Chapter Five

Johnny practically had to scrape Melia’s housekeeper off his arm. But she nabbed him yet again when they reached the guesthouse, pulling him up the porch stairs and through the front door into the parlor.

“Come and see my sculptures,” she urged. “I did one of Dr. Rose just last week. My niece says I’ve got the gift.”

Johnny didn’t doubt it, but it was a verbal gift, not an artistic one. Not if the so-called sculptures she showed him were any indication.

Melia’s figure—along with everyone else’s—made him think of voodoo dolls. The wavy red-brown hair gave Melia away. The others were strangers. Unless the big, bulky one was trigger-happy Cas Travers.

“This here’s my niece, Clover,” Gert announced with pride. “And that blond one with the round glasses, that’s Sheriff Travers. He was my ray of sunshine till I met you. You’ve got ten, maybe twenty times more sex appeal than him. I guess we womenfolk just can’t resist a man who wears a badge. You do have a badge, don’t you, Johnny?”

“No. Yes. Somewhere. Look, I really need to—”

“Did you and the doc have a fiery fling?”

“Something like that.”

“She’s so beautiful. My niece dyed her own hair red like the doc’s a couple months back, but she can’t quite get the color right. Why’d you split up?”

Her tone had altered—gone from whiskey-and-cigarette deep to coy southern sass. This, he reflected, was getting decidedly weird.

Smiling, she kicked off her shoes. “Would you like a drink? I have a mai tai or two every night myself, but I make a mean mint julep if you prefer the southern style.”

“Thanks for the offer, Gert, but I really can’t—”

“Oh, the doc’ll be fine. Harry’ll watch over her—if he’s not asleep and his hearing aid’s turned on. And if his bursitis isn’t bothering him like it does sometimes.”

“Who’s Harry?” Johnny asked.

“He tends the doc’s gardens, does small fix-ups. Smaller and smaller fix-ups these days, him being ninety and all. Was a time when he could shoot a mosquito out of the air at two hundred yards. Of course, that was back when he could see. Now he mostly sits and frets about his grandson. Trouble’s that boys first, middle, and last name. Can’t hold a job, doesn’t like people, won’t even try to work for the folks who’re doing the constructing around town. Says he’s got a bad hip. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t lollygag around all day, getting high and reading comic books.”

Johnny eased toward the door. “Yeah, well, kids. He’ll grow out of it.”

Her laugh contained a warning edge of rust. “Oh, I wouldn’t count on that, darling. He’s on the high side of forty-five.”

Johnny grinned and opened the door. “Sounds like Harry’s got his hands full. Good night, Gert. And Bette,” he added.

Stepping outside, he closed the door, rolled his shoulders, and thanked God for the shadows of the swamp that concealed him when the door jerked open and Bette shouted, “Good night, you dreamy creature. Tell the doctor we’ll be by bright and early to fix you both a good southern breakfast.”

Great, Johnny thought. Just fucking great. Mel was going to make him sleep in a bug-infested boat house, and either Gert or Bette intended to cook breakfast for him. What did people eat in this hellhole swamp anyway? Dandelion greens, possum guts, eye of newt?

He heard the barely perceptible footsteps behind him a split second before Laidlaw swung a beefy arm in his direction.

Ducking, Johnny avoided the arm that attempted to wrap itself around his throat and shoved a gun in the big man’s belly. “Give it up, pal. You don’t walk on cat feet no matter how much your defense trainer wants you to believe you do.”

Laidlaw dropped his arm, and Johnny dropped his gun. “Works on most people,” his friend grumbled. “Can I help it if you’ve got bionic ears? Camp’s empty. No one’s been near it since you took those three bastards out.”

Johnny stowed his gun. “Those were only the three we know about, possibly four if we include your nightly visitor. Whatever the number, there’ll be others.”

“Local or imported?”

“Don’t know. Depends on who around here can be bought.”

“Money talks, Johnny, and Satyr’s got plenty of it. Mockerie’s got even more.”

“Vault’s open when it comes to Satyr and grudges. Do me a favor,” Johnny said as they rounded a bend. “Go and check out the boathouse. While you’re at it, see if you can dig up a ninety-year-old man with a hearing aid and bursitis.”

“What’s he, the night watchman?”

“According to Mel’s housekeeper, yes. But then, she thinks she’s an old Hollywood actress, so who the hell knows.”

