner?”

“Yeah, Greg Gerrard.”

“What happened?”

“She didn’t watch his back when she should have. She turned chicken, that’s what she did. Talks a tough game, but I wouldn’t trust her to cover my ass against a toddler with a water pistol.”

Blade thought about last night. She’d seemed pretty dedicated to him. “Why do you suppose she was here? If she knows she’s not welcome, she took a big risk.”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. Only—” he checked his watch and made a face “—not now.”

“Yeah, I have to get moving, too.”

“You owe me.”

Lefevre pointed a finger at him as though punctuating the statement made it written in stone. Blade merely raised his hand, letting him wonder if the gesture signaled an agreement or farewell. It didn’t matter; the detective was in his issued sedan and gunning the engine. Seconds later, with tires spinning on the still-damp asphalt, he pulled into traffic and sped away.

Grateful for the reprieve from the inquisition, Blade started for his truck, only to see a white SUV with a light bar on top pull around the corner of the building. Impressed with Campbell Cody’s nerve, Blade ducked behind the van nearest his truck and watched her pause while a young African-American woman in uniform ran out of the building and got into her truck.

10

As the petite officer hurried around the front of the truck and climbed in on the passenger’s side of the SUV, Campbell watched for onlookers. Visibility on this side of the building was minimal, but she thought she’d glimpsed movement by a van parked a few vehicles away. Right then a sheet of cardboard came tumbling across the asphalt and she decided it must have been debris tossed by the wind that spooked her. Even so, the instant she heard the passenger door slam she hit the accelerator.

“I thought I’d missed you.” Taneeka Rawley shivered and stretched her hands toward the vents blowing warm air. She wore no jacket over her uniform, exposing her elegant neck and delicate ears to the bitter bite of the wind. “I saw Romeo confronting you and hoped you wouldn’t be so rattled that you wouldn’t circle the block and try again. That’s why I didn’t take time to dash back to my office and grab my jacket.”

Campbell flipped the fan to high, then darted across traffic to head in the opposite direction of where Lefevre had gone. “Sorry about that.” She remained shaken from the experience, and resentful that Lefevre thought he had a right to confront her. “I should have known that oversexed yahoo wasn’t out doing what they pay him to do.”

“At least his taste in his victims is improving,” Taneeka said with a wicked grin. “I swear, I don’t know how his wife stands him.”

“Who knows that she does?” Campbell had met Beverly Lefevre once at a baby shower for another of Greg’s relations. She wanted to believe the attractive and intelligent woman, who worked in a commercial bank’s trust department, was too smart to be easily conned for too long. “Maybe she’s the city’s next time bomb. People like Lefevre always think they’re immune from repercussions, especially when it comes to paying for their behavior.”

“Campbell…I would have come to you sooner if you’d given the word. I do know where your office is.”

Despite the gentle tone, Taneeka’s words retained a rebuke for Campbell’s self-isolation. She was one of the few who had the right. They’d met in college and had gone through the academy together.

“You don’t need to be seen there any more than I needed to be spotted by someone from our old division,” Campbell replied. “It’s enough to have to drive this thing.”

“Remember our first year on the force and the guy who asked if you were trying to be the Longview version of Dirty Harry?”

“Paulk. His glasses were so thick, I doubt he knew if he was watching Clint Eastwood or Miami Vice.”

“But man, did he know the recipes for explosives. Scary. So where is that sexy car of yours?”

Campbell had a moment of nostalgia over the classic Shelby Mustang that she would wash and wax every week. “In California, or so I was told. I sold it to pay my legal fees. You never want to find out how much money it costs to stop people from trying to suck the last ounce of blood out of you.”

“All the more reason for you to have called.”

The soft words forced Campbell to take a breath to ease the tightening in her throat. People she would have bet the Shelby on for support had turned MIA faster than she could dial 911. But not Taneeka—Taneeka, who had her hands full with her family and paid her own price for being a solid friend.

Spotting something she didn’t like, she made an abrupt turn at the first opportunity. “What I want is for you to make Internal Affairs someday and nail the Lefevres of the world to a wall.”

“Consider it an IOU. So what’s happened?”

This was why they had hit it off so well. Both valued action and getting results over brooding and bitterness. “I think a friend is missing,” Campbell began. Careful to avoid prejudice or innuendo, she went on to explain last night’s strange occurrences, all the while maneuvering through traffic.

It wasn’t long before Taneeka was twisting in her seat. Only her seat belt kept her from doing a full ninety-degree turn, but she did manage to tuck a leg under the other. “Are you serious? Lightning? Girl, you are living under one dark cloud.”

“Won’t argue with you there.” A cloud that had a wide reach. If life hadn’t taken the nosedive it did, she would now be living in a four-bedroom house with a cheery yellow kitchen, a hot tub on the patio and perusing wallpaper books for the nursery. Or maybe not. At the end, all had not been bliss between her and Greg. The night he’d been killed, she’d stopped kidding herself and told him that they needed to have a serious talk.

“I know the story about Maida sounds vague and incidental,” she said, forcing herself to get back on track. “But I swear she would have stopped and asked me for advice if she’d had some problem.”

