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have a few leads but nothing they’re free to tell me.”
    “Which would be true.” Donner watched Richard pace from the far side of the desk.
    “Except that they have a Walter ‘Stoney’ Barstone under surveillance.” Richard glanced at the fax Donner had brought with him. “And a house they began searching this afternoon. I would say that’s significant.”
    “It’s something. But since the house is owned by one Juanita Fuentes, who apparently died in 1997, I’d guess they aren’t quite sure what’s going on.”
    “I want to go there,” Richard said. “To that house.” Striding to the liquor cabinet for a brandy, he rubbed at his temple. Dr. Klemm had said he probably had a mild concussion, but by now he imagined the headache was more than equal parts frustration.
    “You can’t. We don’t officially know about it yet. And I can only push things so far, Rick, even with your name to throw around.”
    “I hate not knowing what’s going on. And whatever anyone else thinks, she didn’t act—”
    “Didn’t act like a killer? You said that before—but it’s not your job to decide that.” Clearing his throat, Donner uncrossed his long legs and stood. “I’m more concerned that the police want you to stay in Florida.” He flashed a grin at Richard’s frown. “I mean, I like having you here, even off-season, but keeping you in a place where things explode doesn’t make me all that comfortable.”
    “Me, either.”
    “Ha. You like being in the middle of shit.”
    Richard eyed him. “True or not, I do like resolutions. Go do something constructive, will you?”
    Tom made a truly awful bow. Americans .
    “Yes, your majesty. I’ll swing by the office and put in another call to Senator Branston. Maybe I can shake something out of her tree.”
    “Shake Barbara hard, or I will.”
    “No, you won’t, because you’re lying low and cooperating with the authorities in this matter. I’m the lawyer. I’m supposed to be nasty.”
    Donner left, closing the door behind him. Richard, though, continued to pace. He hated being handled, even by a friend like Tom. The police department’s sycophantic nonsense was simply insulting. And the FBI and he went back quite a ways and had never dealt well together.
    He supposed he might be considered a suspect by an exceptionally broad stretch of someone’s imagination, but in reality they probably wanted him to stay in Florida because his presence would keep the media interested and convince the department to continue paying the investigators their overtime. As long as it helped somebody track down Miss Smith, he would put up with being in the public eye—for now.
    He started to take another swallow of brandy, then stoppedas the skylight in the middle of the ceiling rattled and opened. With a graceful flip that looked much easier than it had to be, a woman dropped into his office. The woman, he noted, reflexively taking a step back.
    “Thank you for getting rid of your company,” she said in a low voice. “I was getting a cramp up there.”
    “Miss Smith.”
    She nodded, keeping green eyes on him as she walked to the door and locked it. “Are you sure you’re Richard Addison? I thought he slept in a suit, but night before last you had on nothing but jogging sweats, and tonight”—she looked him slowly up and down—“a T-shirt and jeans, and no shoes.”
    The muscles across his abdomen tightened, and not—he noted with some interest—in fear. “The suit’s at the cleaners.” Her gloved hands were empty, as they had been the other night, and this time she didn’t even carry a paint gun or a pack. Again she was in black—black shoes and black tight-fitting pants and a black T-shirt that hugged her slim curves.
    She pursed her lips. “Satisfied I’m not carrying a concealed weapon?”
    “I have no idea where you’d keep one, if you were,” he returned, sliding his gaze along the length of her.
    “Thanks for noticing.”
    “In fact,” he