Mistaken for the Mob
Ginny Aiken

MILLS & BOON

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“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “…plans to give you hope and a future…and [I] will bring you back from captivity.”

—Jeremiah 29:11, 14

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Mary Margaret Muldoon was terminated.

As were Helmut Rheinemann, Toby Matthias and Muriel Harper. J.Z. Prophet held the death certificates of the well-to-do seniors in his left hand. On a neat pile before him sat autopsy reports that identified the cause of death as natural in all four cases. But the papers in his right hand belied those certificates.

“E-mail,” he muttered to his partner, Dan Maddox. “What self-respecting mobster orders hits through e-mail? But here they are: Terminate Mary Margaret Muldoon, and Terminate Helmut Rheinemann.”

J.Z. could have read the others, too. But why? They said the same thing. And the same woman had sent them all: Maryanne Wellborn.

He flung the pages onto his desk and rose from his chair. He went for his coffeepot, which he’d brought to the office when he got tired of FBI sludge, and poured himself his fourth cup of the morning. It was only seven o’clock.

After another hit of caffeine, he asked, “What kind of librarian would order a bunch of hits?”

Dan, an easygoing guy, shifted in his chair and shrugged. “Hey, it’s a great cover—if they were hits.”

“Okay. It is. But I want to know how she’s offing them. Pathology found no evidence of foul play. The causes of death are listed as asphyxiation from emphysema, congestive heart failure, liver cancer and pneumonia. We might be able to pin the asphyxiation on her, but how’d she kill the others?”

“I think it’s our job to find that out.”

“It’s our job to get the evidence that’ll lock her up.”

“Hmm…a librarian. Maryanne Wellborn, you say?”

“She’s behind these hits.”

“Sure of yourself, aren’t you? And letting it get personal.”

The accusation slugged J.Z. in the gut. “Not at all. This is business. The other’s past history.” He set his coffee mug on the corner of his desk, then jabbed a finger toward Dan. “Don’t forget. You were right at my side the last six months. You helped me track the Verdis and their mob pals as they scammed their way through these ritzy retirement homes. You counted the bodies they left behind, just as I did, and looked just as hard as I did for something to stick on them—”

“Something stuck. Joey-O’s behind bars.”

“Not for this. He shot Carlo Papparelli. Aside from those shaky connections to Joey-O and Tony the Toe Verdi—scum, if ever there was scum—we didn’t come up with a single solid thing to nail the deaths of the old people on them. But I know their game. And this perp in New Camden is just the latest in the string of killers we’ve been after. The only difference is that this one made a mistake. She left us these e-mails. How generous of her.”

His partner’s hands went up in surrender. “Okay, okay. Lay off the lecture. It was just a friendly warning I gave you. Can’t let your old man’s troubles mess with your mind on a case. My future’s in your hands.”

J.Z. snorted. “Last time I looked, there was a line of ladies wanting to take it in theirs.”

Dan winked. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

“This man’s—” J.Z. tapped Dan’s chest then glanced at the papers on the desk “—got a job to do. He can’t be thinking about his next date, and do it right.”

“You complaining about my work?”

“Warning you against dropping your guard.”

“That’s uncalled for,” Dan countered, his voice tight.

“Just put your social life on ice while we’re on this one.” J.Z. knew he was out of line but couldn’t back down. Dan’s reminder of the skeletons in the Prophet family closet rankled. “It’s clear Wellborn’s got brains and more guts than most. Takes a cocky crook to send this kind of message out for the world to read.”

“Weeeell…,” Dan drawled, “e-mail’s not exactly out there for everyone to read.”

“We got copies, didn’t we?”

“Sure, but it took Zelda—computer geek extraordinaire—days to track them down. It’s not as if Wellborn posted them to a bulletin board or announced them in a chat room.”

J.Z. rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that Internet junk. If we can get the stuff, anyone can. Maryanne-the-library-anne is one arrogant cookie. It’s time to wrap up months of paper trails, bank-and account-hopping fortunes that then disappear without a trace, if you’ll remember. We did interviews, surveillance and pored over autopsy reports that coughed up nothing concrete. We even planted an agent at the nursing home in New Jersey. The pattern’s the same at Peaceful Meadows—cushy retirement home, dead seniors, buckets of money. Wellborn’s in the thick of it, ordering hits, and I’m going to bring her down.”

Paperwork in hand, he stood. “Come on. We have to get a judge to sign the permits so we can bug her office and tap her home phone. Then we can head out to New Camden.”

“I’ll have Zelda come with us—you know, for the computer stuff. We’ll probably get more from that than the other.”

J.Z. grimaced. “That Internet stuff is garbage. This is going to take the usual: surveillance, taping, interviewing witnesses. Not that e-mail business.”

“Still an Internet-phobe, huh?”

“And proud of it.”

“Have it your way, but I want Zelda’s magic fingers on our side. From the looks of it, we’re going to need all the help and evidence we can get.”

J.Z. crossed to his office door. “Do whatever you want. Bottom line, I’m going to nail Wellborn. Who’d figure a librarian as a mobster, putting out hits on old people in a nursing home? And for money…As if her breed—mobsters, not librarians—doesn’t have enough of the bloody kind already. Organized crime’s the worst form of scum, but this woman’s taken their usual a notch lower.”

Dan’s arm lay heavy on J.Z.’s shoulders. “Don’t let it get personal, okay? I know this is about the Verdis, but the past is past, and your old man’s locked up. He’s going nowhere.”

J.Z. shrugged off his partner’s arm and ground his teeth. “That was uncalled for. I wasn’t thinking of him. Wellborn’s the one who’s out there. In New Camden. With a bunch of seniors who can’t help themselves. Just like the ones who couldn’t help themselves and wound up dead. You know it, I know it, the department knows it. Disgusting scam.”

“Let’s go see what we can do.”

They strode down the hall and into a large room full of cluttered metal desks, the hub of the FBI’s Philadelphia organized-crime unit. On their way to the elevator, an unmistakable pair of high heels clicked toward them.

“Special Agent Prophet. In my office. Now.”

J.Z. groaned. Once upon a time, Eliza Roberts had voiced his name in sweet, loving tones. Not anymore. He’d never felt the truth of the old chestnut about women scorned until he broke up with her after she demanded more than he was ready to offer.

He shook his head and caught the glee in Dan’s brown eyes as he entered his superior officer’s cubicle. Eliza had clawed her way up to the position he turned down just before their breakup. The way he figured, she did it to spite him. But it didn’t bother him. He had turned it down first. Pushing papers appealed to him as much as a case of Montezuma’s revenge during a worldwide Imodium shortage.

When Eliza closed her office door, J.Z. gave up hope of a neutral encounter. She was out for bear. He might as well have Smokey, Yogi or Boo-boo written across his chest.

He couldn’t wait to get away. “What’s up?”

Eliza rounded her desk then sat in her expensive and very new leather chair. The Bureau didn’t provide that kind of luxury. She must have bought it to make it look as if she’d wormed the perk from the higher-ups. J.Z. was glad he’d noticed her less appealing attributes and cleared out of their relationship before he wound up with heel marks down his back—and heart.

“Well?” he prodded.

She handed him three pieces of paper. “Another nursing home hit.”

Great. As he scanned the pages, a familiar name jumped out. “Carlo Papparelli? As in Laundromat Jr.? Mat, the mob moneyman?”

“The one and only.”

“No way. The Gemmellis had him gunned down a week ago. The Philly P.D. got Joey-O behind bars for it, too. Didn’t they?”

“Read ’em and weep.”

He did—read the papers, that is—he’d never waste a tear on a mobster. “I don’t get it. I heard the family’d shipped the body back to the old country for burial.”

“Read on.”

He did. And frowned. “What is this? Papparelli was only fifty or so. What was he doing in an old folks’ home? Oh, who cares? What really went down?”

“That, J.Z., is the most intriguing detail.” She pointed to the paper in his left hand. “There’s Maryanne Wellborn’s e-mail ordering the hit. In your right hand, you have his death certificate—but not for a week ago. He died day before yesterday. And the cause of death is a stroke, not the bullets we know about. No autopsy. The family refused.”

“This clinches it. She’s as dirty as they come. She’s mixed up with either the Gemmellis or the Verdis and took out the Laundromat. But how’d Mat slither into the nursing home when he was supposed to be dead? How can this librarian get away with all this? Does she have doctors on the take? Is the coroner in on the kill-the-rich-old-folks-for-their-bucks scam, too?”

