Triple Play

By Daisy Byrd

Explosions! Murder-for-car plots! Elusive bank robbers! How do these seemingly unrelated events bring together a geologist, a teacher, and a rare book dealer, creating a whole new sisterhood? Add in the murder of an FBI agent, the theft of museum papers about little-known Georgia treasures, and the frequent intrusions of an ambitious news reporter.
Set in Metro Atlanta, Triple Play is a game of life-and-death for three intrepid, unsuspecting heroines. Solving the cases and restoring order combines action, intrigue, suspense and romance as the FBIs Special Agents designated to protect them encounter the unexpected.
Triple Play is a fast-paced adventure, bringing together a widow, a Pirates fan, a reclusive scholar, an heir to a defunct aristocratic title, an illegitimate daughter of a charismatic Georgia evangelist and a motorcycle-bound agent despite all odds and their many differences. Along the way to solving the mysteries enveloping these women are further tribulations created by scheming in-laws, resentful siblings and an international jewel thief.
Paired with the dogged determination of the FBIs imperturbable Special Agents, the three hapless but not helpless women face down the forces arrayed against them. Temperaments, misconceptions and leaks threaten their survival. Who knows where the next strike will land?
Danger lurks as passions flare. Only the dedication of the steadfast Agents stands between the beleaguered women and the dark, enigmatic forces that want them out of the picture for good.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483665917

Book preview

Chapter One

METRO ATLANTA

The quiet here in the small town of Memphis Junction, Kentucky, was shattered this beautiful March morning, Hank. Everyone turned out to watch. We aren’t allowed to get closer due to the heat. As you can see from the wreckage behind me, there is simply no way anyone could have survived the impact. All that’s left is a burned-out shell. We can only guess at the horror of the occupants’ last minutes alive. As of yet, no one knows their names or destination. All we know for sure is that it originated in Atlanta. It will be hours before officials release any more information on this ill-fated flight. Rest assured, though, Channel 15 is standing by to bring you the absolute latest newsflash. I’m Chip Howard for the ATL’s number one news channel. Back to you, Hank.

The fortyish traveling reporter smiled wanly. He’d had little to eat and less sleep lately. This roving reporter job meant he was on the road more days than not, but it was lucrative. Desperate for the work, he had taken it; child-support and alimony cut too deeply into his lifestyle otherwise.

The main anchor at Channel 15 for over thirty years, Hank Evans was rotund and nearing retirement. Suitably transfixed, Hank stared at the sight of the small Cessna jet that had apparently fallen from the clear blue sky to land in the backyard of the postmaster of Memphis Junction, a sleepy suburb of Bowling Green, Kentucky. The news, grisly and unexpected, had enlivened many people’s day in an otherwise little-remarked section of the state. Like countless others, he speculated aloud as to the original destination of the plane. Bowling Green isn’t exactly a top-notch destination, Chip. Where could this plane have been headed?

In Metro Atlanta, the news was filled with accounts of the accident. Laura Hollister heard about the plane crash as she drove among the city blocks, on an errand to deliver urgent papers to her boss’ real estate broker. During the unexpected reprieve from the tedium of the office, she took the time to check her cell phone messages.

Laura was excited to have received a follow-up call from one of the middle-school principals she had met the previous Saturday at a Teacher Job Fair. While she waited on hold for her call to be transferred, her phone blipped. Momentarily in a dead zone, her cell phone lost its signal. By the time she had a clear signal, the phone chimed a Mozart sonata; it was her lawyer.

She took the news that her husband was among the dead in that highly publicized small jet’s fiery crash in Kentucky surprisingly well. Laura was sorry to hear that the pilot and an unidentified woman were also killed. News of Mark’s loss evinced little more than a nod and a quiet word of appreciation to the bearer of the news. Her lawyer promised to investigate the matter in greater detail; for the moment, he was suspending her divorce proceedings. Not to be crass, my dear, but no point in spending good money pursuing a divorce now that you are a widow.

The legal end to her marriage was a great relief. Despite the undeniable shock of finding him in a curious ménage-a-trois over a year before, the divorce process had ground forward slowly, no matter how hard she had pushed. Naturally, Laura and their two young children had moved out of their trendy home. Perhaps Fate had delivered her from a trying, bitter dispute after all.

