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  That was when fourteen-year-old high school freshman Brady had crossed the athletic field one afternoon, long enough after the final bell for the campus to be near-deserted. Three upperclassman redneck types, the kind who already sported beards and nicotine-stained teeth, approached and surrounded him, announcing that they were “gonna teach this pencil-neck Flip a lesson.” Brady never did figure out what their lesson was supposed to be, but he learned one, all right: don’t stay down.

  Not because he was tough. He’d always been the scaredy-cat type, running from any confrontation. And that day he went down quickly after the first couple of slaps to the head. But once down, he learned that their shit-kicker boots hurt way worse than any fist they could throw. So he got up, and kept getting up, in sheer desperation for survival. Just as he reached the point of believing he wouldn’t be able to rise again, his attackers ran out of gas. The leader gave Brady one last halfhearted shove and said, “Forget it. Let’s ride, boys. Damn Flip’s too stupid to even know when he’s gittin’ his ass beat.”

  Brady had lain there in the mud, gulping air and listening to the mutters of “crazy” and “dumbfuck” from the departing wrecking crew, scared witless that they would come back. But they didn’t, and for the rest of the year, they crossed to the far side of the hallway or parking lot at the sight of him and avoided any eye contact. Brady never reported the beating, out of embarrassment and the inescapable feeling that somehow he had gotten the best of the three goons. Ever since, he had believed in the power of perseverance over any other talent or advantage. After all, the tortoise did win the race. But he did feel uncomfortable about Ed’s ability to see it, good business trait or not.

  The blank screen in front of him sprang to life as a cascade of hieroglyphics came scrolling across it and yanked his attention back to the job. Hallelujah. Upload completed. He retrieved the thumb drive and shut the worthless junker down, officially declaring it now the world’s largest paperweight, and hit the lights on his way out. “Paradise, here I come.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  For Leo Burgess, Monday arrived with a ball of snakes and dropped them in his lap. Justin, a climbing young star in Leo’s real estate office, called to warn that Arn Holstad was poised to back out of a contract for the purchase of ninety-plus acres. An annoying time to find the patience for any of Arn’s hysterics; Leo had set the morning aside for a sit-down with Nick before this peeping scandal escalated into a full-out manhunt. But business came first.

  “I’m very sorry for disturbing you with office matters,” Justin was saying. “It’s just such a sizeable deal, and I know you know Mr. Holstad.”

  “Quite all right,” Leo allowed. True, he’d retired from active business some time ago, and no longer had any enthusiasm for the daily grind of the speculation game. All he wanted was a chance to savor the power and influence he’d earned and watch his children grow into their birthright. It had been a long climb from the three-room tenement flat in Brooklyn that had been more than enough to surpass the humble dreams and aspirations that led his parents to leave their native Ukraine for a better life in the land of opportunity.

  Once retired, however, Leo had soon discovered he couldn’t bring himself to delegate away the decision-making control of his personal portfolio, and thus he stayed involved in any deals that chipped away at the remainder of his private holdings. Especially this piece: inland, not on a highway, not on a corner, not near the business district. He’d known it would be a tough sell when he split it off of the subdivision-sized tract it came from, but he’d netted sufficient profit on the prime sections to make it worth whatever he lost on this one. Not that he minded talking business with a young man of Justin’s caliber. He could close his eyes and pretend it was Nick who was young and hungry and smart and learning. “Tell me, what’s Arn’s issue with the loan?”

  “It’s not the appraisal or his credit; it’s that he’s stretched thin enough the lender wants more cash participation from him. He’s not willing to pony up more, so neither side is budging.”

  Leo sighed and scratched his ear instead of throwing the phone. Typical imbecilic ego-posturing from Arn. “How far apart?”

  “Ten percent. They want to carry seventy, not eighty,” Justin answered. Short and boiled down, the way Leo liked it.