Eliza smirked. “Don’t you think finding those answers is a field agent’s job? Your much-loved field job. You know…what you’re paid to do.”

Something in her voice made him ask, “Do you doubt I can do it?”

She waved. “Of course not—ordinarily.”

“Ordinarily?” His stomach plummeted. “What do you mean?”

The back of J.Z.’s neck prickled at the gleam in her blue eyes. When she pursed her lips and tapped her polished nails on the desktop, his gut churned. When she stood and leaned toward him over her desk, his survival instinct compelled him to run.

But he couldn’t.

“There is one tiny thing, J.Z.,” his Supervising Special Agent said. “You know that problem you have with rules?”

Since he’d yet to meet the rule he wouldn’t get around for the sake of justice, J.Z. shrugged. He always got the job done. Nothing else mattered.

“Well,” Eliza went on, “we’re going to do things my way this time. This case will be investigated by the book. You got that?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That since you recently went off like a half-cocked shotgun—again—and this case involves your preferred target—the mob—I will yank your badge and gun if you pull one of your stunts on my watch.”

“Come again?”

Her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned. “I mean it, J.Z. You’re off the case if you cross the line. And if you’re half as smart as you like to think, you’ll believe me. I have the power now.”

Blood roared in his ears. She’d known just how to hit him.

How could he ever have found her attractive? These days, he only saw the spite in her glare; he only heard the gloating in her voice.

“So you want a pound of my flesh.”

She looked away. “Something like that.”

He turned and opened the door, his rage barely leashed. “I’d be careful if I were you. Blue-eyed redheads don’t look good with pea-green skin.”

Her voice, low and nasty, made him pause. “One toe over the line, J.Z., and you’re out. Got it?”

“Loud and clear, boss.”

He made for the bank of elevators where Dan slouched against the wall, busy charming the new girl from the secretarial pool.

J.Z. asked, “The permits?”

Dan patted his jacketed chest. “All set.” He then arched an eyebrow. “Your mood took a different turn. It’s safe to say you didn’t kiss and make up with the dragon lady.”

J.Z. ignored the comment. “Need to pack?”

Dan pushed the elevator call button. “You know I keep a bag in the trunk of my car.”

“Let’s go.” J.Z. followed Dan into the elevator. As the silver doors closed out the disappointed young woman, Dan faced J.Z.

J.Z. held up a hand; with the other, he punched the button. “Don’t say it.”

“I did warn you before you started dating her. You can be as charming and kind as you want, but you can’t get involved with coworkers. It’ll smack you in the face sooner or later. Keep business and pleasure far, far apart, I say.”

Exhaustion hit all of a sudden. “Just drop it.”

Dan stepped out of the elevator. “It’s just that when you make a mistake, Prophet, you really make a doozy.”

J.Z. followed the younger man to the street. Dan’s words continued to mock him. The Prophet family was known for their mistakes. And as Dan had put it, whenever they made one, it was of the doozy variety. J.Z. was determined to stop making mistakes.

He would have to take extra care this time, if for nothing else than to avoid Eliza’s payback. Because, without a doubt, he was going to nail Maryanne Wellborn for the murders.

Even if it killed him. And it might. If Eliza grounded him, the failure would do him in.

“Happy Birthday, dear Stanley…Happy Birthday to you!”

As the residents of New Camden’s Peaceful Meadows Residence and Nursing Center sang to her father, the guilt Maryanne Wellborn had carried for months began to lessen. Maybe Dad had been right to insist on the move into the multilevel care facility.

“I want to be where the action is, Cookie,” he’d argued, roguish grin in full bloom. “All the—” he winked “—dudes and babes are there, the ones old enough to speak my language, that is.”

Maryanne had wanted to care for her only surviving parent at home—his home. But Stan Wellborn’s obstinacy rivaled a mule’s, and he’d insisted on putting the family home up for sale. It had sold distressingly soon.

She’d known how much attention he needed. An insulin-dependent diabetic and recent amputee, his blood-sugar levels needed constant monitoring, as did his blood pressure and diet. Not to mention, his penchant for merriment and trouble. He’d been lonely and bored at home while Maryanne worked. Boredom had led to nutty amusements, which then mushroomed into mischief. Mischief had invited risk along, and both had courted danger.

She couldn’t discount the friendships he’d made since he moved in. He wasn’t bored anymore.

“Hey, Stan!” called a bald-headed fellow of her father’s vintage. “Whatcha waiting for? Blow out them candles already. We want some of that cake.”

Murmured agreement broke out.

Her dad winked. “I’m making my wish, don’t you know?”

“Ha! What do you need more wishes for?” This gent leaned on a cane. “The ladies here have made them all come true since you moved in.”

The birthday boy grinned, closed his eyes and then blew out the eight candles—seven fat ones for the decades and a thin one for his additional year—on the large blue-blossomed cake. “You’re just jealous of my irresistible charm, Hughie.”

The residents howled at the banter, no one louder than Maryanne’s dad. For a moment, she wished her mother were still alive to share his pleasure. Then she realized how silly her wish was. Mother would have frowned upon the whole scenario. Quiet and unassuming, Martha Wellborn would have been mortified by her impulsive, happy-go-lucky husband’s lack of restraint.

Propriety had been Mother’s underpinning, and she’d drilled its need into her daughter’s psyche from the moment Maryanne could understand.

What she never did understand was how two such disparate souls had made a match in the first place, but she’d never questioned her parents’ love for each other. Martha’s death two years ago had plunged Stan into a depression deeper than Maryanne had expected in such an upbeat man.

The depression vanished once he moved into the home.

She shook off her dark thoughts, stepped closer to her father and kissed his high forehead. “I brought you something.”

His hazel eyes twinkled. “What are you waiting for?”

With a nod to the nursing home’s activities coordinator, Maryanne smiled back. “Let me help Sherri bring it in.”

The two women lugged in a stack of cartons and set up the stereo. Tears gleamed in his eyes.

“Oh, Cookie. I oughta say you shouldn’t have, but I’m tickled you did.”

Blinking her own mistiness away, Maryanne said, “I knew how much you missed your music, and your old record player was useless. Enjoy this one, okay?”

“You know I will. C’mere.” He patted his blanketed thigh. “Let your old man give you a hug and kiss.”

Maryanne perched on her dad’s lap and hugged him tight. She loved the old scamp, and she meant to keep him as healthy and happy as possible for as long as she could.

“I love you, Dad.”

“Love you always, baby.”

“Harrumph!” offered the bald man. “You’re getting too mushy for a party. Let’s try out that stereo.”

With a final pat to his daughter’s back, Stan gave a whoop. “Go for it, Charlie. We need music to make this a real party.”

Under cover of the hubbub, Maryanne said, “You’re really happy here, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Cookie, I really am.” He winked. “Now it’s your turn to find some action. Of the young, male, falling-in-love kind, that is. It’s not God’s plan for a beautiful young woman to spend her life buried in a library or visiting a bunch of geezers.”

“You’re not a geezer, and I love books.”

“You need a…a—Oh, yeah! A chunk to show you what’s what, girl.”

Maryanne rose to hide her blush and stifle a nervous giggle. “I’m too busy, and I’d rather spend my free time with you.”

Stan shook his finger and grinned. “Mark my words, girl. When that lovebug bites, you’re gonna fall hard.”

“Hey, I use bug spray by the gallon. It’s my favorite fragrance. But I’d better go help Sherri—look at that mob of cake-starved partiers around her.”

While she doled out cake, Maryanne watched her father from the vantage point of the activities hall stage. The stack of small gifts from his friends thrilled him. Then, after they’d finished eating, with his favorite Glenn Miller, Guy Lombardo and Jimmy Dorsey tunes on the new stereo, he drew each ambulatory lady near and twirled her around his wheelchair.

“I told you not to worry,” Sherri Armstrong told Maryanne as she tied off another bag of trash. “He practically begged you to move him here.”

“I know. But it was hard.”

“He’s busy, and he’s happy. And he wants you to build a life for yourself. That’s your next assignment, you understand?”

“Not you, too. First Dad, now you.”

Sherri, happily married mother of two, nodded. “We know what we’re talking about.”

“We’ll see.” Maryanne gathered the empty punch bowl and headed for the kitchen. “Right now, we have a mess to clean.”

No sooner did she enter the vast, equipment-filled white room, than Dean Ross, Peaceful Meadows’ director, called her name. Her middle knotted. The busy man rarely found time to discuss the library cart she brought twice a week to the home. She doubted he’d come for the birthday party.