Three hours later, her lawyer called again. This time, Laura learned that as Mark’s widow she was the sole beneficiary of his estate. The idea that her spendthrift husband had any sort of estate was patently absurd. Laura laughed briefly, Seriously, I doubt it will be much. Don’t you have to have more than debts to have an estate? Silently, she wondered if selling Mark’s many possessions, such as his house, cars, watches, Italian suits and shoes would be able to cover his no-doubt extraordinary debts. Her lawyer assured her that details would be forthcoming, once everything was sorted out.

Before picking up her two young children from daycare, Laura made a point of calling the principal one more time. She eagerly accepted his offer as a sixth grade Science teacher beginning in August. With Andy and Vicki skipping along at her side as she picked up groceries, Laura impulsively included a moderately priced bottle of champagne. However, she couldn’t have said which of the day’s events she celebrated the most.

After the children were in bed, Laura sat at her computer, house-hunting. Her dreams were about to come true. With or without a divorce settlement, her goal of a house, a career, and security would at last be a reality.

Spring in Metro Atlanta began with a glorious riot of dogwood and azalea blossoms bobbing sedately on the gentle breezes. Laura hunted for houses, determined to find something in a good school district. For the time being, she continued at the state job that had given her a chance at normalcy and self-respect.

Everywhere, the talk around the water coolers, elevator lobbies and snack shops tended to center around the increasingly brazen and progressively more intrusive bank robberies. So far, there had been three. Each time, the heists had been well orchestrated, timed to coincide with the mad rush of traffic that snarled Atlanta’s main thoroughfares and highways. The predictably sluggish traffic easily lasted for over two hours, preventing police departments from pursuing the four smug, clearly professional bandits as the crush of citizens hurried home.

By mid-April, everyone had heard yet another Mattie’s call when an elderly woman from Kentucky failed to show up for a planned visit to her nephew in Arkansas. Churches arranged busloads of volunteers willing to spend a week searching for the woman.

Later, they all prayed and held their breath over the announcement of a Levi’s call in Ohio, where one family’s five children had gone missing on their way home from school. Hunters from as far south as Thomasville loaded up their trained hunting dogs and drove in a caravan to help search. Driving all night, they went straight to work, tracking along the broad wooded area where the children had gotten off the bus.

By the end of April, thefts of artifacts from museums across Georgia, especially ones that focused on rare Native American items, were making news. Meanwhile, the bank robbers had hit another bank; bolder and increasingly heedless of traffic safety, they elevated the concerns of all police departments in the North Georgia region. The missing woman from Kentucky silently joined a growing list of other cases of elderly women who were lost, vanishing without a trace. There were announcements of equally grim news from Ohio: The five young siblings remained missing. The authorities feared for their safety.

The bad news just didn’t stop, though. In May, the children’s bodies were found. Most had come to expect it, given the mysterious circumstances of their disappearance and the unstable nature of the prime suspect. None of the public ever heard that among the lead investigators, one took the news so hard that a prolonged absence was followed with a transfer request to another department.

The audacious bank robbers showed increased effrontery in their newest choice of escape: Using motorcycles to weave in and out of jammed traffic, evading even the most skilled helicopter pursuit. By month’s end, the success rate of their heists remained 100%. Across the state’s northern counties, police department morale was at a record low. Then, just after the long Memorial Day weekend, came the announcement from the Grand Canyon that a devoted wife and mother had gone missing during a long-anticipated family vacation.

Despite the tragedies and the setbacks, seasons maintained their usual patterns. Little Leagues and Girls Scouts met. Summer camps filled to overflowing as parents scrambled to get their children into programs that would allow them to work with minimal disruption of their schedules. Schools promoted students who made the grades and graduation programs celebrated the success of those who met the requirements. At companies and within government agencies everywhere, employees submitted requests for leave. Others counted the days or weeks to family gatherings, glamorous vacations, or simpler staycations.

