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  Vincent couldn’t help himself, he blushed, although he hated that he did. “Well, thank you. Now, let me see that I have everyone. Dorothy Evans?”

  “Right here.” It was the woman who’d made the remark, still looking smug. She was large, with short, no-nonsense gray hair and eyes of an amazing deep blue. She had the manner of someone in charge.

  “Lucy Martin?” Another woman raised her hand. Petite and blonde, she resembled a child’s doll.

  “Elsa Chambers?” Another hand. Elsa was medium height, with short auburn hair. She seemed withdrawn. Even raising her hand appeared to be an effort.

  “Marsha Adams?”

  “Here.” More giggles, for no apparent reason, this time. Marsha was tall and lean, with an athletic body, and was smiling at no one in particular.

  “And Stella Stratton?”

  “She just went to the restroom. Does the Blue Door Inn have a bar, handsome?” Dorothy was looking at Vincent like she was a big-game hunter, and he was her prey.

  “Yes, but even better, Ms. Evans, the Inn has a free happy hour every evening, which should be starting just about the time we arrive.” Vincent had been on the wagon for some months, but at this moment felt like he might just fall off.

  “Wonderful! Oh, here she is. Stella, our man needs to know you’ve arrived.”

  Stella approached, but she didn’t look well. “I need you to help me. A man is following me. He has been since Chicago. What should I do?”

  Stella was a very attractive woman in her early thirties, with flowing dark hair and a fashion model’s body. Vincent would not be surprised if men of all ages didn’t take notice of Stella Stratton. “Following you? Didn’t you just go into the restroom? Was he in there?”

  “No. No, I was with the group when I decided to find a restroom. I turned around and that’s when I saw him—again. He was looking right at me. It scared me, so I disappeared into the restroom. I’m sure it was the same guy following me in Chicago.”

  “Ms. Stratton, right?”

  She nodded.

  “You are a very attractive woman, and I’m sure a lot of men have stared at you.”

  “I know the difference between an ogler and a threat, and this guy was a threat. It wasn’t sexual. I could see in his eyes that he hated me.” Stella shivered. Dorothy stepped up and gave her a hug.

  “Well what are you going to do?” Dorothy asked Vincent. She was clearly used to commanding people, and she’d shed her playful manner.

  “Do you still see the man?” Vincent was developing a headache.

  Stella looked around the terminal. “No.”

  Vincent had the whole group’s attention now. “We can contact the police. I can tell you, though, they won’t do anything—except maybe tell you that you’re imagining things. They’ll suggest that you go to your hotel and rest some, and that afterward, everything will be better. I’m more than willing to make the call, and I can be pretty damned insistent that they do something, but that might mean they’ll want you to go to the police station and fill out a complaint and give them a description. It’s virtually guaranteed not to get results, but I have no problem helping you with it, if it’s what you want.”

  “No. No. I’m sorry. Maybe it was just my imagination.”

  “You do know she writes murder mysteries, don’t you?” This was said by a smiling Lucy Martin. “I, on the other hand, write romance novels.” She gave what she must have thought was her most alluring look.

  Vincent was beginning to feel like he was under siege. He suggested they gather their luggage and start the trip to Santa Fe.

  Vincent finished unloading and delivering the luggage. “I swear some of those bags must have weighed a hundred pounds. Felt like they’d packed bricks.”

  Jerry grinned.

  “I hear you were a hit. Two of the ladies asked me if you would be at happy hour. Want to stay and be bartender?”

  “I don’t think so, Jer. I wouldn’t want to admit it to my admirers, but loading and unloading a couple of tons of luggage has just about done me in. I think I’ll head home and rest. That okay?”

  “Sure, we can handle happy hour. How about tomorrow? Their conference starts at nine—could you drive them? If you can do that, I can pick them up.”

  “Deal. See you in the morning.”

  “All female authors. I wonder if most of the conference attendees are women. Have any idea?” Nancy was curious, but also teasing Vincent a little.