Taneeka nodded acceptance. “Then again, older folks can act pretty strange at times. My great-aunt and grandmother got into a shouting match last Sunday that had dogs three blocks away howling—at six in the morning. You know what it was about? A stupid shawl that showed up in the drawer under the one where Aunt Petty usually puts her scarves and stuff.”

Campbell remembered other tales about the infamous Petty, named in error when her mother misspelled Pretty to the midwife filling out the birth certificate. “Sounds like you still have your hands full over there.”

“Girl, the one thing worse than a house full of women is a house full of southern women.”

Campbell enjoyed Taneeka’s rich barbecue-sauce drawl, but knew there was a message under the humor. Jokes aside, she remained passionately protective of her family. “I hear you. My father said something similar about Maida. And I understand how subtle the early stages of dementia can be, but those conditions don’t occur overnight. Not to this extent.”

“Tell you what…as soon as I get back, I can check to see if she or her car shows up on the computer anywhere.”

“Yancy has notified the state police. They’ll put her license and plate number in the NCIC system. If there is anything, he should know by now.”

“Good. So why am I here?”

Campbell dealt with an inner pinch. Her friend hadn’t asked, “How can I help?”

“I’m glad to see you’re still on top of your game.” In school, one instructor had suggested that Taneeka consider a career in Vice because of her ability to follow the thinking patterns of the devious.

“Don’t get me wrong. I understand you’re concerned about a senior citizen under your care, who happens to be a friend. Now answer the question.”

Campbell stopped for a traffic signal. “The Holms murder. The kid was a schoolmate of Debra Saunders, Maida’s granddaughter.”

“Why am I surprised? Were the girls close?”

“I’m trying to figure that out. I was at the Saunderses’ house this morning to ask what they knew about Maida and I saw their kid learn about the shooting on TV. If they’re not pals, they have to at least share a few of the same classes.”

Taneeka’s fine features hardened as she shifted into her own no-nonsense mode. “You think there could be a connection because your friend and the Holms kid drove the same car?”

“Hey, I didn’t say—” Campbell paused, hearing what fatigue and pain were doing to her control. “My goal is to find Maida alive and well sitting at a bus station or something. Troubling as that would be, I’d take it over any of the other options. What I was hoping you’d do is tell me what you have on the Holms case. I have to return to the Saunderses’ and hopefully get them to let me into Maida’s house.”

“You don’t want to do that.”

“I feel if I can look around, I’ll get a clue as to what happened.”

Taneeka shot another studious glance her way. “You know it that well?”

“I’m over there at least once a week, so if you’re worried about my DNA being left behind, it’s too late.” Maybe it was because she’d missed out knowing her grandparents, but she liked to help Maida with errands and projects, and to listen to her talk about her youth and her views on life in general. “I know what you’re going to say—it’s a pretty good guess that Dwayne Saunders is going to try to blame Cody Security for his mother’s disappearance, making me the last person he’d want in her house. So tell me, how hard I can push back?”

“I don’t follow,” Taneeka replied.

“If it looks like the LPD will wrap up this case fast and no one else from the school is involved, I can appeal for the Saunderses’ full attention. If they’re pulled in two different directions because their daughter lost a close friend and the police are hounding her for information and possible leads, it’s going to make my job even tougher.”

Tankeeka looked pensive. “Please say you’re not asking for—”

“No privileged information. Absolutely not.”

“Well, it’ll be this evening or maybe even tomorrow before Detective Snow gives our shift the next briefing—unless he suddenly brings in someone. Don’t you think Mr. Saunders will call the sheriff himself and then this will be out of your hands?”

“One would hope, only he didn’t sound all that concerned to me when we spoke a while ago. Either way, I’m going to do what I can until I find her.”

“All right, I’m in, too,” Taneeka replied. “Hey, have you got a picture of her?”

“Down on the console.” The wallet-size photo had an index card attached with some personal information on Maida.

“Aw,” Taneeka said softly. “She’s sweet. She looks like she should be on a jar of pasta or something.”

“Make that chicken soup. She’s half Jewish, on her mother’s side. Her first husband was a Southern Baptist, though. Then twenty years ago, after his death, she married Arthur Livingstone. He passed four years ago.”

Taneeka read the data on the card. “Well, you’d better drive me back. I’ll see what I can do for you.”

Although grateful, Campbell took her indebtedness seriously. “I know it’s still early, but I was going to buy you lunch.”

“Honey, I saw how you froze when we passed that patrol car a minute ago,” Taneeka drawled. “And to be honest, I’d rather paint a bull’s-eye on my back than be seen in this rolling advertisement for abuse. Let me take a rain check. And hopefully we’ll have something to celebrate.”

Relieved, Campbell cut a U-turn in a bank parking lot. “I like the sound of that.”

The change of plans turned out to be a blessing. It was just as well that Campbell’s offer for lunch didn’t work out. Only minutes after saying goodbye to Taneeka, she heard her pager sound. She checked the display window and the brief surge of hope she’d felt after her visit with her friend vanished. Her father—sounding as serious as she’d ever heard him—was advising that he had news and didn’t want to tell her over the radio or phone.

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