Thursday, August 11^th

Trent moaned in his sleep, waking Darcey. She put her arm over him, seeking to comfort him. What she felt brought her immediately awake. He was burning hot with fever. Another of the symptoms about which they had been warned.

She quickly went to the kitchen for a large bottle of water. She had aspirin in the drawer of her bedside table. She woke Trent and made him take two of the pills with a healthy drink of water.

It was almost seven o’clock, the time they had intended to awaken. She told Trent to rest and drink more water. She would make him some tea. He didn’t feel like eating.

They were scheduled to meet Miles at the funeral home at ten o’clock for Scott’s cremation.

“Do you feel up to going?” Darcey asked. “I’m sure Miles will understand if you don’t.”

“I’ll make it. I don’t feel great but I’m not in any pain. Might have to lean on you a little.”

Darcey smiled.

“You can always lean on me, Trent. Lean on me forever.” She kissed him.

Preston Johnson was riding with them. Mandy Rillard was going to pick up Miles. She thought Miles might become too emotional to drive.

Preston was alarmed as he watched Trent on the elevator as they descended to the garage. The younger man seemed weak. Enough so that Preston and Darcey each took an arm to help him into Darcey’s BMW. They put him in the rear passenger seat of the spacious SUV. Preston climbed in to sit beside him.

By the time they reached the funeral home, Trent was sweating profusely. Preston used his own clean handkerchief to wipe Trent’s face.

Seeing the action in the rear view mirror, Darcey reached into her purse for the wet wipes she had brought just for this purpose. She passed them back to Preston.

Preston tended to Trent as best he could.

The worried look in the old man’s eyes became more pronounced.

There was something else in his eyes as he watched Trent.

Something indefinable.

The cremation itself took about two hours. Trent, Darcey, Preston, and Mandy had gone into the room with Miles to be with him as he said goodbye to Scott. They were joined by Christopher Booth and Nancy Patrick.

After the farewell, the friends sat with Miles as the funeral home staff carried out the cremation. It was done very professionally. The process was designed to place as little stress as possible on the grieving family.

Miles shed tears. They all did, to one degree or another. Christopher and Nancy hadn’t known Scott. But they had come to like Miles in the few days they had known him.

Just after noon, the staff brought an elegant, burnished brass urn to Miles. It contained the earthly remains of Scott Lucas Douglas.

“You didn’t know his middle name was Lucas, did you?” Miles said, with a sad smile. “He hated it. It was his grandfather’s name. He didn’t hate his grandfather. He loved him. But his grandfather was a farmer and Scott hated farming.”

The group of friends couldn’t help laughing at Miles’ description. Miles looked around at his support group, giving a slight giggle of his own.

Miles had arranged for a caterer to prepare refreshments for the small group. His new dining table was laden with pulled pork sandwiches, potato salad, pickled okra, mac & cheese, deviled eggs, corn salad and Coleslaw.

“These are all Scott’s favorite foods,” Miles explained. He held up his glass of sparkling wine. “The only thing missing is the ribeye steak that Trent showed me how to make in a cast iron skillet.” He pointed to the heavy pan sitting on the stove.

“Here’s to my Scott. May he always be with me,” Miles said, holding up his glass of sparkling wine.

His friends all touched glasses in response to the toast.

Darcey hugged Miles, whose eyes were tearing again.

“And he always will be, Miles. Always.”

Christopher felt the vibration of his phone. Looking at the number, he excused himself and stepped into the next room to take the call. He returned within a few minutes. The look on his face alerted the group that something big had happened.

“Miles, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to take Trent and Nancy away,” the big cop said, “If you’re feeling up to it, that is, Trent.”

By this time, the sweats had stopped. Trent was feeling a little stronger.

“I’ll make it. What’s up?”

“That was Joseph Brady calling,” Christopher reported. “He’s at Rossi’s house in the Hills at Atherton with the local police. They just found Jonathan Rossi.”

Darcey noted with surprise the look of shock on Preston’s face.

“It was actually the pool service who found him,” FBI Agent Brady briefed them. “They thought it unusual that no one was around. They went to knock on the door and found it standing open. They discovered Rossi as you see him now, behind his desk.”

Once again, Trent, Christopher, and Nancy found themselves in a room with a body that had been going through the deterioration process for more than forty-eight hours. It was no more pleasant in the multi million mansion than it was at the humble cottage in Richmond.

“Shot multiple times diagonally across the body,” Brady continued. “Then the coup de grace. A single shot to the head.”

Though Trent was feeling better, he was still shaky. He found a chair and sat. He wiped his face with the wet wipes supplied by Darcey. He drank heavily from the bottle of water she insisted he keep with him. He was grateful to her.

From the angle at which he sat, Trent’s line of sight showed him something not easily noticeable.

“Christopher, it looks like there’s a safe behind that painting,” he pointed out. “The big seascape.”

Christopher pulled on the painting. It opened like a door. Behind it was a wall safe that was closed but not locked. Opening it, he found it empty.

“Looks like someone helped themselves after Rossi was taken out,” Christopher said.

“I’ve been wondering where Peter Greco is,” Brady added. “The underboss hasn’t been seen in several days. Usually if you see Rossi you see Greco.”

“Yeah, Rossi didn’t do anything without Greco’s advice and even approval,” Christopher agreed. “He’s either dead, too, or has taken over the Rossi Family and is in hiding.

Guy sat in his room in the cheap motel near Sacramento. The television was blaring a local news station. He didn’t like watching the news. He was about to change it when the reporter said something that attracted his attention.

“Private services were held in San Francisco today for Scott Douglas, the Bay area financier who was killed trying to protect his spouse, Miles Diaz-Douglas. Diaz-Douglas had been kidnapped. Douglas was heroically attempting to rescue Diaz-Douglas when the kidnappers decided to kill their victim. Scott Douglas hurled his own body between the killers and his spouse.”

Guy laughed.

“So the little wifey is all alone now,” he said aloud. “What do you know about that?”

Filippo had a few thousand in the bank. Not as much as Guy had hoped. He had drained the account. It allowed him to eat well. But now the money was starting to run low.

He needed a new source of funds. He thought it a cinch that old Douglas would have a stash of cash at his house. At the very least, he would have jewelry or something valuable that could be sold.

Now only the wifey was there. That little wimp wouldn’t give him any trouble.

And Guy had been assigned to keep an eye on Douglas’ condo one day not long ago. He knew the address. He laughed again.

At the Nob Hill condo there was no cocktail hour on the terrace that evening.

No dinner.

Darcey put Trent to bed. She lay beside him.

Looking after him.