Through it all, people discussed and debated the likelihood of plane crashes, winning the Lotto, or catching child murderers and bank robbers. At water coolers and lunch tables, they lamented the unraveling of our social fabric, and the damning fact that too many bystanders are unwilling to get involved while witnessing violence or abuse, whether domestic or otherwise. Friends and co-workers pondered the odds of walking in on a hold-up and how quickly or appropriately they would react.

Few, if any, thought of the men and women who made every effort to keep crime to a minimum and life for most a routine. No one thought, even for a moment, about those whose lives were forever changed after being caught up in the capricious or villainous acts of others.

Chapter Two

GRAND CANYON, COLORADO

Milt and Dwayne were two absolute best friends. Pals from second grade, when their families moved in just down the street from each other in Evansville, Indiana. They had hit it off from the start and quickly became inseparable.

They had shared weenie roasts, back yard tent camping, bottle rocket contests. Everything that could be done by a kid, those two did together. Scraped knees from bike races at seven, broken arms from skateboarding as pre-teens, braces, and goofy haircuts in high school. Everything. High school, college, and stints in the military had come and gone. The two were still best friends.

Milt and Dwayne still lived not far from the street where they grew up. The union jobs at ALCOA were good. There was plenty of fish in the Ohio River and deer or turkey filled the woods alongside it. There was also lots of great farm land to be had for almost a song.

Back in their mid twenties, the two had picked up quite a parcel in nearby Gibson County. They had gotten raises and didn’t know what else to do with the money, since they weren’t married yet and had no plans to get that way anytime soon. There were too many good-time girls and bars to check out. They had too much going on with their Army Reserve jobs, another easy cash cow.

The extra money came in handy and the land was a great opportunity. Life was good. So, of course they invested together, buying several lots bordering their initial purchase. At first, they hoped that the University of Southern Indiana would offer a fortune to buy the land for one of their agricultural experiments, but that dream hadn’t panned out. For a while, they used it to rent out for farming and hunting.

Later, they parked a trailer on it and got rip-roaring drunk on long weekends, when they wanted to be away from anyone’s overly-intrusive, prying eye. Once they had a trailer on it, they established a well. After the plumbing was running and they installed some propane generators, things were perfect. No rules, no neighbors, no worries. It was a great place to have friends come over for beer pong. Dwayne and Milt often had buddies over for the weekend, where they could get totally ripped. There was no one to hear their loud parties or to complain about their antics. Like playing paint ball in the nude.

It was also a great place to take girls and screw their brains out, too. There were always plenty of ripe girls who were curious about the mysteries of sex and eager to discover their own power over men with their nubile, delectable bodies. The two friends set up an above ground pool for late night dips in the buff, a stroke of sheer genius. With a little liquor in them, the girls were willing to parade in the all-together in and out of the water all night long. Just so long as the cuties knew that neither Milt nor Dwayne had any intention of getting serious with them.

The only problem was, after a while Dwayne did, over one girl in particular. Joanie.

Like so many Mid-western girls, she could bowl, cook, sew, knit, and crochet (having been taught by numerous devoted aunties) and sing like an angel. Joanie had long, straight, strawberry blond hair. She had a sweet smile, straight teeth, big blue eyes and a heart of gold.

Joanie also had stocky legs that ran straight into thick ankles, just like her mom and dear aunties. Dwayne was so captivated by her bountiful breasts and easy nature that Milt figured he never even noticed the promise of hair on her upper lip. Or the fact that she was likely to loose her hourglass figure after childbirth, since the legs and ankles were a dead give-away.

Milt had resented her almost as soon as he realized that Dwayne was so taken with her that he overlooked her obvious faults. Milt was sure that there were other faults that he had no clue about, for in every relationship with a girl he had found that there was something that just wasn’t quite perfect.

Perhaps she needed to go to the bathroom too often. Or had a laugh he couldn’t stand. Maybe she didn’t appreciate his humor. Could be she wasn’t into the whole ‘I caught it, so you clean it’ attitude about the game or fish he bagged. Who knew, ’cause women were just too finicky in his opinion. That or they wanted compliments or new clothes or made a big deal over some movie star as if he was a god or something.

