Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,56

to be.

“What cameras?” Cressa demanded.

I nodded toward the patio door. “I can show you—but I’d be surprised if at least one of you didn’t know.”

Husband and wife, two icy spheres, followed me down the steps, through the pool area, outside, where I didn’t expect to need night vision to find what I was looking for.

But I was wrong. The cameras were gone. Just like that, someone had slipped in and collected them all, two tripods included.

When Tomlinson suggested, “I left a joint upstairs. How about we take ten, then come back with flashlights?” the search ended abruptly.

“I’ll call the cops if you’re not off my property in ten seconds,” Rob Arturo told us. He meant it.

—

IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT when I heard the soft clang of the bell at the walkway gate.

I stood, hesitated—this couldn’t be good news, and I was right. It was the married mistress bundled in a trench coat and stocking cap. Even at a distance, I could see that she was dabbing a handkerchief at her eyes.

The evening had turned chilly, a northeast breeze sufficiently brisk I had lighted a fire in the woodstove that heats my quarters when I’m in the mood. My mongrel heart was certainly in the mood, but logic demanded that I look at the ceiling and wonder aloud, “Why me?”

Curled near the fire, the dog looked up, thumped the floor with his tail, then went back to sleep. If that was a warning, the animal definitely didn’t possess extrasensory powers as Tomlinson claimed.

Clang-clang. The bell again. Crescent Arturo was getting impatient.

I was wearing sweatpants and a tank top that could have stood a washing. Should I hurry up and change?

Who you trying to kid, Ford? A rational man would tell her to go away . . . At most, offer to drive her home.

That’s exactly what I decided to do while I pulled off the tank top and chose an old Egyptian cotton shirt. I had the shirt on by the time I got to the door and called to the woman, “Come on in.”

While she crossed the boardwalk, I suffered a moment of clarity and used the cell to call Tomlinson. I was staring through a window at the cabin lights of No Más when he answered.

“Get your ass over here now,” I whispered.

“Trouble?” he asked. He sounded hopeful, which suggested he’d done more drinking than smoking.

“I think your girlfriend needs a place to sleep.”

He replied, “Huh . . . ? Oh—her! Be there soon as I get this damn caulking off my hands,” then a clattering sound that told me he’d dropped the phone.

From the porch, I heard, “Are you alone?”

“Depends on your definition,” I said, stepping over the dog, then opening the screen door. An attractive woman who’s been crying projects a childlike quality that dampens sensuality, yet it softens the heart. “Everything’ll be okay,” I assured, steered her inside. “What happened?”

When Cressa had a glass of wine in hand and was seated in the chair next to my telescope and books, she answered the question, explaining, “We had a terrible fight after you left—no surprise, I’m sure. Robby went storming out. His family has a condo near the airport. I thought about calling Tomlinson, but I hate that little rubber dinghy boat of his. It’s so wet, and the wind’s freezing.”

“The condo where your husband keeps a Lexus,” I said.

“His family’s car. I was glad he left, at first, because usually I love being alone in the beach house. But . . . then I got scared.” She looked at me, her jadeite eyes glistening. “It’s because of Deano. He’s around here somewhere. I believed you about the cameras. How else this?”

She was still wearing the trench coat cinched tight by a belt. From a pocket, she pulled the DVD Rob had found and placed it on the desk. On the disc was a little label, the stick-on type, one word printed in caps: WHORE!!!

“Looks like someone doesn’t approve of your new freedom,” I said. “Your brother-in-law for sure?”

“Who else?”

“There has to be a reason. Why would Rob’s brother give a damn?” I pointed at the DVD. “In the video, who’s the guy with you?”

“How would I know!” she snapped. “I watched just enough to see where it was taken. That’s all. Just the thought of someone spying gives me the creeps.”

“I assume you were with Tomlinson,” I said. But also knew the married mistress could have added another man to the list in her eagerness to