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television. Pine
logs smoldered in the fireplace.
    A pair of raggedy-haired Barbie dolls lay
sprawled on the carpet at his feet, and a trail of discarded
miniature shoes and disco outfits littered the carpet all the way
to the second-floor steps. Like all four-year old girls, Tiffany
had been reluctant to go to bed. She'd left her version of a bread
crumb trail behind her.
    If you didn't know that he
had unmercifully beaten his wife, you'd think Price looked pretty
harmless. He was tall and stocky, but going soft, like an
ex-athlete who has kept up his eating routine while cutting down on
his exercise one considerably. He was wearing a rugby shirt tucked
into khakis and a pair of topsiders on his feet. His outfit blended
in perfectly with the golf crowd on the television screen, but the
overall effect was a little white bread— even for my Florida
cracker tastes. Hell, I hadn't seen a black preppie since the eighties, when I ventured to Atlanta
for a weekend of sin with a renegade banker I met on a
plane.
    I was willing to bet that Tawny Bledsoe had
something to do with the J. Crew image—and that Price would start
sporting dashikis to make up for his mistake by the time he got
through divorcing her.
    After a while, my feet and fingers started
to ache from the cold. Plus, Price was getting sleepy and his
yawning was contagious. When he switched off the television and
headed for the stairs, I decided to call it a night. I'd found
Robert Price as requested. He was alone with his daughter. Now I
could get a good night's sleep and let my client know my mission
was done.
    I picked up a six-pack of Bud at the
Pirate's Cove Pier before heading for the Atlantic Beach Days Inn,
where they were happy to rent me a cheap room with a carpet that
felt slightly damp to the touch. I didn't want to think about
why.
    I sat on the bed, popped open a beer, and
called Tawny Bledsoe. She wasn't at home. She wasn't in her car. I
finally resorted to her beeper number.
    She called me back immediately. "This is
Tawny," she said in a voice that made me think she was a couple
cans ahead of me in the six-pack department.
    "Casey Jones," I told her. "I've found
them."
    "You're kidding? That's great news. Where
are they?"
    "Emerald Isle. In a private home."
    "Those bastards." Her voice grew hard. "It's
Linda and Jim's place, isn't it?"
    "Yup," I admitted.
    "I should have known they would take his
side. And they were always so nice to me to my face. When all the
time they knew that—"
    "If you don't mind," I cut her off. "I'm too
tired to listen to who took sides against what."
    She was quiet, then said, "I guess you hear
that a lot in your job."
    "I do. And it's never fun." Talking about
the hateful habits of divorce reminded me. "Let me ask you a
question, Tawny," I said casually. "That guy you met outside my
office hasn't been bothering you or anything, has he?"
    "The loser who tried to pick me up? Never
saw him again. Why?"
    "No big deal," I answered, wondering why she
had just lied to me. Obviously she had not connected the furry
figure who ambled past them while they were bent over her car
engine with Bobby D. "I had some trouble with him. I figure you
have enough complications as it is, and I wanted to warn you about
him."
    "Don't worry," she said. "He isn't my type.
No money. If you can't afford a motel room, you can't afford me."
She laughed. I didn't. It seemed a singularly inappropriate joke
for someone in her predicament to make. On the other hand, the
world is full of women who define their lives by the men in them—
and when they lose one romantic partner, the only thing they ever
think about is how to replace him with another. I had a feeling
Tawny Bledsoe fell into this category. You don't spend that much
time on your face and body unless you're trolling for big game.
    I realized that, despite what her husband
had done to her, I really didn't like my client all that much.
    "Look," I said. "I did my job. I found your
daughter. Is there