  He swiveled his chair around to watch the surf lumbering in from the Gulf outside his study window. Any seventy percent mortgage offer for undeveloped commercial property in the current loan market qualified as manna from God himself, tenfold for a project of Arn’s. And though Leo owned his own bank, it wasn’t set up for multimillion-dollar construction loans. It was there to facilitate selling off scrubland as mobile home parks. Not that he wanted to be the one holding Arn’s paper anyway, the man’s business model smelled like a bankruptcy waiting to happen. But the trader’s instinct that built his empire told him there was little probability of selling this odd lot again for anything near Arn’s contract. “Justin, in your opinion, if we had to sell that tract for ninety percent of what we agreed to with Arn, would we take it?”

  “I would recommend it,” said Justin, showing more caution in his voice now, but at least Leo didn’t hear the tap dancing he despised from a subordinate. Good boy. Ah, Nicolas, why not you?

  “It’d have to be someone who wants to do a strip mall like Mr. Holstad,” Justin continued. “Or something similar, and those buyers are hard to come by. Someone who can actually swing the deal.”

  “I agree,” Leo told him. He spun his chair back and let his gaze wander the rich, dark wood interior of his office, each piece handpicked from fifty-year-old memories of the wealthy homes his immigrant house-painter father had serviced. He decided that the most prudent course here would be to risk a little profit and ram this deal through, get the ninety percent in the bank. “Have a personal note for the ten drawn up between Arn and me. Make it for something else other than land, for God’s sake, to avoid any secondary lender liability. If he goes under, I want the bank owning the land, not me.”

  Nick slouched in and dropped into a chair while Leo was wrapping up with Justin. Leo disliked continuing to hash over creative ways to not lose profit after the decision was made, but he appreciated Justin’s meticulousness. He did not relish wrangling with Nick either, but it had to be done. So he let Justin finish his questions while eyeing his son. The boy looked poorly, bloodshot and pasty-faced. Pete had hinted about drug use, something Leo could not believe. Nick merely liked the nightlife, as young men often do. Perhaps too much, based on his appearance.

  What Leo did suspect, despite his son’s protestations to the contrary, was the likelihood that Nick was indeed the Peeping Tom. It pained Leo to think his son capable of such warped behavior, but the boy had similar escapades as an adolescent, skulking around girls’ locker rooms and such. Easier to hush up and shrug off the antics of a teenager than to keep a grown man out of jail. One never knew when one might encounter a policeman who couldn’t be persuaded financially. Or when one might not luck into someone as penurious and thus susceptible as Pete Cully for the sole witness. They had been fortunate in Pensacola and might not be next time. Leo cradled the telephone and swiveled his chair to cross legs too long for the desk to accommodate.

  “You wanted to see me, Pops?” Nick asked, slumping even deeper into the chair. Insolence and wariness fought for control in his voice.

  Leo took a deep breath and recommitted to ignoring the boy’s galling demeanor. “Yes, Nicolas, I need your help with a matter.”

  “What kind of help?” Nick’s eyes shifted about, signaling victory for wariness.

  “As you may have heard, we have received more reports of a prowler in the neighborhood.” Leo raised his jungly eyebrows until he got a nod, noting how the skin tightened along Nick’s forehead. Does this subject alarm you, son? “I am considering hiring a security man, private detective if you will, to resolve this problem ourselves.” And perhaps keep you out of prison. “I do not feel that this recurrent police activi
ty represents the image we want in Heron Point. I would like your opinion.”

  “I don’t know, Pops.” Nick sat up and leaned forward, making the overly direct eye contact of the practiced manipulator, a disappointing proclivity with which Leo was all too familiar. “I’m not sure some broken-down rent-a-cop snooping around is the image we want either.”

  The uncharacteristic caution in Nick’s tone heightened Leo’s suspicions. Which, of course, was the real purpose of the questions. He cared nothing for Nick’s opinion. Never had, and he’d begun to conclude that he never would. “Then you believe our problem will go away by itself.” Say yes, Nicolas. Please.

  “Hey, we don’t even know there is a prowler,” Nick sneered. “No burglaries or assaults, right? Just a guy walking around. Has anyone gotten a good look at him?”