Milt just couldn’t see what there was to appreciate about Joanie. Even if she had a good heart and didn’t hardly get upset or mad at all, there were other things that should matter to a man about a woman. Leastwise, that’s how Milt had always thought. He’d always thought that Dwayne felt the same way.

That is, he did until Dwayne started talking about financial security and planning for a family. Dwayne even worried about being able to support a wife so she could stay at home with kids. How he wanted to make sure they got to be better than he was. Make sure that the house was clean and organized and that supper was on time, too. The important stuff, Dwayne insisted, is that my kids will get to make better choices than I did.

Milt stood speechless, astonished hurt slowly burnishing his face. In a leisurely manner that belied his rage, Milt asked, What the Hell? What could possibly be better than the freedom we had? Our parents never knew about half the messes we made. Damn, Dwayne, we had it made! We could, no, we did, get away with just about anything. What more could you ask for?

Dwayne just stared at him, his belief that they should have had to pay for their juvenile antics still a sore point for him.

Milt’s disgust soared, Shit. He walked out the door.

Anyway, until he fell for a girl of his own some time later, Milt had no great appreciation for Joanie other than the fact that he learned right quick that to complain about her got under Dwayne’s skin real fast. Too fast. After a knock-down, drag-out fist fight which he had lost, a surprise, since he was bigger, Milt figured that Joanie had so infiltrated Dwayne’s mind that he could no longer be rational about her. So, Milt backed off, apologized for the quarrel, and blamed it all on too much Johnnie Walker. Dwayne, bless his unsuspecting heart, fell for it. Or at least, he seemed to.

Which was all that mattered to Milt. He promised himself that no woman was ever going to get between him and Dwayne. They simply had been through too much together. So what if Dwayne didn’t spend as much time with him as he used to, or if he started wanting to have the trailer alone on weekends? Even on weekdays. So what if Milt spent more time at the bowling alley and the beer joints on his own? Or if he had to find some new friends and new ways to keep himself busy? Dwayne was his best friend. Nothing and no one would ever change that.

Milt ended up meeting his wife, Annie, at the bachelor party he threw for Dwayne. Of course, it was at the trailer. It was the royal send-off that Dwayne deserved before saddling himself to Joanie forever. Milt spared no expense. There were plenty of girls and lots of liquor.

They got pretty wild and even had some of the girls do each other while everyone watched. Then, the rest of the girls went around and did lap dances for anyone who asked. Milt had his eyes only on Annie, however. He never noticed how often the girls did each other or did the guys. He didn’t even pay attention when the big finale, all the girls crowded around to give Dwayne head, came around. Because he was way too busy on his own.

Annie came as a server, happy to show off her own bountiful breasts and sweet, tight ass in a hot-pink string bikini. Milt planned on untying that creation with his mouth as soon as possible. Maybe even in front of everyone. Maybe he’d let them watch him pinch her pert nipples and stroke his fingers deep into her. They didn’t usually take their women in front of each other, or share them, either. But, Milt could see that Annie was extra hot and especially eager. Besides, the other guys were so drunk that they would never even remember it, even if he did. In fact, Annie was the only reason he wasn’t as drunk as a coon. So while the guys got it on with the call girls, he got to initiate Annie into some of his favorite things.

She was so perfect for him. Annie was willing to answer his every request, so happy to make him smile. She would do anything he asked. Like play sex games. Be servant to his master. Let him spank her when he got frustrated.

Like when the bank account got overdrawn. That always gave him a great excuse to lean her over the top of the sofa, pull up the tight, thigh-high skirt she wore and slowly peel down the silky sheer high-cut bikini panties without disturbing her garter belt and stockings, spread her feet in her spiked heels far apart so that everything would show, and swat her butt enough times to make it pink and hot to the touch before pumping into her with his hard-as-steel rod, over and over before finding sweet release.

Just thinking about her willingness made him hard.

Too bad that Joanie was not as malleable as Annie.

Way too bad that Joanie had been in the bank’s parking lot at the wrong time, too. Right when Milt and his new friends just happened to rush out. With ill-gotten gains.