“How are you, Dean?”

He grimaced. “Same as always. You’re going to have to cancel Audrey White’s library privileges.”

“Oh, no. I missed her at Dad’s party and meant to stop by her room to see how she liked the last historical novel I suggested.”

“The ambulance just took her to the hospital. She slipped into a coma a little while ago, and she won’t be back.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be. You saw how weak she was when you brought her books.”

“You’re right. She couldn’t even sit up when I came…was it day before yesterday? The day before, maybe. Rosie, Audrey’s nurse, was getting the other bed in the room ready for a new patient. I helped her…I had to push the meds stand out of the way to get to Audrey’s side of the room. And Audrey mentioned she was headed to another floor.”

“She was. Intensive care. And the new patient did no better.”

Maryanne winced. “Audrey didn’t say a thing. Now…can’t they do anything more?”

“Cancer at that stage is merciless. Morphine for the pain is the best we have. Nature helps and lets the patient enter a coma toward the end, but I’m afraid Audrey—”

“I understand,” Maryanne said around the lump in her throat. “I’ll take care of her library card.”

“She’s not the only one.”

She bit her lip. “Who else?”

“I don’t think you had a chance to meet him. Mr. Papparelli, the patient who moved into Audrey’s old room. He passed on, too.”

“You’re right. I never did meet him.” His death wouldn’t hit her as hard as Audrey’s decline. “I set up his privileges as soon as I got word he was coming—I never knew he was the one moving into the bed I helped make. Then day before yesterday Marlene in Admissions called to say he’d gone into cardiac arrest and wouldn’t need books. He wasn’t dead yet, but close. I terminated him right away.”

Dean sighed. “It’s never easy, you know.”

Maryanne nodded and again tried to swallow the knot in her throat. “I know, and I’d better say good-night to Dad. I have to be at work early tomorrow.”

She fought more tears—these hot and painful by comparison to her earlier tender ones—on her way back to the activities hall. As usual, a bevy of aged belles surrounded her father’s wheelchair, smiling and chatting with the unrepentant flirt. Maryanne sighed in relief. It was foolish to need the reassurance just because a sweet woman she had befriended was near the end. And yet, she did.

She donned a bright smile and made her way through his admirers. “I’m going home now, you party animal. Some of us have to work.”

“You work too much,” he countered. “But I won’t keep you. You need your rest. Thanks for everything, Cookie. Just don’t worry about me. I’m in my element.”

Feminine laughter tittered around them. Maryanne swooped down for her good-night hug and kiss. Then, before she broke down and cried for real, she rushed from the building and into her car.

She was going to miss Audrey. Just as she missed Mary Margaret Muldoon and her love of mysteries, Helmut Rheinemann’s armchair travels and Toby Matthias’s penchant for art books. She loved to serve the nursing home residents. She felt called to bring the joy of books into their often lonely and frequently pain-filled days. If only she could learn the art of detachment. Each loss broke her heart.

Tomorrow she would order Audrey’s termination. Then she would work surrounded by sadness. And she counted on the Lord to see her through the day she had to terminate her own dad.

Maryanne wiped her eyes with a tissue and then typed the curt e-mail first thing the next day. Terminate Audrey White. She expected a visit once Sandy Rodriguez, the card privilege clerk, downloaded that morning. The young man had learned that each message was written with a fresh batch of tears.

She clicked the Send icon and received the message sent confirmation. Before she signed off, however, the screen went blank. “Rats.”

The system was down. Again. The glitch, no matter how short-lived, would only make what had started out as a crummy day even worse. Since the county library system joined the information superhighway a couple of years earlier, it had become close to impossible to operate without the computers.

She set her sad thoughts aside and reached across the desk for her correspondence folder. She might as well wade through it while the equipment stayed down. Who knew how long it would take to get things up and humming again.

A short while later her door swung inward and two men in jeans, white shirts and navy ties, brass nameplates over their pocket, stepped in.

“Hi,” said the shorter of the two, his brown eyes as warm as his smile. “We’re from Uni-Comp. I’m Dan Maddox, and this—” he glared at his companion “—is J.Z. Prophet. We’re here to fix the system and check the machines.”

Surprised by that odd look, Maryanne took note of the names on the plates and stood. “Be my guests. I can’t do a thing until you do yours.”

Dan Maddox went right to her desk, but the other man, J.Z. Prophet, stayed in the doorway, his gray eyes fixed on her.

“Maryanne Wellborn?” he asked in a deep voice.

“Yes, and if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to your work.”

Maryanne stepped out to the hall. What an intense man. His eyes…so cold. She shivered. With a deep breath, she regained her composure.

But from the other side of the not-quite-closed door, she heard Maddox say, “I’m waiting for that modem card.”

J.Z. muttered a response she didn’t quite catch.

Maryanne’s curiosity got the better of her and she pressed up against the door frame. Holding her breath, she peered through the crack into her office.

Long seconds crawled by, minutes…centuries. No one moved.

Maddox turned to his partner, who still stood, statue-like, by the equipment case. “Come on, J.Z. Before the librarian gets back.”

Gray eyes speared to the door. Maryanne froze under the impact of that icy stare. She suddenly wanted to run, take cover.

J.Z. Prophet, a complete stranger, really, really didn’t like her.

Why?

TWO

“Whatever you say, Trudy Talbot.” Maryanne tucked her work-loosened brown-and-white gingham blouse into the waistband of her dirndl skirt. “But you should have seen the look in his eyes. So tell me. What would make a computer geek look so…so scary? So disgusted? So angry?”

The classy, prematurely gray director of the Children’s Collection shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe his wife served him eggs for breakfast when he wanted Frootie Tooties instead. Or maybe his cat presented him with a dead mouse…just before he swallowed the eggs. The adult male is beyond my comprehension. That’s why I stick to those under the age of twelve.”

“Last time I checked, Ron Talbot was a quite adult thirty-five.”

Trudy slicked on a coat of soft plum lip gloss and dropped the tube into her tailored black leather purse. “That doesn’t mean my husband’s any easier to understand than others of his kind.”

Maryanne tucked her lip balm in the side pocket of her tote. “You don’t fool me. You two have been married thirteen years, you share a mortgage, car and minivan, a dog, four cats and two kids. You must have figured him out at least a little.”

“Three.”

“Three? Three what?”

Trudy’s fair skin bloomed a delicate rose. “Three kids.”

“Huh?” Maryanne glanced at her friend’s flat middle. “Oh! Really?”

Trudy’s smile lit up the dingy bathroom in the basement of the New Camden Public Library. “Mm-hmm.”

The two women hugged, then Maryanne held her friend at arm’s length. “That’s wonderful! And you look wonderful, too. When are you due?”

“Sometime in mid-November.”

“A Thanksgiving baby—how perfect.”

“It is a perfect time to give thanks for all my blessings.” Trudy eyed Maryanne. “So much so that you ought to give it a try. Marriage and motherhood, that is.”

“Are you crazy? You just finished telling me men are impossible to understand, and now you want me to hook up with one of them?”

“I said they’re impossible to understand, not impossible to love and live with.” Trudy hitched the strap of her purse onto her shoulder. “Come on. I have to get back. The Thursday story-hour kids are about to get here, and we don’t want them on the loose.”

“And I have to go see what those guys got done on my computer.”

The two women went upstairs to the library’s main level. Trudy gave Maryanne a sideways glance. “You know Uni-Comp’s people are always great. You never know what’s going on in people’s lives. Maybe that one guy had a fight with his wife.”

“Maybe…but he still gave me the creeps.”

“How so?”

Cold gray eyes popped into Maryanne’s mind. So did the flat slash of lips, the rigid line of shoulder, the direct and deliberate gait. “He made me feel like the deer in a hunter’s crosshairs.”

“That makes no sense. You don’t know him, do you?”

“Trust me. I’d remember if I’d seen him before.”

In the warm oak-paneled-and-floored lobby, Trudy placed gentle hands on Maryanne’s shoulders and met her gaze. “Now don’t get mad at me, okay?”

Maryanne went to speak, but Trudy shook her head.

“Listen. Please. Do you think maybe you imagined the guy’s anger because your emotions were already in a tangle over your friend at the nursing home?”

Maryanne’s urge to deny the possibility felt right, but because Trudy was so perceptive, she gave her earlier state of mind careful consideration. She thought back to when she first saw J.Z. Prophet, to that last look in his eyes, to the way he’d made her feel.