  Leo shook his head. And does this news make you glad, Nicolas? “My fear is that this man is one of our residents, and therefore my wish is that we don’t suffer the stigma of having an arrest here. Hence the idea of our own security detail.” To keep you out of prison, son.

  “Whatever. It’s your money, Pops.” He flipped a hand and assumed an earnest, responsible expression. “Say, speaking of residents, have you thought any more about letting me have my own house here? I think I’m really ready.”

  Leo rose and crossed to the far wall to adjust the vertical blinds against the encroaching glare. Time for another deep breath and a slow count. Was the boy too delusional to comprehend the stakes at hand here?

  “I will be glad to, Nicolas.” He returned to his desk and the only chair he’d ever found that truly fit his oversized frame. “As soon as you find employment. You are well aware that I would be quite happy to find a position for you in any one of our businesses.”

  “Aw, Pops, I want my own crib first. See, then I’ll want to get a job.” He collapsed back into his customary slouch. If one could stamp one’s feet while sitting, Leo believed Nick would have. “Lexy’s got one, and I know she doesn’t pay you for it.”

  It was an old argument, one that Leo bore no interest in rekindling. “Alexandra has a job. One at which she is doing well. And that is still a prerequisite. It certainly would be so for you to arrange residence elsewhere.” Exasperated, Leo added, “And need I remind you, she has accomplished this despite being younger than you. I recommend you spend more time worrying about Nicolas and less time on Alexandra.”

  “I recommend somebody worry about how to keep her pants on,” Nick snickered.

  Leo slammed his plate-sized palm on the desk, rattling the windows. “I will not have you speak of your sister in that manner. Do you hear me?” He felt the flames only Nick could ignite licking at his gut and clamped his hands together to control them. He knew his daughter to be incapable of such infamy. He lost the battle for control and smacked the desk again. “Is there nothing beneath your dignity, boy? Now go say good morning to your mother before you go off and do whatever it is you do.”

  The boy even walks impudently, Leo thought as he watched his son’s departing back. And of course, he left the door open. Leo rose and circled the desk to close it, unable to stomach any further exchange. Not boy, man, he corrected himself. A thirty-year-old man who needed to be kicked out of the nest, but if Leo did so, Anna would be impossible to live with. The daffy woman believed herself fortunate to have her faultless, doting son at home. Besides, who would then take care of situations like this for Nick?

  Leo continued to harbor a small hope that Nick was not their stalker, and a secondary hope that the mere hiring of an investigator would rein him in if he was. Otherwise, the only clean solution Leo could see was for Nick to be caught in flagrante delicto. Then they could address the sickness head-on. But he must be caught by their own man, someone Leo had bought and paid for, instead of by the police. Thus they could handle everything quietly, privately.

  Pete would know someone; he understood the extent of loyalty Leo required and the lucrative rewards such service paid. Leo returned to his desk and picked up the phone.

  Digger Carrero checked his rearview mirror again, moving just his eyes so no one in the sheriff’s car riding his bumper would see him looking. Still back there, for two blocks now. Looked like a female cop, old bitch-pig tracking the Digger man. He twisted the cap back onto his bottle of Mickey’s Malt Liquor and eased it under the seat. He glanced at the speedometer to be damn sure he wasn’t going too slow. Heat would pull him over for that sooner than speeding, figuring he be poking along so slow because he was roasting some weed.

  After another half-block of grandma driving he saw what he needed, a gas station. Didn’t need no gas, needed an unsuspicious pull-off to get outta this bitch’s way. No hanging warrants he knew of, but he had the open Mickey’s and three twists of crystal in the car. And since he wanted to get himself a woman tonight, if that soft-tail badge back there cruised on by, it would be like a sign, proof that she wanted him to have one. Not one of them wore-out beasts from the skank zone he lived in, either. Although he liked the way he could get away with busting them up a little, made getting on that thang all the sweeter. They were scared of him, thought he got called Digger from all the graves he dug for people he’d iced. None of them skags knew he became Digger from picking his nose so much in school. He used to hate that name, but man, some nicknames can’t be escaped. He liked it now, with the reputation he had spread around about it.