“And they call Los Angeles La-La Land.”

“Just a different kind of la-la.” Johnny re-scoped Melia’s house. “You turned the lights on. Not a bad idea, Mel.”

“Brilliant and beautiful.” Laidlaw squinted at the second-floor windows. “Why does she want to live with a bunch of crazies?”

“I’m guessing she doesn’t see them that way. Woman’s got a ton of compassion. Almost makes up for the fact I have none.”

“You and me both. What do I do with the old guy if I find him?”

“Get him to turn his hearing aid up and ask him about the locals. Particularly ask him about his grandson, the one who has a bad hip and reads comic books.”

“Nothing wrong with comic books, my friend. What’re you gonna be doing while I’m having fun with Mel’s ninety-year-old watchdog?”

Johnny shrugged. “Probably getting my head bitten off by the woman I came here to protect.”

Laidlaw chuckled. “Once again, on reflection, it seems I’m getting off easy.”

“You are.” Listening to the crickets, frogs, and even the occasional hoot owl, Johnny regarded Melia’s house and wondered if he’d done her a favor by coming here—or if he’d done exactly the wrong thing and signed her death warrant instead.

…

Melia ran through the rooms on the second floor. Finding nothing out of place, she rushed up the stairs to the attic. There was nothing in it except dust, cobwebs, and two very old trunks, both padlocked.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she swore as she ran down the stairs to the main floor.

Johnny was letting himself in when she reached the entryway. Rather than stop, she grabbed his hand and brought him with her.

“Phone call, possible bomb somewhere in the house. Caller mentioned a box, my bedsheets, and the global clock in my dining room.”

“That clock?” Johnny demanded as she pulled him through a wide door.

“Yes, but I don’t see a box anywhere near it, do you?”

“No, and for once I’m grateful you’re a neat freak.”

“As opposed to you, who leaves a visible trail of destruction when you move from room to room.”

“I’m working on it,” he told her. “What’s that?”

She pushed on the hand he was using to point at her antique sideboard. “It’s a Native American basket. My brother sent it to me from Santa Fe. I keep napkins in it, Johnny.”

“That’s weird.”

“Only in your eyes. There are plenty of boxes in the kitchen, even more in the pantry.”

“Perfect.” He followed her through the dining room to the kitchen. “Did the caller actually use the word ‘bomb’?”

“No, but he said I should look at the big bow before it and I weren’t around anymore.”

“So it’s a box with a bow.”

The dangerous look she sent him didn’t appear to register. She ran her gaze around the kitchen. “No box with a bow. You got me into this mess, Johnny. I’m not a federal whatever you are. Cop, agent, pirate, government rogue.”

“Pirate’s good. I always wanted to be a pirate.”

She started opening cupboards, checking the shelves. “It’s never too late for a career change.”

“You have enough supplies to feed a regiment of soldiers,” Johnny muttered. “Why three boxes of oatmeal?”

“Bette likes it, so Gert and I are forced to eat it.”

“Does Gert like it?”

Melia rooted quickly through the fridge. “No.” She closed the door, turned. “There’s nothing here. I’ll try the pantry.”

The small, secondary room was extremely tidy. And overstocked, Melia admitted.

Johnny stood in the middle of the floor and scanned while she shoved aside jars, bags, and canisters on one of the bottom shelves.

“Stop.” He set a hand on her nape, crouched next to her. “Do you hear it? Something’s ticking.”

Melia froze, held her breath until the sound of her slamming heart receded and she could hear beyond it.

“There.” She pointed upward. “The ticking’s really muffled.”

“And fast.” Johnny launched himself upward. “Nearest water, front or back?”

“River’s closer than the lake.” Melia ran to the pantry door. “You can get out this way.”

He knocked aside bags of pasta and rice and grabbed a box wrapped in red paper, topped with a glittery gold bow.

Had Satyr wanted her to find it, Melia wondered. Did he care? Kill her, hurt Johnny. Don’t kill her, keep them both on edge. Either scenario probably worked.

“Stay here.” Johnny flew past her and out the door.

He vanished before she could blink, into a night made that much blacker by the absence of even a sliver moon.

Annoyed with herself for hesitating, Melia located a pair of sneakers, pulled them on, and took off after him. It helped that she knew the path to the river, and that the T-shirt Johnny wore was white. She caught a glimpse of him near the bank, saw him heave the box into the water.