“There’s always that chance,” she said, “but I don’t think so. I’d prayed through my tears by the time those two showed up. I’d come to peace by then, and was even bored since there’s so little I can do while the system’s down.”

Trudy looked skeptical, but then, she hadn’t seen the man. Maryanne hugged her massive tote bag and added, “I can’t begin to imagine why someone would look at me with so much…oh, I don’t know. I can’t really describe what that Prophet guy gave off.”

Another frown lined Trudy’s brow. “This isn’t good. Don’t you think someone should do something about it? Someone official, that is.”

“What do you want them to do? And who would you have me tell?”

“Maybe you should speak with Mr. Dougherty.”

“Why? I don’t think the library system’s director knows much about Uni-Comp or its employees. The IT department handles that service contract.”

“Well, then, talk to Morty. He runs IT.”

“What do you want me to say? That a tech from Uni-Comp gave me a weird look? Sure, and then he can call the guys in the white suits to come get me.”

Trudy bit her lower lip. “You’re probably right. All you have is a funny feeling, and that’s nothing to go on. Just be careful. Don’t let the guy catch you alone in your office or anything, okay?”

“That won’t happen. Not even if I have to spend the rest of the day in the bathroom downstairs. If worse comes to worst, I’ll grab what little paperwork I have left and do just that.”

“That’s nuts. You don’t have to go to extremes, you know. You can always head over to the staff lounge or hang out with me and my munchkins.”

“Oh, right. I’ll get a whole lot of work done then.”

“Make up your mind, will you? You said you were bored earlier and didn’t have much to do while the system was down. I can always use a hand with the incoming zoo inmates.”

“Ha! Your Mark is in that crowd, isn’t he?”

When Trudy blushed, Maryanne went on. “Figures. You just want me to watch your son so that you can be the serious librarian.”

Trudy raised her hands in surrender. “Okay. You outed me. But do you blame me?”

“Who can forget his first story hour? You reminded me of Make Way For Ducklings. The seventeen of them looked awfully cute following you around and calling you Mrs. Mommy.”

They chuckled, but then Maryanne squared her shoulders and smoothed a hand over the waist of her shin-length beige skirt. “I really do have to get back to my office—if for no other reason than to see if the Uni-Comps finished their shtick, and my computer’s up again.”

“I still think your imagination ran away with you, but please be careful. You never know what kind of kooks are on the loose.”

“If you get a chance, keep me in your prayers.”

“You know I’ll do that.”

Maryanne approached her glorified cubicle at the rear of the Research Department with apprehension. Were the two men still there?

At her office door, she paused and studied her name in gold letters on the black plaque. If that Prophet man wanted to hurt her he not only knew where she worked, but he also knew her name. With so many search sites on the Web, he’d have her address in no time. Then again, maybe he and his wife had argued earlier in the day. But Maryanne couldn’t imagine a woman who’d put up with him.

“Oh, Lord, help me, please,” she prayed then turned the knob.

The room was empty. A couple of pages covered with computer test gobbledygook in her trash can gave the only testimony of the men’s earlier presence. Maryanne experienced a momentary letdown.

Weird, since she hadn’t wanted to face his—was it anger?—again.

To be honest, she had to admit that the puzzling J.Z. Prophet had sparked her interest—in a crazy, scary sort of way. He’d kicked up her curiosity, and he’d even revved something inside her. Excitement? Maybe. Inquisitiveness? Definitely.

Maryanne sat behind her desk and braced her forehead on the heels of her hands. “Argh!”

She had to be partway to certifiable. No sane woman would be interested in some stranger who’d looked at her funny. A sane woman wouldn’t try to figure out why he’d done it.

It didn’t make sense—she didn’t make sense.

So was Trudy right? Had she imagined J.Z.’s instant dislike?

Now that the Uni-Comp men had left and she was alone, Maryanne began to question her earlier take on the incident. A stranger would have no reason for anger, not toward her.

Oh, well. Trudy probably was right. It wouldn’t be the first time Maryanne let her imagination run wild.

After all, J.Z. Prophet was an attractive man, of the rugged, dark and brooding sort. He would catch her eye, no matter what—any woman’s at that. But of course he wasn’t the kind of man she’d want to get to know. He was not her type at all. Still, no seeing woman would call him nondescript.

Steel-colored eyes above angular cheekbones pierced deep. And the dark hair that tumbled over his forehead revealed a lack of self-absorption. Although J.Z. Prophet’s hair shone with health and cleanliness, as did his pristine white shirt and faded jeans, he wasn’t the blow-dried, manicured, crease-pressed new-jean type, a trend she found disconcerting.

If he hadn’t fixed those stormy eyes on her, she might have been attracted to him.

“Good grief, Maryanne,” she muttered as her computer booted up. “There you go again. No sooner do you decide the guy couldn’t possibly have given you an angry look, than you make a U-turn and think the opposite one more time.”

She sighed. It was time to get back to work. Time to put the enigmatic J.Z. Prophet out of her mind.

The next two hours proved productive. At around three o’clock, when Maryanne felt the urge for her usual cup of tea, she stood, walked around her desk and crossed the room.

At the doorway, she stopped.

A weird feeling crept up her back—hair-raising was the only way to describe it. Someone was watching her.

Maryanne looked up and down the hall, but saw no one, found nothing unusual. Then the door across the hall came to a complete close with a soft, automatic swish.

She stared. The men’s room. Had someone been watching her?

Had that someone—the one she was sure had watched her—just gone in there?

Had J.Z. Prophet spooked her so much that she saw boogeymen all around? Had some innocent guy done nothing more than walk by her office door to use the restroom instead? And she’d let herself freak out.

Or had he been watching her? J.Z’s face materialized in her mind. Why? Why would he want to watch her?

Maryanne’s knees gave. She fell back against her office door. She began to shiver, but refused to give in to fear. She closed her eyes and turned to God.

Why, why, why was she so shaken?

“Your strength is sufficient for me,” she prayed. Over and over again, she whispered the words until the tremors subsided.

But no matter how long she prayed, and no matter how hard she worked, Maryanne failed to erase the memory of J.Z.’s stare.

Trudy was right about at least one thing. Should Maryanne ever see him again, she wouldn’t hesitate to call the cops. Although she preferred to avoid clichés, she felt she was living one right then.

If looks could kill….

The rest of the afternoon crawled by in a blur of stress. By the time five o’clock rolled around, Maryanne’s shoulders had frozen rigid and her temples pounded a vicious beat. She’d accomplished precious little in that time, since no matter how hard she tried, the image of J.Z. Prophet slammed into her thoughts every few minutes.

She couldn’t concentrate on anything she read, and hadn’t been able to type up her notes for the report due next Tuesday. Her fingers shook like leaves in a gale. Even simple filing became a challenge of inordinate proportion.

Ibuprofen did nothing to alleviate her headache—she doubted anything would until the memory of J.Z. Prophet’s intensity melted away on its own. She hoped she never had to set eyes on him again.

In the library parking lot, she waved goodbye to Trudy and Sarah Myers, who worked with the rare collections. Then, because she’d fed Shakespeare the last of his food and the kitty litter was also running low, she drove straight to the grocery store. The ride served to soothe her raw nerves. Her favorite radio station had on a Darlene Zschech special. Maryanne liked the Aussie’s contemporary style of worship music.

At the store, she grabbed feline supplies, romaine lettuce, fresh chicken breasts and an Idaho potato the size of the state where it grew. Dinner would be a simple matter of shredding greens and nuking stuff—about all she could face today.

At the register, Joe Moore, a retiree who augmented his social security with part-time cashier duty, smiled when he saw her. “How’s old Stan doing these days?”

Maryanne arched an eyebrow. “Old? Dad’s two years younger than you.”

The scanner beeped as Joe ran her purchases before the screen. “Age is just a matter of the mind, honey bun.”

“Oh, and Dad’s matured beyond his mischievous adolescent mental age in the last twenty-four hours?”

“A man can always hope.”

They shared a good-natured chuckle, and the pounding in Maryanne’s head began to ease.

“How’s Amelia?” she asked.

“Sore and crotchety, but the doc says the hip replacement went even better than he’d expected—thank the Lord.”

“You two have been married how long?”

Joe puffed out his chest. “Fifty-three years and still going strong, honey bun. You oughta try it, you know.”