  “Have no idea, but it wouldn’t surprise me.” They were sitting outside, on Nancy’s tiny patio, enjoying a glass of wine. Vincent hadn’t admitted it to her, but it was obvious he was tired.

  “You know; it could be one day that women will just take over everything. You think the male ego could deal with that?”

  Vincent gave Nancy one of his “all knowing” smiles. “Some will, some won’t—but it won’t matter. Men have been running things since there were things to run, and look where we are. So, unless you’re some backward knucklehead, most guys will say, ‘Have at it. Can’t be much worse.’ Do you have plans to take over some big chunk of the world?”

  “Yep. I’m developing plans right now with my sisters to take over everything, except maybe trash collection and plumbing.”

  “It’s good to have a plan.”

  An old habit of making notes before bed had started back in his attorney days and extended for all these years. Back then, he’d written everything down—now it was mostly a mental review of events and possibilities. Originally, it had mostly been work-related, while lately it was more likely to involve personal circumstances—hopes, and dreams, and fears. Even with all the changes, this old habit stuck with him.

  Never believed in premonition. No human can know the future, good or bad. But suddenly today, when that author thought someone was following her, I had a cold feeling of dread. Maybe an omen, maybe just a draft, but it wasn’t a good feeling. I’m alive today because I’ve trusted my instincts, especially in dangerous situations. I have no idea if there’s actually danger ahead, but I’m still going to proceed with caution. Something is in the air.

  Vincent’s phone was vibrating, an amazingly annoying sound early in the morning.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good morning, sunshine.”

  “Tucker, if you’re looking for sunshine, you’ve got the wrong number.”

  “It’s always good to talk to you Vincent. Makes me feel so superior. Look, I really didn’t call to irritate you. Hill called me this morning, wants to see us in his office. I know you haven’t warmed up to Jack, but I still think it’s not wise to piss the guy off. So, how about it? Can you make a meeting about mid-morning in his office?”

  “What the hell does he want?”

  “Don’t know. For the last month or so, I think he’s been spending time on politics. He’s some kind of big shot in the Democratic Party. Which surprises me in a way, because when I knew him before, he was a hotshot Republican. I think the guy just drifts with the current winds rather than being really ideological. He goes where the best deal is—the most money. But I’d guess this has something to do with politics.”

  “Can’t imagine I can be any use in politics, especially New Mexico politics.”

  “I’m sure we’re not talking about drafting policy papers. Most likely he’s got some kind of problem that needs fixing—human-failings kind of stuff.”

  “Ah, sex and money. Now that is my area of expertise.”

  Tucker chuckled. “That’s why you get the big bucks. Can you make it?”

  “Got a quick run for Jerry, but I should be able to be in Albuquerque by eleven. Will that work?”

  “I’ll set it up,” Tucker said. “See ya then.”

  Peter Tucker was a high-profile lawyer who’d been a Mafia fixer for years until his no-holds-barred tactics caused even his unholy mob clients to shy away. That had led to years of isolation and reflection. Eventually he’d crawled out of his self-imposed retirement after his nephew had been acc
used of murder in Santa Fe, and ultimately teamed up with Vincent to find the real killer. That process had allowed the two aging warriors to recognize a kinship of spirits that had since grown into a friendship. Tucker decided after his re-awakening in Santa Fe to move to Albuquerque, where he took on special projects for the largest law firm in the state—a firm headed by his old nemesis, Jack Hill. Hill had asked Vincent to come work for the firm, but Vincent had skillfully avoided making any commitment due to his concern that Jack wasn’t trustworthy, or, as he put it privately, “He’s a dick.” But Hill was a very important power broker in New Mexico, and as long as Vincent was in the state, he had no desire to be at odds with the man.

  Rolling over in Vincent’s direction, Nancy barely opened her eyes.

  “Little early for your buddy to be calling. Something wrong?”

  “Nah. Jack Hill wants to meet. Tucker thinks it has something to do with politics. Not sure how I fit in, but that’s no reason to ignore paid work. I’m not crazy about Hill, but I don’t have to love the guy to work for him.”

  “I don’t know the man, but I do know Butch thinks he’s dangerous. Not sure about the details, but he told me once that Hill was the kind of man that made life evil.”