She was looking down at that precise moment, tending to her purse and seat belt, so he couldn’t be sure what she saw. Still, Milt knew what had to be done. It was just a matter of time before she put the events together and realized that he had been a part of a major heist. Would she tell Dwayne or just go to the cops? No telling, she was too much a mystery to him. Too much a PTSA officer, too much a goodie-two-shoes for him to understand.

With only three days left on their reservations for the campsites at the Grand Canyon, Milt’s big opportunity to solve the problem that was Joanie happened. They both woke up first, as usual. They came out of their campers at the same time and headed up the trail to the campground showers. On the way, they made small talk about the trip and how wonderful the whole adventure was.

That was Joanie, all right, small talk to the end. If there wasn’t anything important to be said, Milt would have preferred silence. Still, he tried to be cordial. Then, she said it. Isn’t it just a crying shame that we have to leave all this? I just love it here. I wish we could stay forever.

Standing on the trail, Milt had a revelation.

The next morning, he was there bright and early when Joanie came out of the camper. He smiled at her and offered her some coffee. After her shower, he asked her if she would like to take a short hike. He understood if she would rather not, since the children were still asleep. When she replied that Dwayne could take care of them til they got back, Milt could hardly contain himself. Joanie wrote a quick note, as she and Dwayne always were careful to let each other know where the other one was, and then the two were off.

With his long legs, Milt quickly outpaced Joanie. Several times, he made sure to stop and let her catch up. That way, she would be sure not to suspect anything. So, it continued. Milt led her along a trail that promised to display the morning’s visual wonders at their best, so long as one was attentive to the horizon. Before long, the trail was narrow and windy. Milt easily doubled back at one outcropping of rock, just to see what might happen.

Just as he hoped, Joanie continued on, calling to him as before, expecting to find him just around the next few bends. On and on she went, in her simulated leather mules and navy socks that were supposed to be knee high but on her only came to her calf since her feet were so long and her legs were so thick, and her long A-line blue jean skirt with the slit on the side that only came to her knee.

Milt had always hated Joanie’s taste in clothes. It was plain to him that if only she had a little more pride in her looks, she wouldn’t wear the things that accentuated all her negatives. Like the straight bangs across her forehead that detracted from her lovely blue eyes or the bulky shirts buttoned up to her neck, never allowing any cleavage to show. Or those thick ankles and stocky legs, magnified in the ridiculous socks and stupid long skirts.

Milt watched as Joanie lifted her camera to take a picture of yet another cloud formation while also taking another step forward to get the best angle. And finding no solid ground beneath her foot as she put her weight forward onto it, thereby propelling herself off the path and down a treacherous, fatal fall. Just like Wile E. Coyote falling off a cliff in a Road Runner cartoon.

All of which she greeted with a quiet Oh, no! No scream, no call for help or for Dwayne or the children or even her mom. Just a soft Oh, no!

Milt thought that was the best part.

Then, to make certain that everything was fine, he hurried back to the campground. It had only taken about forty-five minutes for everything, so he expected that he would get back in time to act surprised when Joanie didn’t come back from her hike. Even if he did have to stop and replace the sign he had removed much earlier in the morning, the one that cautioned everyone not to stray off the trail due to the unstable ground.

Milt was there to offer Dwayne a cup of coffee to greet the morning and explain that Joanie had gone for a hike with her camera.

Milt was there to talk to the rangers when Joanie didn’t come back by mid-afternoon. He was there to take an active part in the search effort.

Milt was there with a strong shoulder of support when one team radioed back the bad news that her body had been found and was being retrieved.

Milt was there for the media coverage. He was there for the memorial service and the funeral.

Milt was there by Dwayne’s side at work, at church, at home, and even late at night, whenever and where ever Dwayne sat mourning his loss.

What else were life-long friends for?

Chapter Three

NORTH DEKALB COUNTY

The phone rang shrilly, surprising the lady of the house. Somehow, its tone seemed to have a new dimension, an urgency that it never had before. Hesitantly, the woman reached for it. The number was not one she recognized. Who would ever think that I’d rather be sorting laundry than talking on the phone? She told herself to sound alert, and then asked, Hello?