A second later, she was airborne and certain she was about to ram into the base of a sycamore tree.

She landed next to Johnny instead, just hard enough to make her head spin and strip the air from her lungs. But even dazed and disoriented, she heard the explosion and felt the river water slam down on her.

She pushed upright, coughing, and struggled to regain her bearings and collect her scattered thoughts.

“That was”—she breathed out—“a helluva bang.” She clambered to her hands and knees. “Are you hurt?”

“If swallowing half a muddy river qualifies as an injury, then yes.” Johnny propped himself onto his elbows. “You?”

“I’ll let you know when I wake up from this convoluted nightmare.” She collapsed beside him, regarded the settling water. “Exactly what was the point of that?”

“Satyr’s testing me. How fast, how sharp, how willing to do what it takes to keep you from dying. He’s also reinforcing his belief that my feelings for you haven’t changed.”

Melia closed her eyes, overwhelmed by exhaustion, frustration, and too many other emotions to count.

“Satyr’s going to keep coming after me, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

It was a terrifying thought, but she needed to know. “Then what? Once I’m dead, I mean. Will he let you live out the rest of your life, or kill you when he decides you’ve suffered enough?”

Johnny gave a short laugh. In a move too fast for her to see, much less counter, he rolled over so she was partly trapped beneath him. The expression on his face would have frightened her if she hadn’t known him so well. “Whatever Satyr decides or doesn’t, believe me when I tell you I’ve suffered enough.”

She knew what he was going to do. She also knew she should stop him, but when she got right down to it, the simple fact was they’d both suffered a great deal. For a moment, at least, with her guard down and the blast still ringing in her head, she needed the reassurance only Johnny could give her. Reaching up, she touched his face. “I’m angrier than I’ve ever been. I want to hate you, Johnny, I really do, but right now, I just can’t.”

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “You’ll get back there in no time.”

And before she could reply, he covered her mouth with his.

She felt the cracks in her guard growing dangerously larger. God help her, she wanted this. His mouth on hers was a fever. Running her fingers through his hair, she pulled him closer. She wanted to crawl inside him, but—no! She wasn’t ready to let what he’d done to her go. Not yet.

Dragging her mouth free, she slid her hands to his shoulders and pressed him back. “I’m not… I can’t do this. I’ve shut down too much to let it all out at once. I need to know what Satyr’s going to do next. I have to think about that and keep my mind level for as long as I can.”

Johnny stared, but didn’t push her. At length, he looked into the trees. “Satyr will come after me eventually, but not right away. He won’t want me to die quickly, so the initial attempts won’t be full blown. Unless I appear suicidal. Then he’ll instruct his people to stop me from succeeding.”

“Ben Satyr has a very sick mind.” Melia turned her head on the wet moss and regarded the stars just beginning to appear in the night sky. “Don’t take this as anything more than an olive branch, but all things considered, you can sleep in the house.”

…

Ben Satyr sat at his shiny black dining room table with his fingertips aligned on the edge and his eyes blissfully closed. Wayne Newton sang in the background, and a ham, egg, and hash brown breakfast was two minutes away from being served. He had his man in Deception Cove on the line and a serene smile playing on his lips.

“The bomb exploded in the river behind Melia Rose’s house.” Repeating the words he’d just heard, Satyr allowed the taste of delight to slide like fine wine down his throat. “This is excellent news. Were there any injuries?”

“Not from what I saw.” The man cleared his throat loudly and spat. The sound grated on Satyr’s nerves, but not enough to spoil his mood. “Hunt was carrying it,” he continued. “He threw it. She ran after him. Blast knocked ’em both off their feet.”

“Wonderful.”

“I should probably tell you, I followed her into a local bar this afternoon. A ruckus broke out. I saw an opportunity to take a shot at her. Obviously, it didn’t pan out. Too many people, too much confusion.”

“There’s always tomorrow,” Satyr said. “Anything else to report?”

“No, but…she’s awful pretty, Mr. Satyr. You sure you wanna kill her? You could—”

“I want her dead,” Satyr interrupted. His fingers tensed briefly on the table. “Letting her live isn’t an option. Don’t ever forget that or deviate in any major way from the instructions I’ve given you. Are any of Mockerie’s people in the area?”