  Vincent paused. Butch Collins was Nancy’s uncle—known affectionately as Santa Claus on account of his long white beard—and he’d raised her after her parents had died. He managed a small homeless shelter with a free clinic, and in Vincent’s opinion was one of the good guys. “Well, if Santa thinks he’s evil, I’ll be doubly careful.”

  Vincent’s first stop that morning was the Inn so he could take the gaggle of writers to the convention center.

  “Mary, those muffins smell wonderful.” Vincent was a great admirer of delicacies created by the cook and housekeeper at the Blue Door Inn.

  “Hello, Mister Vincent. Please, help yourself.” Mary gave Vincent a broad smile.

  Cindy came into the kitchen to join them. “Vincent, the ladies are just about ready. Little slow this morning—they had quite a bit to drink last night. Your name came up several times.” She gave Vincent a look that he couldn’t quite read.

  “Cindy, I’m very happily engaged, and haven’t encouraged these women in any way.”

  She looked at him with a grin that seemed to be half playful and half a warning that he’d better be as good as his word. Cindy and Nancy had become great friends, and any bad behavior from Vincent would put Cindy on the warpath.

  “I’ve got a meeting in Albuquerque this morning after I take the women. Do you need me to get anything for you while I’m there?” He would come back and switch the van for his beloved ’94 Mustang for the trip if Cindy didn’t need anything picked up.

  “Oh, Vincent that would be great. I have an order at the restaurant supply store and they charge an arm and a leg to deliver that stuff. Could you go by and pick it up? You’ll need to take the van, though. It’s a big order.”

  “Sure, no problem. I should be back here by three or so.”

  “Perfect. We don’t pick up the authors until five-thirty.”

  Driving the van wasn’t as much fun as the Mustang, but it sure was a lot cheaper.

  “Good morning, ladies. Everyone ready?” Vincent had entered the dining room and greeted the guests.

  “Hey, you missed happy hour. Where were you?” The ever-demanding Dorothy wanted answers.

  “Maybe I can be the bartender tomorrow night. How would that be?”

  Dorothy didn’t look satisfied, but said, “Okay.” It was a short drive to the convention center. There were large crowds milling around in front and a line of vehicles for the drop-off spot, but Vincent was soon able to help everyone disembark. Stella Stratton was the last to leave, and grabbed Vincent’s arm, gently pulling him away from the others.

  “I want to apologize again for yesterday. Maybe it was just nerves. But I know I have seen that guy before, and it still feels very weird to me. I guess it could be something as simple as him being on the same plane when I flew from Chicago to Albuquerque, but the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that he was watching me.”

  “May I call you Stella?” Vincent wasn’t always sure of his manners with women. He was a tough guy, but also old school. He felt most comfortable calling all women apart from Nancy, “ma’am.”

  “Oh, sure. Stella’s fine.”

  “Thanks. Look, Stella, you’re right. That could have been just a coincidence, but it could be something else. I’ll give you my cell number. We don’t officially have security at the Inn, but that’s my background. So, if anything more happens, or if you see something that makes you uncomfortable, give me a call. You can always call the cops, of course, but unless they have an actual crime, they’re pretty reluctant to start questioning folks who might just be people-watching. If you see this guy again, give me a call, and maybe we can find out what’s going on. Okay?”

  Stella chuckled in a way that suited her well. “Oh, thanks. I’m sure it’s nothing, but for whatever reason, I can’t shake this bad feeling. I appreciate your offer to help. If I see the guy again, I’ll definitely call. Thanks so much.” She gave Vincent a smile he was pretty sure was genuine, and turned to join the crowd entering the center.

  He maneuvered the van around the crowded entrance and headed out to the interstate and his appointment in Albuquerque. He thought about Stella and her stalker. He didn’t know why, but he was sure she was holding something back—maybe even the identity of the man. It was in Vincent’s nature not to trust people, an instinct that had kept him out of harm’s way, over and over again. Unfortunately, it had also limited his personal life to a narrow zone hemmed in by suspicion and mistrust—not the healthiest way to view your fellow humans.