Maryanne grabbed the bag of groceries and made for the door. “Don’t you get started. It’s bad enough with Dad and Trudy and a couple of others badgering me right and left. You know how I feel. If God’s got a man for me, well then, it’s up to Him to find me the guy.”

“And how’re you going to see this gift from heaven if all you do is hide behind books at the library or hang out with the oldsters at the retirement home?”

“I’m not hiding,” Maryanne said, her chin tipped a hair higher. “I’m serving where the Lord’s planted me. I’m sure He’ll lead me where He wants me if He wants me to go elsewhere.”

“Whoa, girl! That’s a mouthful there.” Joe shook his head and scanned his next customer’s laundry detergent. “Strikes me you’re a mite defensive on the subject. I suggest you pray a little on it, and see if I’m not right.”

Maryanne sighed. As if she didn’t already pray her way through each and every day. “I’ll do that, Joe. Give my love to Amelia, will you?”

“Of course, honey bun. And you tell that crazy daddy of yours to stay out of trouble at that country club place where he lives nowadays.”

“I will. Why don’t you stop by and see him sometime soon? He’ll get a kick out of it.”

With a nod and a wink, Joe turned his full attention to the young mother of three little girls under the age of six. Maryanne left the store, and then popped open her Escort’s trunk. She balanced the groceries against the bag of sand she always stored there for just in case. When she shut the trunk, a car crawled down the row behind her.

Her neck prickled as it had earlier that day.

She spun, but saw nothing other than the mom and her three girls walk away from the store’s automatic door—and the unremarkable gray car braked ten cars down beyond her. Although she couldn’t make out the driver’s facial features, something about him slammed fear right back into her gut.

She felt just as she had when J.Z. Prophet had glared at her.

A chill ran through her and she shivered. If the stormy computer tech was at the wheel, then she wanted to get as far from him as fast as she could. And if he wasn’t, then she also wanted to leave that parking lot just as fast. Just because.

Frustrated by her shaky hand’s failure to get the button on her automatic keychain to work, Maryanne took a deep breath, clenched her fist around the plastic rectangle, and then prayed a blunt “Help!”

She unfurled her fingers and with deliberation, aimed the gadget straight at the lock. It popped. She slid behind the wheel, flicked the locks back on, and then started the car. As she pulled out, she kept the gray car in sight out the corner of her eye. She sighed in relief when it took the spot she’d vacated.

The adrenaline drain left her even shakier than before, and she had no idea how she drove home without hitting anything on the way. She had to get her imagination under much better control. She couldn’t freak out at even the tiniest thing. That driver had just wanted her parking space.

Later that evening, she watched her favorite home decorating show before she decided an early bedtime would work wonders on her frazzled nerves. Tomorrow would be a better day—it had to be.

She hoped.

And Friday was better. By noon, she’d settled back into her normal routine. With a clear head, she ate a sandwich for lunch at her desk, determined to make up for yesterday’s lack of productivity. By five, she’d caught up and only had the report to do. She’d finish it tomorrow afternoon on her home computer.

Trudy stuck her head in the office.

“Come on in,” Maryanne said.

“No, I’m on my way home. Are you still coming tonight?”

Maryanne logged out of her word processing program and shut down her machine. “It’s my turn with the youth group’s sixth graders this month. I wouldn’t miss the scavenger hunt for the world. I had a blast when I helped out last year.”

“Good. David’s been looking forward to special attention from his honorary aunt.”

She slung the sturdy straps of her large tote bag over one shoulder, flicked off the lights and closed the office door. “He’d better rethink that plan. I’m not about to show your darling son any favoritism. I’m just there to count noses and make sure no one gets left behind in a store at the mall.”

“That’s what I told him,” Trudy said with a chuckle. “Somehow, though, I think you’re going to have to work hard to avoid his charm. That boy’s going places…someday.”

Maryanne nodded. “It’s a good thing you and Ron have channeled that energy and appeal in positive directions. Otherwise, who knows where he’d end up?”

“Thanks. Your opinion means a great deal. And you’re right. David is a handful. It’s hard to walk that fine line between guiding and stifling a child.”

“You and Ron are terrific parents, Trudy. You teach by example, and I think that’s the best thing for kids.” Maryanne thought back on her earlier years. “Mother and Dad were great, even though they had such different personalities.”

“I miss your mom, you know?”

“How could I not? You and I grew up in each other’s homes. Besides, Mother pretty much liked you better than she liked me.”

Trudy pushed on the massive, revolving library door. “You know that’s not true—even though you did give her some pretty good headaches now and then.”

On the sidewalk, Maryanne paused and sighed. “It’s that goofy side of me, the Dad part, that always got me in trouble. But Mother did have a point. When I finally surrendered and did things her way, my life went much smoother. As it has ever since.”

Trudy studied Maryanne. “Maybe it’s been easier, but I wonder if it hasn’t been a lot more boring, too.”

She jolted as if Trudy had pricked her with a pin. “My life’s not boring. Not at all. It’s full and rich and satisfying. I have a great job—a career. And I love my church family. My calendar’s full of wonderful activities, and I even have a fabulous cat. I love my life just the way it is.”

Trudy resumed the walk to the parking lot. “When’s the last time you did something on the spur of the moment? Something unexpected and fun?”

Maryanne scoffed. “That’s what I mean. Mother taught me well. Dad’s nuttiness creates chaos, and I don’t want that in my life. Well thought-out choices and prudent decisions up front make much more sense than to struggle to fix things after you’ve made a mess of them.”

Trudy shook her head and her silver bob swung in a smooth arc. “That’s boring.”

“No way. I don’t want to climb a rock face, travel to strange places where I’ll wind up with malaria or put myself in situations where I might meet people who could do me harm. Even you warned me against the computer clown yesterday.”

Trudy reached the driver’s side of her cherry-red Sunbird parked alongside Maryanne’s tan Escort. She looked over the roof and said, “Read my lips: boooooooring!”

As she unlocked her car, Maryanne gave her friend one last disgusted look. “Nope. Not at all. Just safe, secure, familiar and comfortable. See you later at church.”

She started the ignition and shook her head. She’d had her fill of spur-of-the-moment living, thanks to Dad. What kind of woman would want a steady diet of madness?

J.Z. snapped his cell phone shut. “Joey-O’s not talking.”

Dan looked up from the file folder he’d just picked up. “Did you think he would?”

“His kind usually does—to point the finger at someone else, of course. Especially if it means they can save their sorry skin.”

“Is he denying that he killed Mat? Or has he just zipped his lip?”

“David says no one can get a word out of him.”

Dan’s gaze turned thoughtful. “Latham’s good at getting perps to talk. So if Joey’s not talking, then he’s more scared of what might come his way from the outside than by staying in for…oh, say a hundred years or so.”

“I want to know how Joey got word to Wellborn so she could finish the job. He’s been in the slammer since minutes after he emptied his gun into the Laundromat.”

“I’m telling you, you’re barking up the wrong tree with the librarian, J.Z. There’s nothing, nothing here—” Dan waved the papers from the file “—that even hints at her involvement. Even her bank records are clean—you’ve read it in black-and-white, same as I have. Look at them again.”

Dan held the pages out to J.Z., but J.Z. did know what they said…and didn’t say. He shook his head.

His partner wasn’t ready to quit. “Not a dollar goes into her account that doesn’t come from her paycheck, J.Z. So what would she have to gain? Why would she kill for the mob? What’s her motive?”

“Remember the e-mails. They’re pretty clear. Terminate Carlo Papparelli.” J.Z. ran a hand through his hair. He felt the answers he needed were just on the other side of his grasp. “She’s got to keep her stash somewhere. Maybe Mat did the laundering for her dollars, and didn’t want to cough them back up. We just have to dig deeper than we have.”

“It doesn’t fit,” Dan argued. “She’s clean if you ignore those e-mails. So where’s the connection? A librarian doesn’t just hook up with the mob out of the blue.”

J.Z. shrugged. “That retirement home’s an awfully cushy place for a librarian’s salary to afford. Maybe she saw the chance to get the dough that’d keep her dad there.”

“Sure, but how would she turn to the mob?”

“That’s what you and I are going to find out.”

Dan stared straight at J.Z. A wriggle of discomfort wound through him. “I think there’s nothing for us to find. And there’s a lot of valuable time to waste, time we can’t afford to waste. Your personal bias against the mob in general and the Verdis in particular might just cost us six long months’ worth of work.”