“You said Hunt killed three of them. How many more would he have sent?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m talking to you.” Mild irritation crept in. “Put it this way: has anyone you know of left town during the past twelve to eighteen hours?”

The man cleared his throat again. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Satyr, but do you really expect me to know that? Roads lead in and out of town. People take ’em both ways. I can mosey over and go through the construction sites. I know people there. Hunt’ll get suspicious, though, if I start asking too many questions.”

Yes, he would, Satyr thought. Johnny Hunt was nothing if not sharp. And quick. And a total fucking bastard. He gave Wayne Newton and his irritation a moment to swirl together. “Do your best,” he said at length. “Eyes open, ears tuned. Melia’s not the enemy, in any case. Hunt is. The woman is the goal. Watch her, but always, always be aware of him.”

“Count on it. I like money. You keep it coming, and I’ll get the job done exactly as you want it.”

“I know you will. That’s why I hired you. Keep me apprised. Just don’t for one minute lose sight of the fact that Hunt’s fast, he’s smart, and he loves his ex-wife. Stay on them.”

A loud spitting sound was his reply as he ended the call. Satyr gave a revolted shudder before opening his eyes to the sight of a tall, leggy blonde in a French maid’s uniform bending down to place his breakfast tray on the table.

“Here you go, monsieur.” She slaughtered the last word, which rankled, but only for a moment. When he pictured Melia Rose’s face, a feeling of bliss enfolded him once more.

Money, wine, and women were good, but nothing, absolutely nothing, tasted sweeter than revenge.

…

Johnny hated mornings, especially when they were coupled with late nights. He’d stayed up until two a.m., emailing lab techs and talking to McCabe who had the bullet he’d sent analyzed. He’d guessed right about the Magnum, but whoever had fired it had never done so on record before.

It had been a long shot in any case.

Hit man or local, he’d wondered when he’d finally tumbled into Mel’s semi-comfortable guest bed. Knowing Satyr, it could go either way. Whoever the bastard was, he’d been hand selected and was undoubtedly good at his craft.

Great. So how many paths would that take him down?

He’d expected to fall asleep with the sound of bombs ringing in his ears, but no surprise to him, his dreams had been entirely of Melia. Of wanting her, yet knowing she was still out of reach. Of wondering if he’d ever be able to earn her trust again.

He woke up near dawn to the feel of something wet probing the side of his neck. When pointed teeth joined it, he jumped and was instantly awake. He rolled off the bed onto his knees, grabbed his gun from the nightstand, and stopped just short of blasting a fluffy gray kitten from his pillow.

“What the hell?” Shoving the hair from his eyes, he scowled at the thing. “Where did you come from?”

Fluttering sheer curtains gave him the answer. A second-floor porch wrapped around the house. The kitten had simply discovered an open window.

Lowering his gun, he considered falling back asleep with only his head on the mattress, but the kitten crouched, then leaped onto his outstretched hand.

“Ouch. Shit.” His head shot up. “You have sharp claws, Little Smoke.”

“He has even sharper teeth.” Melia’s remark came from the open window. “Your boxers are showing, Johnny. And your late night.” She leaned on the rail to watch him, her hair loose, head tipped, a croissant in her hand.

“What time is it?” he demanded when it occurred to him the sky was barely light. “If the answer is before seven, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

“It’s 6:10, and I have patients to see. In the swamp,” she added before he could snarl at her.

He turned on the floor, then braced his back against the bed. “You make fucking house calls?”

“When the people can’t get to me, yes. It’s part of being a small-town doctor. You don’t have to come. I’m just telling you where I’ll be.”

“Yeah, right.” Johnny forced himself to stand. “Because Satyr’s person or people won’t follow you into a swamp.”

“They won’t if they’re like you and don’t do mornings.”

“I do mornings,” he reminded her. “Just not willingly.”

She looked delectable in her tight jeans and pale-blue tee. No wedding or engagement rings, he noticed with a pang. Her jeans were rolled up, and she had sneakers on her feet. Sketchers, if he knew his ex-wife. She liked stylish comfort in most things.

“Can you wait ten minutes?” he asked her.

“Probably.” She smiled. “Just to warn you, Gert’ll be here in fifteen. She called ahead to make sure I have gooseberries in the freezer.”

“I gag on gooseberries.”

