Orchid Beach

to a large bedroom with a large bed, both of them shedding clothes along the way. Daisy followed, her claws clicking on the hardwood floors.

“Lie down, Daisy,” Holly said. “Time to go to sleep.”

Daisy lay down and rested her head on her paws, watching them.

“Good dog,” Jackson said, struggling with Holly’s jeans.

“I hope to god you’ve got a condom,” she said as he laid her on the soft bed, “because I foolishly didn’t bring anything.”

“Not to worry,” he said.

And she didn’t.

CHAPTER

24

Holly heard the surf before she opened her eyes. Then she sat straight up in bed. Work! She fell back. Saturday, thank God. She reached for Jackson as she had done several times during the night, but he was not there.

Daisy came and nuzzled her, poking her nose under Holly’s arm and lifting so that she could get underneath.

Holly heard the rattle of pots from downstairs, so she got up, washed her face, took Jackson’s terry-cloth robe from a hook on the back of the door and padded barefoot downstairs. Jackson was scrambling eggs.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

“Afternoon? What time is it?”

“Just past ten. That’s afternoon for me.”

“You’re not working today, are you?” she asked.

“Nope. I’m spending the day with you.”

“Good call,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind.

He turned and embraced her. “You feel better on this side of me.”

“Mmmm,” she agreed.

“Dog food under the sink,” he said. “I was hoping Daisy would be here for breakfast.”

Holly fed the dog and let her out.

“Eggs are ready,” Jackson called. He put the eggs, with bacon, toast and orange juice, on the table, then set down a pot of freshly made coffee. “Hope you’re hungry.”

“You bet,” she said, digging in.

“You’re a girl with a healthy appetite.”

“I’m not a girl, but you’re right about the appetite.”

“You’re a girl to me.”

“I’ll take that in the best possible light,” she said.

“What do you normally do in the mornings?”

“I run, then I work. Normally. What do you do?”

“The writer Max Shulman once said that exercise destroys the tissues; I’ve never forgotten that.”

“You don’t enjoy exercise?”

“Not for its own sake. I enjoy tennis, golf, and sex.”

“I’m acquainted with your enjoyment of the latter,” she laughed.

“I reckon we burned a lot of calories last night. I’ll think of that as the moral equivalent of my morning run.”

“That’s the kind of slippery thinking a lawyer can get away with,” she said, “but not a police officer. On the other hand, maybe I could skip the run today.”

“We could always burn some more calories,” he said.

She laughed. “Mind if I finish breakfast?”

“Not if you hurry.”

“Jackson, the car or truck or whatever it was last night—could it have been a Range Rover?”

Jackson thought about that. “Let’s see, a Range Rover looks kind of square from the front, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Maybe it could have been, I don’t know. Could have been anything big—pickup, SUV, whatever. Why a Range Rover?”

“What do you know about a real estate development called Palmetto Gardens?”

“That’s easy: almost nothing, which is what most people know about it. I know it’s a superprivate, superexclusive retreat for the super-rich. When they were building the place they hired local contractors to do the basic work—roads, sewers, electrical and phone—and locals seem to do all the basic work on the houses— foundations, framing, roofing. But they bring in their own construction people for the finishing work. There was stuff in the papers about that early on; there was some resentment that more local jobs weren’t being created, but their public relations people came back with some very detailed answers about what the development was doing for the community at large—number of jobs, money spent in the town, their contribution to the tax base. It was very impressive, and it pretty much squelched any opposition. The city council backed them up, too.”

“Have you ever been inside the place?”

“No, and neither has anybody else I know.”

“I have.”

“You have?”

“Yeah. I was driving around a couple of weeks ago, getting to know the geography and the neighborhoods, but when I tried to drive in there I got stopped cold.”

“Well, it is private property, I guess.”

“Yeah, but the head of security came out and gave me a tour of the place.”

“What was the place like?”

“Like you’d imagine a superexpensive place would be: a lot of facilities for apparently only a few people. What heaven would be like, if it had been designed by a real estate developer.”

“Oh, I remember, too, that the local real estate agencies were pretty pissed off not to get a piece of the action on property sales. They don’t work with local agents at all. But what has all this got to do with Range Rovers?”

“The head of security, a guy named Noble, was driving one, and I saw a couple more while I was there. The security force drives them.”

“Noble? What’s his first name?”

“Barney.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Huh?”

“You remember, I told you my ex-partner, the ex-convict, now works for a Miami security outfit?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s called Craig and Noble. Jack Craig is a former Miami police captain. Barney Noble is, or was, his partner.”

“You think that means something?”

“Let’s see, what could it mean? That maybe my ex-partner sent Barney Noble up here, under cover, to off me?”

“I guess not.”

“I think it’s just a coincidence. I’ve never even met Noble, or anybody else from that place, come to think of