The image of his father’s stony face at the defendant’s table came back to haunt J.Z. “The good ones always look that clean. Only a fool will let himself get caught up in their smokescreen. I fell for my father’s lies when I was too young to know better. I won’t do it again.”

“Just make sure you don’t lose yourself in a fun-house mirror and leave reality behind. Don’t miss the obvious for looking so hard through the filter of your past.”

J.Z. gritted his teeth. He knew what was what.

Maryanne Wellborn’s days as a free woman were numbered.

She was going down.

Maryanne gasped. Her heart began to pound and her stomach twisted.

That same, creepy someone’s-looking-at-me feeling hit her again. She looked around, and she went cold.

A familiar male figure was walking in the direction opposite from where she stood in the mall’s food court. Something about the dark hair, the set of wide shoulders, the taut fluid walk…

Could it be?

But she could only see the man from the back. She couldn’t be sure it was—or wasn’t—J.Z. Prophet.

Coincidence?

She doubted it. Mother always said she only believed in God-incidence. But if that was the case, then what did God have to do with the computer tech? His anger wasn’t the kind of emotion the Lord encouraged. It certainly didn’t dispose her to approach the man. Besides, she couldn’t see herself as a missionary to crazy computer techs.

She’d thought herself safe by going straight to church, joining in the potluck supper then taking her charges on their scavenger hunt. She’d sat at a table in the food court and made sure the teams understood they had to check in with her every thirty minutes—church rules.

The kids were great. And she enjoyed the time their pursuit gave her to work on her needlepoint project. At least, she had until a couple of seconds ago.

That itchy discomfort that seemed to strike so often since she’d met J.Z. Prophet had crept up the back of her neck again. When she turned in the direction of the lingerie store across the way, she’d spotted the dark-haired man propped against a pillar. But because his face had been hidden by shadows, she couldn’t be sure it was J.Z.

If it was him, what could he possibly want?

She didn’t know, but she did know one thing: she’d never felt like a hunted animal until he showed up at her work. She crammed her needlework into the tapestry sewing bag, grabbed that bag together with her tote bag and then slung the handles of both over her shoulder. A quick glance at her watch told her the kids should be back any moment now.

She’d have to get them out of the mall before that madman decided to hurt her, much less them.

“There you are,” Trudy said at her side.

Maryanne yelped. “Don’t you ever skulk up like that again! You just cost me ten years of my life.”

Her friend gaped. “What is wrong with you? I’ve never heard you speak like that before.”

Maryanne’s tremors grew so great that she collapsed back into her chair. The bags slid down her arm and fell to the floor.

“I think he’s here,” she whispered.

“Who’s here?”

She saw concern in Trudy’s eyes. “The Uni-Comp tech with the icy-cold eyes—that J.Z. Prophet guy.”

“You really think so?”

Maryanne nodded, unable to say more.

“Where did you see him? Did you call security? What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t even think straight. And of course I didn’t get a chance to call security. I just saw him a moment ago, right before you came up.”

“Show me. Where is he?”

With her eyes shut tight, Maryanne pointed in the direction of the lingerie store, reluctant to again feel J.Z. Prophet’s anger. But when Trudy didn’t say a thing, Maryanne looked up at her friend.

With worried brown eyes, Trudy looked from the lingerie store to Maryanne and back again. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked. “I’ve never known you to be so paranoid.”

“Aside from that guy scaring me half out of my wits, of course, I’m fine.”

Trudy kept silent for long moments. Maryanne looked up at her friend. A frown on her forehead, Trudy said, “There’s no one there.”

Maryanne stood, used the table for support and slowly turned to look across the expanse. As Trudy had said, no one stood by the window draped in frivolous, pastel-lace frills; no one leaned in that distinctive way against the pillar at its side; no one glared at her right then.

“He’s gone,” she said, not reassured. “For now.”

“What do you mean?”

Maryanne met her friend’s worried gaze. “Everywhere I go, I feel someone watching me. I can’t shake the feeling. And somehow, I’m sure I’m going to see him again. I just don’t know when or where. Or why.”

THREE

“You’re nuts,” Dan told J.Z.

“Why? Because I know she’s pulling a fast one?”

“No. Because, man, you’ve taken a long walk down the diving board and gone off the deep end this time. You’ve let something personal get in the way of your work. Will you just look at her? I doubt she’s ever even killed a fly.”

J.Z. looked at Maryanne Wellborn as she smiled at and hugged other worshippers on her way down the church steps.

“That,” he said to his partner, “is what she wants us to believe. I’ll admit she’s good—very good.”

When J.Z. had first seen the librarian, she’d worn a boring baggy tan skirt and brown-and-white checked shirt. The next time, she’d sported garments in a gloomy shade of gray. Today, for Sunday School and the worship service, she had on a dingy-taupe dress that hung to about an inch above her ankles. A narrow brown belt caught the shapeless thing at her waist.

“Even if you can’t,” he added, “I can see right through her.”

Dan tapped J.Z.’s shoulder with a fist. “Then you must have X-ray vision. I don’t think there’s anything here. I’ve a feeling she’s just what she looks like, a serious librarian with more on her mind than the latest fashions.”

After a pause, Dan went on. “Don’t take it wrong, okay? I’m worried about you. You’re not yourself. I mean, you almost blew it at the library, and then at the mall. All that after you promised you’d be careful.”

J.Z. went to argue, but Dan held up a hand.

“She’s not dumb, you know. You shouldn’t have talked Zelda into letting you take her place. You have to keep a professional distance.”

“You forget I’m the senior agent here.”

“But you’re acting like a rookie with a bone to pick. Unless you want to blow a case we’ve worked for months, you’d better get a hold of yourself.”

“So what do you have to say about the lab findings? Those were her fingerprints on Laundromat’s IV-fluids stand. They match the ones we lifted from her desk.”

Dan shrugged. “She’s in and out of that nursing home with her library cart and to visit her father all the time. Who knows when she might have touched the thing? For an innocent reason, I mean.”

J.Z. snorted. “They have sick people there, Dan. All that equipment is cleaned and disinfected and sanitized—all the time. It’d be pretty hard for fingerprints to survive that kind of scouring.”

“Hey, there’s always a first time for everything.”

So as not to continue the argument, J.Z. ground his teeth. He followed Maryanne’s progress toward her plain little Ford, and took note of how she patted the tight bun at the back of her neck.

He didn’t buy the story she was selling. No woman would choose to hide her hair like that without a reason.

Many years ago, his father had mastered the art of the innocuous appearance. The plain black suits, black ties, white shirts and black shoes he’d worn were the male equivalent of Maryanne’s dowdy wardrobe. Her bun was the perfect counterpart to Obadiah’s unremarkable barbershop cut.

He had to give the devil his, or in this case her, due—Maryanne Wellborn had her cover down pat, just like his father had. But J.Z. wasn’t about to let the illusion of respectability get in the way of his mission. He hadn’t gone over the edge; he just knew the difference between a trick and reality.

Everywhere the librarian went he’d be sure to follow. He would keep the pressure on her until she cracked. Sooner or later, she’d talk. And then he’d bust her, Olive Oyl disguise notwithstanding.

Maryanne ran into her father’s suite, out of breath. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The Sunday School Council meeting after the service dragged on forever.”

“Gimme a hug,” Stan said. “And in about an hour I’ll be the one griping about endless meetings. The Residents’ Senate has an agenda fatter than the Federal budget for today’s meeting.”

“Oh.” She plopped onto his bed. “Well, then, I guess I’d better be going. I’ll come back later…maybe after dinner.”

Stan caught her fingers. “Don’t you dare leave me to the mercy of that bunch of geezers.”

“Dad! How can you call them something so ugly? Besides, you’re one of them, aren’t you?”

“Yup. And that’s why I can call us anything I please. We’re geezers, all right. Just you come and listen to us. I know you’ll agree before the pecking party’s over.”

Since her father rarely asked of anything, Maryanne didn’t have the heart to turn him down. “Okay. I’ll stay. But only if you promise I won’t fall asleep during this senate thing.”

Stan winked and pushed the forward button on his wheelchair. “I can promise you fireworks, Cookie. Besides, I still have some of my birthday cake in the fridge. Come back here with me after the shoot-out’s over, and we can make a serious dent in it.”

Maryanne frowned. “How’s your blood sugar?”

“Bah!” Stan waved and rolled ahead. “I’m sick and tired of all that poking and bleeding. Can’t a man have himself a piece of cake without it turning into a big deal?”