“I got that memo years ago, thus the good turn. You saved my life last night, Johnny. I’m grateful.”

“Yeah?” Hope spiked as he moved toward the window.

She held out a warning finger. “Not that grateful. Have your shower. Make it a cold one if necessary. Three years is a very long time for a person to feel icky about herself.”

Although he knew she was serious, he snatched a piece of croissant from her outstretched hand. “I’ll be down before Gert gets here. Who’s the cat, by the way?”

“His name’s Pepper.”

“As in salt and?”

“As in Sergeant. You know how much I love the Beatles.”

“And the Eagles?”

“Not for the past three years.”

It stung. Guilt swamped him. But that was the point. A message to him that some of what had been might never be again. God knew he didn’t deserve another chance. And wasn’t that a helluva way to start the day?

They outpaced Gert. Just. She was coming down the tree-lined road toward the driveway as he turned Melia’s Explorer in the opposite direction.

“She’ll be very disappointed,” Melia told him. “Sorry to say, you won’t get out of dinner.”

“How does Pepper feel about table scraps?”

“Give him any, and you’ll be eating his food. Trust me, whatever she whips up, Gert’s menu will be better than that. Turn left, away from town. We’ll stop by Steve Saxon’s place. He’s the ten-days-new guy I told you about yesterday.”

“Right. The former firefighter from Miami.”

“He did a calendar. He was August.”

“I hate him already.”

“You’ll hate him more when you meet him. He used to be a Navy SEAL.”

“And now he’s a chicken farmer.”

“Chicken and herbs.”

“He should open a restaurant. Is he a patient, or are we simply dropping by to do a meet and greet at six thirty-something in the morning?”

“It’ll be later than that by the time we get to his place. Yes, he’s a patient. Everyone in and out of town is. But he’s not one of today’s three. Pappy Laundy’s first. He has a big still and a crop or two he doesn’t let government people see. It’s probably good you’re not a fan of haircuts.”

“I didn’t shave this morning, either.”

“Better and better.”

Johnny couldn’t have said why the humorous response pleased him so much, but it lightened his mood considerably. Until he caught sight of a mountain of a man using a pickax to hack apart a collection of boulders.

Melia indicated that Johnny should pull over onto the side of the gravel road. “This is the outer edge of his land.” She lowered the window. “Hey, Steve.”

The mountain straightened, offered her a thousand-watt smile and shouted, “Mel. Hey to you, too. It’s great to see you. I’ve got coffee and flapjacks up at the house, as well as that incredibly rare Beatles album I told you about. The early one where they did all the cover songs. So not like them. Who’s he?”

Melia grinned, and while Steve was still out of range, swiveled in her seat. “Have you moved from hate to loathing yet?”

“Getting there. Right now, he’s at poison ivy level.”

“Oh, he’ll top that before we leave.” Swiveling back, she said to Steve who was approached the vehicle, “This is Johnny. He’s my cousin from California. He owns a hotel in L.A. You probably haven’t stayed there.”

“Yet,” Johnny said through his teeth.

Something glittered in Steve’s ice-blue eyes as he bent to peer inside. “You don’t look like a hotel guy.”

Johnny dangled his wrist over the steering wheel and forced a pleasant tone. “You don’t look like a farmer.”

“There you go.” Melia turned her amused gaze back to Johnny. “I don’t look like a doctor. We’re all on similar playing fields.”

“I stayed in a hotel in California once.” The big man braced his hands on the doorframe. “It was a hotel from hell. Maybe it was yours.”

“Always possible.”

“So, what about breakfast then?” Steve asked Melia. But Johnny saw bad attitude clinging to his features like swamp mud.

Whether Melia noticed or not, she shook him off. “Sorry, not today. I have to stop at the Brewers’, and Pappy Laundy’s got a bad foot.”

Steve gave a short laugh and pushed back. “I’ve heard a lot of gossip over the past ten days. There’s several colorful people in and around this town. That old coot tops the list. I can’t see him letting your cousin within a mile of his property. A guy in the grocery store told me some folks who’ve been here for years don’t even know where he lives.”

“Locals know more than they tell.” Melia glanced at Johnny. “You might be right, though. I’ll go in first, see how he’s feeling.”

Steve gave a curt nod. Johnny caught the glint again when he stepped all the way back. It wasn’t necessarily telling, but it was noteworthy.