  “Vincent, good to see you again. Seems like we’re having trouble getting you on board, but we’ll just keep tryin’.” Jack Hill was a politician, or in more direct language, a bullshitter. Vincent still wasn’t sure if there was any substance to the man.

  Hill shook his hand as he nodded to Tucker, and took a seat at the massive conference table. The whole office screamed money, success, and power. It made Vincent nervous.

  “I’ve spent my whole life dabblin’ in politics,” Hill began. “I was a Republican for a while, and now I’m a Democrat. I know some people say I just go to where the money is, but it’s more than that. I’m not going to give you some phony populist message, but in my old age I’ve decided that too much of what goes on in this country is controlled by the filthy rich and not enough is done to help the everyday guy. So, here I am, in my fancy, big-buck’s office, advocating for better income equality and health care for all. I understand the hypocrisy, but I don’t give a fuck. Together with a few of my well-heeled friends, we’ve created an advocacy group that’s going to back candidates in the state who will advance a more populist agenda. We’ve got a lot of money to give to people who will agree with our point of view, and I need someone who can look at these people and give me a no-bullshit assessment of their character, and whether we can trust them. I’ve talked to Tucker, and I’d like for you to join us and do some investigative work on these people before we open our checkbooks. What do you think?”

  What Vincent thought, but did not say, was: Where is the angle? How are you going to benefit from this gambit? “Well, Jack, I’m not very political. Republicans, Democrats, they’re all assholes in my book. So, I’m not sure I’m your man.”

  “I wasn’t asking you to evaluate their politics. Mostly I want to know if they have some kind of problem in their background that might jump out and bite us in the ass later on. Money, sex—the usual kind of stuff.”

  Vincent paused before he responded. His bullshit meter was about to blow up. Jack Hill was lying, but Vincent decided he didn’t care—at least not for now. “I can sure do background checks for you, plus cover ground that wouldn’t show up on those internet-based searches. We agreed on an hourly rate a while back, just hadn’t had anything come up. So, I guess I’m ready
to start when you are.”

  “That’s great, Vincent. You’ll work through Tucker. I’ll get a list to him in a few days, and you can get started. Really appreciate you helping us out.” Hill gave Vincent a politician’s smile and handshake, and left the conference room.

  “What the fuck is that about?” Vincent gave Tucker a hard look.

  Tucker shrugged. “Don’t know any more than you do. But there’s obviously something else going on.”

  “You know I hate to do anything for such an obvious bullshitter. Makes me worry he might get me involved in somethin’ I don’t want to be involved in.” Vincent spoke in a softer tone to his old friend, more a confession than a statement.

  “I won’t steer you into anything that I see, but I don’t know what he’s up to, either. So, he could fool us both.”

  They looked at one another and laughed.

  “Not for long. We’d figure it out.” Vincent smiled. “But I could use a little extra money right now—so, unless you tell me to run, I’m in.”

  Tucker shrugged again. “Yeah, I’m still sitting here, too. You watch my back, and I’ll watch yours.”

  “Deal.”

  Vincent’s phone vibrated. “Malone.” He listened. “It’ll take me an hour to get there. Is there a bar or someplace public where you can wait?” More listening. “Okay, I’ll see you in a little bit.” He disconnected. “One of the guests at the Inn thinks someone followed her from Chicago to Santa Fe, and of course, Mister White Knight Malone needs to butt in to help rescue the damsel.”

  Tucker looked at his friend a little too long. “And you accuse Hill of being a bullshitter.”

  Vincent was halfway back to Santa Fe when he remembered he was supposed to go by the restaurant supply house. He called Cindy and got her voice mail.

  “Cindy, I’m sorry. I got a call from Stella, one of the guests, and she thinks she saw a man who was watching her in the airport at the writer’s conference. I was headed back to the convention center to meet her and see if I could find the guy and talk to him when I remembered the restaurant supply order. I’ll come back tomorrow to get it. Sorry about that—I hope it doesn’t cause a problem.”