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and ham-and-cheese sandwich in the other. She’d had no idea being a cashier at a gas station could be so challenging. Bill had shown her all there was to do, from making fresh coffee, to setting the pumps, to restocking the refrigerators in the back room. It was two o’clock, and the midday rush had waned, affording her a break, at last.
    As she crossed the quiet parking lot, she glanced toward Gateway, surprised to see construction once more underway. Hunting automatically for Mocha Man, she realized with a leaping of her pulse that he was watching her from the height of a ladder .
    With a defiant smile, Lena showed him her sandwich. See, no camera here.
    He tipped her a nod. I see that.
    Heading doggedly toward the picnic table positioned under a mammoth pecan tree, she sat down, propped her aching feet on the opposite bench, and watched the parolees work while she ate .
    Not that there was all that much work going on anymore. One by one, the men had ceased their hammering and sawing to squint and shade their eyes as they stared across the highway at her, even Davis. She countered her sudden discomfort with a swig of iced tea .
    Would he recognize her as his victim’s sister after all these years? Surely not. It had been ten years since Davis had faced the Xenakis family at the pre-trial hearing. Back then, Lena had worn a thick braid down her back, glasses with lenses as thick as soda bottle bottoms, and fifteen pounds of extra weight. Plus, she’d dropped her real last name, Xenakis, for the sake of her professional career since no one knew how to pronounce it. There wasn’t any way Davis would make the connection, she assured herself. Eye laser surgery and rigorous Pilates made her look like a whole new woman .
    The sound of a bell had her glancing back up to see the men dispersing. Roughly half turned toward the mosque, but the other half, including Davis and Mocha Man were preparing to cross the highway.
    Like buzzards, they seemed oblivious to the sparse traffic. A school bus loaded with campers nearly bowled them over—all but Mocha Man who remained as alert as yesterday .
    Lena swam in a cold sweat. Ready or not, here they come .
    Lifting a hand to the gemstone at her neck, she flipped the tiny switch on the bail with her thumbnail. Her intent was to film her developing relationship with Davis , so that when he finally did confess, his words would come across as truthful, not just idle boasting .
    Last night’s dream flashed through her mind. Don’t think about it. She’d interviewed dozens of criminals in the course of her career. She could do this.
     
    “Damn, I’d like to get with that bitch,” Jamal Ibn Nasser exclaimed as they drew close enough to make out the woman’s supple curves .  
    “Watch your mouth,” Jackson snapped, as much annoyed by the lanky man’s outburst as he was by the fact that he felt the same way, even now that he’d learned who she was: Lena Alexandra, freelance editor for Crime and Liberty tabloid.
    He’d received a text from Ike confirming his suspicions just an hour ago.
    The woman had trouble written all over her. And he knew he ought to keep his distance, except he was dying to discover her agenda. Given her come-hither smile and the fingers she waggled at them invitingly, it was obvious she was after something—hopefully not him .    
    “I’m going to talk to her,” announced the parolee named Muhammed. Switching course abruptly, he inspired the others to trail after him, including Jackson, who kept a sharp look-out for anything resembling a camera .
    If the beauty was alarmed at being swarmed by ex-cons, she didn’t show it. “Hello,” she called, her lush lips curving into a heart-stopping smile.
    Damn if there wasn’t something about her that made a man think of sex.
    “How you doin’?” Muhammed purred, putting a swagger in his stride .  
    “Super.” She tucked a dark curl behind one ear as she regarded them one by one. “How are you