Maybe

there was something odd about him.”

“Odd how?”

“The way he stared at her gave her the creeps, so she followed him through the house and out the front door, and saw him drive away in a white Honda Accord.”

“The three adults?” I say.

“All Moms.”

“Damn it, Lou! Why did it take you two days to make the connection?”

“I just found out about it this minute.”

“How’s that possible?”

“The cookie cake was laced with ricin.”

Ricin poison takes two to four days to kill, depending on the age and health of the victim.

“They must’ve all gotten sick the same day. Why didn’t anyone report it?”

“It was a kids’ birthday party. The moms figured the kids ate too much, or maybe the potato salad was bad. They started calling each other last night to compare notes, but still didn’t want to offend the hosts.”

“But all that changed today?”

“Right.”

“How bad is it, Lou?”

“The kids are all dying or dead. The moms will probably survive.”

I’m closing in on Miles’s car.

“Son of a bitch!” I say.

Looking behind me, I see Miranda pulling out into the road. I press her number on my cell phone.

“Is this too soon?” she says.

“When you pull next to him, keep six feet of distance between the cars.”

“Okay.”

She passes me and pulls up alongside him, keeping a six-foot distance between their windows.

I’m directly behind his car now.

Miles is staring ahead so intently he hasn’t noticed Miranda’s car yet.

She taps her horn.

He looks up.

She motions him to lower his window.

He does.

She says, “I’m sorry to bother you, but can you tell me if there’s a fast food restaurant nearby?”

At that point I walk between the two cars, pull my.357 Magnum from my duffel, and blow his fucking head off.

Miranda screams.

I open the passenger door, climb in, and she speeds off down the street.

“Omigod! Omigod! Omigod!” she screams.

“Sorry,” I say. “Change of plans.”

“Omigod!” she screams again. “That was fantastic!”

“It was?”

“Omigod! I loved it!”

“Ten thousand dollars a week,” I say.

“Done!” she says.

46

WHAT? HOLY SHIT, I don’t believe it! You’re here with us on the private jet?

Seriously, I don’t believe it.

Look, can you give us a few minutes of privacy?

Miranda and I are having sex.

No, I’m not giving details. Except that she’s “Totally into it!”

Her words, not mine.

So please. Show some class. Give me a few minutes here.

47

THANKS. I needed that.

48

MIRANDA AND I touch down in Santa Monica, California. I’ve reserved a suite in the same location on the beach where I stayed nearly four years ago. It’s a beautiful hotel, brand new, what they call a boutique hotel.

The old hotel got blown up while I was in it! I found out about the bomb just before it detonated. I actually had to jump off the second floor balcony to escape.

You may have read about it.

My future associate, Miranda, loves the place. Although she agreed to work for me, she refuses to start until next June, a year from now.

Why?

She wants to finish school, then travel to Europe for several months with her friend.

No, not a guy.

Her girl friend.

No, not a female lover.

A friend.

Yes, I’m certain, because I asked her the same questions. I also spent two hours trying to talk her out of going. Then I spent an hour trying to talk her into letting me come with her instead of her friend.

But no.

“At least let me visit you in Europe,” I asked. “We’ll have dinner.”

“No,” she said. “I’m already giving up my dream of running my own practice to work for you. And don’t think for a minute I don’t know how you operate!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means working for you won’t be a nine to five job. It’ll be an all-hours-of-the-night job, and one that will ruin any chance I have of living a normal life. I’ve worked my ass off to get these degrees, and I’m not going to jump into a twenty-four-seven job until I’ve done something fun for myself.”

“You’d rather be with your friend than me?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Why?”