“Ten days, huh?” Shoving the Explorer into gear, he regarded Melia, who was busy scrabbling through her backpack. “He seems to like you.”

She pulled out two travel thermoses. Of coffee, he hoped. “Maybe he does. I know he likes my hair. I gather his ex had red hair.”

“Ex-wife, ex-girlfriend, or ex-partner of indeterminant sex?”

She handed him a thermos, facing him. “Well, gee, Johnny, if you’re really curious, why don’t you ask?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s what you deserve right now.”

He couldn’t argue with that. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ll look into it later.” He took a sip and nearly scalded the roof of his mouth.

“I can’t believe you still do that.” Melia laughed. “Some things truly don’t change.” She shook her own thermos to mix the contents. “Where’s Laidlaw?”

“He slept in the boathouse. I haven’t decided whether to send him back to McCabe or keep him around.”

“Does Satyr know about him?”

“No idea. It doesn’t matter. Satyr targets his kills. If someone gets in his way, he’ll take that person out, but his eye’s invariably on the prize.”

“You mean he has tunnel vision where murder is concerned.”

“Pretty much. He has a tendency to lose sight of the overall picture and miss something big. That’s how hard he focuses.” It was also how he’d screwed himself in Iraq. “We all have failings, Mel. Whatever else he might be, Satyr’s human and prone to the same weaknesses as the rest of us.”

“Funny, McCabe doesn’t strike me that way. Prone to weaknesses, I mean.”

“You don’t know him well enough to say that.” Johnny’s eyes narrowed. “Do you?”

She smiled when she looked at him. “No, I don’t.” Following his gaze to the rearview mirror, she drew her brows together. “Are we being followed?”

“Not that I can see. Doesn’t mean someone is there. How far to our first stop?”

“Pappy Laundy lives a few miles north of here. He’s not the closest, just more of a priority than the Brewers.”

“Brewer.” Johnny frowned. “As in Danny, Sam, and company? How hard did Gert hit the kid?”

“Sam’s fine. The oldest girl’s the one with the problem. Her father called me yesterday, then asked if I could come and help him out.”

“Her brothers got to your house just fine last night. Why couldn’t her father bring her to you?”

“Because she won’t leave the property. Her name’s Cadence, but Cady’s what they call her. She’s twelve. She misses her mother.”

“Is her mother dead?”

“Nope. Ran off two years ago. She wanted something more than swamp life, nine kids, and a husband who figured she didn’t bring home a paycheck, so he got to make all the rules.”

“Oh, you must love this guy.”

“We’ve reached a détente. I treat his kids. Unless it’s an emergency, he goes to a doctor in Bellwater, about thirty miles from here. Turn left.”

“So now we’re taking a goat path?”

“It’s easier on foot, but I need a vehicle to reach my last patient. You keep looking in the rearview mirror.” She twisted around to see behind them. “Do you really think anyone would follow us on this road? ”

“Goat path, Mel. I’m checking for two-legged goats.” The vehicle tilted to the right where the path dipped toward the water. “For the record, I don’t trust your friend Steve. A SEAL would know how to build a bomb.”

She shook her head, waited until the road leveled, then sipped her coffee. “Steve quit the SEALs and the fire department. Word is—and God knows how accurate any word around here is—that he left both things due to stress.”

“Meaning?”

“Johnny, building a bomb would be a stressful task. Didn’t you notice his tremor?”

“I thought it was anger. Pretty sure he didn’t buy your cousin-from-California story.”

“You really need to let go of some of that animosity you’re feeling. And don’t ask me again if he’s gay. The come-on you witnessed, while not as determined as it might have appeared on the surface, was a definite male-female thing.”

“What did his ex do?”

“Okay, fine. She was a dental hygienist. From what I’ve been able to gather, she fell from the balcony of their Miami condo.”

Johnny slid her a sideways look. “What floor was the balcony on?”

“Twelfth.” She drank more coffee. “Steve was taken in for questioning, but never charged.”

“And?” Johnny sensed more.

“And that was the end of it.” Pausing, she rested her head on the seat back. “His father might have helped in that regard. Not that I think Steve was involved in her death, but his dad does have clout.”

“In what way?”

“In the way politicians sometimes do. Steve’s father is the attorney general of the state of Maine. ”