“Oh, Daddy.” She hated the part of party pooper. “I wish I could tell you it’s no big deal, but you’re in that wheelchair because of the diabetes. The amputation was no joke, and we have to take care of your heart.”

Irritation flared in Stan Wellborn’s blue eyes, but he stifled it almost as soon as she saw it. “Don’t mind me, Cookie. I just get testy when I can’t have my way. I know the Lord’s blessed me with a bunch more days to hang around this side of life, and I can’t dishonor His gift by misbehaving. But I won’t deny I’d sure like to every once in a while.”

Before she could respond, he opened the apartment door, and waited for her to join him. He locked up, then propelled his wheelchair toward the elevator at the end of the long interior balcony that served as a hall.

They made their way down in silence, consumed by private thoughts. Once the elevator pinged at the mezzanine level, they waited for the doors to open. Maryanne followed her father to the activities hall. His friends greeted her with affection, a fondness she returned. Soon, however, petite Mitzi Steinbrom tottered on her stiletto heels to the podium.

“Yikes!” Maryanne leaned closer to Stan. “Has Mrs. Steinbrom ever fallen from those spikes?”

“Alls I know is that she says they give her a regal bearing. I guess if you translate from Mitzish to English, that means she feels a need to make up for her lack of height.”

Maryanne glanced forward again, but the plucky widow had disappeared. “Where—”

“Watch,” her father answered. “She had maintenance build her a set of steps. Otherwise, we’d never see her over that dumb stand she insists she needs to run these goofy gatherings. She likes to follow Roberts’ Rules, but no one else here’s willing to waste time on those kinds of things.”

Sure enough, the tangerine curls popped up over the lectern and Mrs. Steinbrom tapped the microphone. The woodpecker beat self-destructed into a wicked screech. From the control room at the back of the hall, a man hollered, “Sorry about that.”

Mrs. Steinbrom smiled magnanimously. “We’re used to it, Reggie. We’ll wait until you’ve fixed it.”

“Hey, Mitzi!” A bald gentleman waved a cane from the far right bank of chairs. “We heard Reggie, so it’s fixed. Get on with your dog-and-pony show. I want to catch my before-dinner nap.”

An eleven-type fold appeared between Mitzi’s penciled-in brown brows. She smiled, clearly comfortable with the noblesse oblige she felt the position of chairwoman required.

“Very well, Roger. We’ll bring this meeting to order.”

“Ah…give it a rest, will ya, Mitz?” another man called out, this one seated near the back door and garbed in a blue polo and pants. “Just get on with the stuff you wanna talk about and forget all this other junk. We’re all too old to sit around and wait.”

Mitzi pursed her orange-coated lips. “It’s best if we do things properly, Charlie. Have some patience.”

“It’s best,” Maryanne’s father offered, “if we’re efficient, Mitzi, so why don’t you start with number one?”

The chairwoman’s cheeks blazed red. “Fine,” she said in a curt voice. “What do we think about cats?”

“Litterbox stink!” a lady Maryanne didn’t know yelped.

That one’s neighbor to the left added, “They yowl.”

“Are you going to pick up my garbage when they go dig for stuff?” the impatient Charlie asked, his jaw in a pugnacious jut.

Someone up front offered, “I’m allergic….”

“Those claws…they scratch everything,” came from the right.

A frail wisp of a woman stood with difficulty, aided by her aluminum walker. “They’re a great comfort when one’s all alone.”

The room silenced at the dignified tone.

“Eloise has a point,” Maryanne’s dad said. “None of us has too much company at night. It’s worth giving that some thought.”

Eloise nodded, and abundant waves of white hair rippled at her temples. “I think we can tolerate some inconvenience if a pet helps another of us during a time of need. I vote for the cats.”

“But no dogs!” Charlie bellowed, arms crossed.

Mitzi smiled in what looked like relief. “Let’s discuss the canines, then.”

Roger stood. “See this cane?”

Everyone nodded.

“It means,” he went on, “that I can’t walk so good anymore. How’m I gonna stay on my feet when a mutt jumps all over me?”

“Obedience classes,” suggested a woman who didn’t look old enough to meet the community’s fifty-five-year minimum-age requirement. “Those are fun. My late husband and I had a wonderful time training our dogs.”

Charlie snorted. “More work. I retired for a reason—I’m tired and old.”

The young-looking senior arched a brow. “No one says you have to own or train a dog, Charlie.”

An uncomfortable silence descended. Then Mitzi gave a smart crack of the gavel against the lectern. “I think we’ve reached an agreement. Cats will be allowed, but dogs won’t. Sorry, Connie.”

The woman who’d suggested the obedience classes stood. “I don’t think anyone’s agreed to anything about the dogs—at least not yet. We need to discuss it some more.”

“Okay,” Charlie ventured. “Let’s talk. I don’t want to step on any when I go for my walks every morning.”

A portly blonde in the front row turned to glare at Charlie. “Everyone must clean up for him or herself,” she said. “It’s only reasonable that those who want dogs take care of it.”

“What’s your plan?” Charlie asked. “Have management hand out official pooper-scoopers with our lease agreements?”

Maryanne swallowed a laugh. She could just envision the scene…a battalion of geriatrics armed with long-handled double shovels and baggies, all leashed to members of a motley crew of canines.

“That would work,” the blonde said.

“Baloney,” Charlie countered.

Mitzi banged again. Her compatriots ignored her and clamored over each other’s comments.

“They shed all over, and then there’s the drool.”

“Petting one’s been proven to reduce blood pressure….”

“They can be rambunctious. That’s dangerous—”

“Seizure dogs are true lifesavers.”

“Leashes can cause accidents….”

“They’d have puppies—”

“They bite!”

“Fleas—”

“When are we going to get to the liver?” Charlie demanded.

Eloise smashed her walker against the metal chair in front of her. The residents turned toward the source of the din, and when they spotted her, fell into a stunned stupor.

“I didn’t think when I moved here my address would be the Tower of Babel,” the slight woman said, her voice distinct and determined. “But this bickering certainly sounds like it.”

Maryanne noticed more than one red face in the group.

“It also strikes me,” Eloise went on, “that a fair amount of selfishness has taken root among us. I want no part of that. The Lord created animals and left them in our trust. He also urged us to do unto others as we would others do unto us. So I’d like to see us show some forbearance in our small community.”

A chair squealed in the back of the room. Clothes rustled to Maryanne’s left. Someone cleared his throat to her far right.

No one ventured a remark.

Eloise stepped her walker forward. “We can determine a safe size for dogs—say about twenty pounds and under. Of course, we’ll enact leash laws. And Connie’s right. The owner must be responsible for the pet’s…ah…production.”

A nervous chuckle began near the side door and soon gathered strength. Before long, everyone was laughing, even Roger and Charlie. Everyone but Mitzi.

Her elevenses deepened and furrows lined her lily-white forehead. She pursed her bright lips and looked ready to stomp and cry at her loss of control—and her lost battle against dogs.

“Silence!” the diminutive chairwoman yelled.

No one listened.

She banged her gavel to no avail, so she banged some more, and banged yet again, this time, however, with a bit too much force. The gavel broke.

“Oooh!” she cried. “Just look what you made me do!”

Her wail penetrated the good-natured chatter. Everyone faced forward, and more than one chuckle had to be smothered.

“Come on, Mitzi,” Maryanne’s father called out. “We’re done. The place has gone to the dogs, and I want to go home.”

“But…but we haven’t discussed the liver,” she said with a shuffle of paper. “Or the steamed spinach. I can’t abide them.”

“Hear, hear,” Charlie cheered.

Roger stood. “Aw, give it up. It’s nap time.”

Mitzi ran her fingers through her bright hair, spiking it into a ridge of exclamation marks. “Oh, and we haven’t even touched on the fountain outside. It’s an absolute disgrace. Who ever’s heard of pink flamingos in Pennsylvania?”

“That’s it!” Stan Wellborn said as he spun his wheelchair toward the rear of the room. “I’m gone. Those flamingos are just about the funniest thing around here. Go rent a sense of humor, Mitzi.”

Maryanne hurried to open the door for him.

“They stay,” he said. “They stay, and they stay pink.”

As they waited for the elevator, Maryanne kept quiet. Behind them, other residents poured out of the common area. Each voiced an opinion. At her side, her dad tapped his fingers on the wheelchair’s control panel, a sure sign of annoyance.