  He slid the Cutlass up alongside the island and reached across to crank up the passenger window against the raw smell of the gasoline that the dumbass at the pump next to him had slopped all over the ground.

  No, tonight he was gonna have him one of them ponytail girls, in their spandex and halter tops out jogging or biking or whatever. Digger knew women didn’t care about exercising, they can’t grow no muscles. They just out jogging and all for one reason. Show off that thang. Especially those prissy ones in the subdivisions, all fixed up like a fashion show. They needed a man like Digger to show them what they really wanted, their purpose in life. And man, he loved the way they cried when he showed them.

  ’Course, he’d have to slap his ponytail girl around some too, imagine it was his sister Roni, payback for all the shit she used to do when she raised him. He hated the power she still held over him, hated knowing he couldn’t even get hard unless he imagined it was Roni begging and crying and giving up some of that ass. But only if he pictured her like she looked at fourteen, making him wear a rubber band around his joint all day whenever he had wet the bed. Now she just another fat ugly bitch with about seventeen of her own kids stinking up the nasty-ass trailer she lived in.

  He nodded to himself as he watched the cruiser coast on by, then settled back in the driver’s seat and let his fingers tap out a beat on the wheel. Decision made. Got to have him one. Tonight. He turned north onto Shoreline Drive and kept tapping, starting to cook a little rhythm now. Man, he could smell the rich girl perfume already.

  CHAPTER NINE

  J.D. Macken browsed impatiently up and down the aisles of Goolsby’s Ace Hardware, wishing the old lizard in the clerk’s smock would leave him alone. There was such a thing as too much customer service. How in the hell was a man supposed to shop for a murder weapon?

  “No, really, I’m just killing time before a meeting,” J.D. said for the eighty-fifth time. He slid back around to the gardening aisle, trying to refocus his thoughts.

  He had decided on a burglary scenario for the dirty deed, and knew that to carry it off he must think like a burglar and go through all the motions of one. Like the method actor concept he’d read about somewhere. So now he stood torn between buying a tool that a burglar would likely carry, one that would also work as an effective weapon, or finding some deadly but innocuous home and garden item a scared intruder might snatch up.

  The call had come Sunday, as if in answer to his prayers. Mama Jean had been hospitalized again for her fluttery heartbeat. Now all J.D. could think of was Lexy, how she smelled, how she tasted. His mind kept replaying
the wild, wanton, downright depraved things they’d done to one another Saturday. The anticipation of having her every day was about to make him explode. Damn if he hadn’t caught a woody right here in the hardware store at the thought of it. But he’d best get back on task right now. Ellie was making noises about flying up to Richmond, though her aunt was with Jean for now. J.D. needed to get his plans set before the woman died, if he got so lucky, because he’d have to attend the funeral with Ellie.

  “Hot time of year for yard work, isn’t it?” The voice came from right over his shoulder. J.D. flinched and whacked his head on a hanging rack of axe handles.

  “Ouch, shit.” He clutched his forehead and spun to see the clerk’s face sprouting up over the aisle partition like a pop-up genie. “Don’t do that. You’ll kill a customer someday.”

  He glanced at his hand for any sign of blood, listening to the old man clomp off muttering. No way that prune-faced pain in the ass would forget this transaction now, so he’d damn well better pick out a common everyday purchase. Good idea on the seasonal aspect, though, got to give it to the geezer for that. J.D. had considered driving to another county to do his shopping, but he knew that would be a serious sign of guilt if discovered later.

  Best of all, he believed he’d landed on a stroke of genius with his obituary plan—write up something flowery that mentioned Jean’s wealth obliquely and named Ellie as her sole descendant. Get it published in the local paper as a moral support for his wife and, presto, instant burglary motive. Then just wait for the will to go through probate. As long as he could keep Lexy’s mouth shut. Otherwise, there’d be a burglary at her house instead.

  And oh-ho, what do we have here? A set of oversized barbecue utensils: cleaver, skewer, fork, and tongs. Very seasonal and much too long to fit in any drawer. Perfectly natural to hang them on a peg within easy reach of a freaked-out burglar.