The elevator doors opened. Father and daughter stepped inside. No one else joined them, and the conveyance soon glided upward. Just before they reached the sixth floor, Stan chuckled.

“What did I tell you, Cookie?” he said. “Fireworks, right?”

She gave him a wary look. “Were you just fanning the flames?”

“Nah. Mitzi’s gone too far with her chairwoman thing. Those who want cats should have their cats, and those who want dogs should have them, too. Just don’t mess with my liver and onions, and leave my pink flamingos alone.”

When the elevator stopped, he flashed her a grin and winked. “Welcome to the loony bin, Cookie. And thanks for listening to me. I’m right where I belong.”

Just like that, Maryanne’s last qualms about her father’s move to Peaceful Meadows vanished. Stan Wellborn had found a home.

Her guilt lifted, she relaxed and the afternoon went by fast, full of laughter, good conversation, a killer game of checkers and a serving of her dad’s birthday cake.

All in all, it was a perfect Sunday afternoon.

“Good night, Cookie.”

“Good night, Dad.”

She hadn’t meant to stay so late, but Maryanne hadn’t wanted to leave her father. She’d had a great time, even though liver and onions was not her favorite dish. Dad had wanted her company at dinner, and since all that awaited her back home was an uppity cat and the report she’d written yesterday afternoon, she’d stayed. She could proofread the whole thing in no time once she got home.

The rain started around sunset, typical for a late spring evening in South Central Pennsylvania. Now, on her way out, she lowered her head, covered it with her tote bag, and ran into the night. In her hurry to reach the car, she didn’t watch her step, and her shoe hit a puddle. She slipped, yelped and dropped.

Muscular arms broke her fall.

“Thanks,” she said and then looked up. “NO!”

She froze in the circle of J.Z. Prophet’s clasp, tight against his chest, close to his warmth and clean scent. Not the smartest thing to do, but until she could breathe again, she couldn’t move. To gather her wits, she tried to think of something—anything—other than those intense gray eyes.

“You should be more careful,” he said, his voice deep.

She fought for breath, and this time, gulped in a lungful of fresh-washed air. “What are you doing here?”

“Taking care of business.”

His tone spoke volumes, but she didn’t understand a thing. Still, she had no intention of carrying on a conversation with the miserable creature. Certainly not while she remained in such a vulnerable position—at his mercy.

She shoved against his chest, and to her surprise, he let her go. She almost fell again, but she summoned her strength and stood upright. She tugged down her belt from where it had slid way up on her ribs; she straightened her skirt; she ignored the rain.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” she said. For good measure, she tipped up her chin. “But I do want to know why you’ve been following me.”

Something sparked in his eyes, but he still didn’t speak.

“Fine.” She stepped toward her car. “You can play Mount Rushmore all you want, especially in the rain. Just remember, if I see you again where you don’t belong but I do, I’ll call the cops.”

“Go ahead.”

The rain sluiced over his dark hair, plastered it to his head like a robber’s skullcap. It did nothing to endear him to her.

“If you want to convince me the law doesn’t bother you, then try something new. Quit following me and really mind your business. No sane man would dog an ordinary woman. There’s nothing interesting about me. I’m a librarian with an elderly, disabled dad.”

He shrugged, that incomprehensible intensity as always in his eyes. “I am minding my business, and I’m good at it.”

A shiver racked Maryanne. It had nothing to do with the rain and everything with the man. “Stalking’s a crime, you know,” she said, steps from her Escort…and safety. “They can lock you up for a long time, so quit before they do.”

She fumbled with her keychain, but to her dismay, she dropped it. With the last of her courage, she said, “Go crawl back under the rock from whence you came.”

As she went for her keys, his hand shot out and grabbed them. Fear churned her gut, and she prayed he wasn’t like a dog, able to scent it on her.

With a click, he unlocked her car door then handed her the keys. In silence, he strode into the dark. Maryanne collapsed against the fender and just stood there, drenched in rain and sweat. For long moments she just breathed and shook, thankful she could still do both.

“Lord God, thank you for…for…whatever. Just help me.”

When she could move again, she opened the door and sat. Long minutes later, she turned on the ignition. The drive home was a numb haze—another mindless drive under her belt. If she kept this up, she’d soon qualify as a homing pigeon, functioning on some instinctual plane.

That, and she’d have a couple of centuries of thanks and praise to offer her Lord.

In the garage, Maryanne sat back and tried to relax her shoulder muscles. She failed. Miserably.

The memory of J.Z. Prophet returned with the vengeance of hurricane-spurred ocean waves. What did the man want with her?

Because, without a shadow of a doubt, Maryanne knew J.Z. had come to Peaceful Meadows to keep tabs on her. What she didn’t know was why?

And she’d better figure it out soon…before it was too late.

For her.

At ten the next morning, Maryanne called the cell phone rep Trudy had recommended. In a few minutes’ time, she’d agreed to stop by the kiosk at the mall and sign a contract for a year’s worth of service. Next time J.Z. Prophet showed his face, she’d be ready. Her new phone came with preprogrammable automatic dialing.

The first number she’d record would be 911.

The day went by in the same kind of blur as when she drove home last night. By five, she didn’t remember much of what she’d done. Well, she turned in the report, but other than that…mush.

Determined to regain some semblance of sanity if not control, she concentrated on the drive to the mall. She even sang along with Rebecca St. James’s latest on the radio. She parked, locked the car, ran through the ongoing rain to the food-court entrance and made a beeline for the cell phone and safety.

The young man had the papers ready for her. All Maryanne had to do was sign her name and give him a check. After a handful of directions, she felt confident enough to head home with the gadget and its instruction manual. On her way back to the car, she detoured by the frozen yogurt counter. She didn’t often indulge, but today she ordered a swirl cone. She didn’t want to choose between chocolate and vanilla.

Because of the rain, she opted to finish her treat at one of the food court’s small tables. Then, on her way to the great outdoors and the deluge, she tossed away her napkin and saw the man watching her from the sandwich shop line. She came to a halt.

J.Z. Prophet wasn’t besting her again.

Maryanne marched up to him. “I told you I’d call the cops the next time I saw you.” She pulled out her phone. “Watch me.”

He covered the gadget and her hand with his much larger one, his clasp gentler than she would have imagined. “It won’t do you any good. I know what you are—”

“What are you doing, J.Z.?” asked the other Uni-Comp clown, a bag redolent of corned beef in his hand. “You’re worse than a kid. You can’t leave well enough alone, can you? Do you want Eliza to charge out here and tear a strip off your hide—”

He stopped just when things were about to get interesting, when Maryanne might have learned something about the probably psychotic J.Z. But the two men glared at each other, and if it weren’t for the minor matter of her captured hand, she would have taken her leave. Instead, she looked from one to the other, only too aware of J.Z.’s warm clasp.

“Ahem,” she said.

The men turned.

“Would one of you please tell me which episode of the Twilight Zone you’re rerunning here?”

“Let her go,” J.Z.’s partner said.

J.Z. captured her gaze just as firmly as he held her hand.

“Who are you guys?” Maryanne’s fear fired up again. “What do you want with me? And don’t even mention computers. I know you’ve been following me.”

“Come on, J.Z. Let’s go.”

Maryanne smiled her gratitude at the blond man who didn’t work for Uni-Comp—she wasn’t dumb.

“Yes, J.Z. Let me go. I’ll go my way and you can go yours, and never the twain shall meet. Okay?”

“Let her go,” her pal—Don? Dan? Yeah, Dan Something—repeated.

J.Z. acceded, but a strange look she couldn’t read, not the anger she’d seen, maybe frustration, filled his eyes. “Watch yourself,” he said. “One mistake, and I’ll make my move.”

“Who are you?” she asked yet again.

“Tell her, J.Z. You’ve blown this out of the water, so you may as well tell her now.”

Maryanne’s eyes ping-ponged from one man to the other.

Dan muttered something else, this time nothing Maryanne could make out. He thrust his sandwich bag at J.Z. and rummaged in his back pocket. But instead of the wallet she’d expected, he extended a small leather card case toward her.

“What…?”

“Open it,” he said gently.

She did. Four words jumped out at her: Federal Bureau of Investigations.

Her head spun. Ice replaced her blood. The world tipped under her feet. “Why?”

“You’re under investigation,” J.Z. said in clipped tones. “You’re good, but I’m better. I’m going to get you and your mob pals, so say goodbye to freedom, your frozen yogurt and your little phone.”

Everything went black.

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