Darling, came the boisterous, happy voice of her husband, get out your best dress! Tonight, we have reservations at that fancy place you’ve been wanting to try out. I sold another one! It made the broker’s one millionth sale, so I get a bonus. Tonight, sweetheart, is just for us! The man gushed on, happy to have some good news for a change. Both he and his wife were all too aware that things between them had been strained. Just like their finances.

Oh, honey, that’s wonderful! Which one was it? Already she paid little attention, trying to decide how to hide the extra ten pounds she’d gained. Her favorite dress was at the cleaners. Could she use the sapphire blue instead? The restaurant was elegant. She hoped it could help re-kindle the oompf in their marriage. Would it help light a spark in his eye as well as hers?

Meanwhile, a house alarm went off. Located in a well-established, sought-after neighborhood, the situation required at least a drive-by from the police. Its alternating whooping squeal irritated folks nearby and generated repeated calls of concern. The team assigned dutifully checked out the house. After a careful search, they found nothing. Conscientiously, the two searched the rest of the neighborhood, prior to filing a report as well as to calling the security company. The officers saw that the houses were carefully maintained, proud, and confident of their status.

Except for one. Both officers were surprised to note that the eye-sore’s bold blue for sale sign now sported a vibrant red sold banner. One officer looked to his partner and asked, Isn’t that the same place that’s been broken into so frequently?

You’re right, Stockwell. You gotta wonder if the new owners know this place has been broken into about twice a month since it went on the market. It’s been, what, almost two years now?

A silent, thoughtful nod was an effective answer.

Chapter Four

LAVISTA ROAD,

NORTH DEKALB COUNTY

"Quit while you’re ahead, folks! The ride home on this Thursday, June first, is an all-out disaster. I’d say it can’t get any worse, but it has. New traffic updates are in. All thanks to the rain. You know the usual places to avoid. But wait, there’s more!

"Stay away from the Big Chicken, folks! There is a mile-long backup due to malfunctioning traffic lights. Spaghetti Junction is a tangle in all directions! The East-West Connector is at a standstill. I-20 West has come to a stop near Six Flags.

If you’re westbound on LaVista Road, between Cofer Square and Tucker High School, steer clear of the right hand lane. A blue mini-van has a flat tire. It’s blocking the merge lane, so proceed with caution! Slow down out there! The rain is making surfaces very slippery. The radio’s traffic guru clearly pronounced a traffic nightmare affecting most of Metro Atlanta.

Damn it! shouted Joe Driscoll as he beat his fist on the steering wheel. From his side of the windshield, the situation was far worse than reported; in ten minutes he had rolled forward all of three car lengths. The lack of visibility and the steady stream of traffic on his left meant the likelihood of making progress was slim. Either bum luck or none at all, that’s me. He was thoroughly disgusted. Unlike 93.9% of all the other drivers on the road who were weary from a long day’s work, he was still on the way in. Really, he was already there. A special agent with the FBI, he was on the trail of a hot tip.

Like others in the Criminal Investigations Division, he knew a tip was ‘good’ only so long. Every moment’s delay put him farther off, making another moment’s head start or leeway for his quarry. Under normal circumstances, he would have been able to navigate smoothly along this route and ensure the sting operation’s effectiveness. He could only watch in frustration as the narrow window of opportunity closed. Annoyed, he sighed deeply as he sent an urgent text.

Joe called off the operation regretfully, painfully aware that it might well be months before the chance presented itself again. Fifteen long minutes later, he recklessly pulled into an opening in the stream of cars and zipped around the disabled car. It took only one long look to see what had caused the problem. He might have known: A woman driver. Too angry to stop or to trust himself to be civil, Joe just kept on driving.

Even later, after several rounds of beer and wistful what-ifs with his co-workers, other special agents themselves, at their favorite local brewery in Buckhead, he still felt out of sorts. Especially after Ron Edmunds listened yet again to his complaint and astutely asked if Joe had noticed what the driver looked like.

Ron’s smile deepened as he heard the sketchy details: White female; early thirties; brown, curly hair; dark eyes; pale oval face; faded lipstick and smudged mascara. Ron shook his head and sighed, then grinned as Joe stared at him. A twinkle began to shine in his deep green eyes. Well, Ron said after clearing his throat for the third time. Well, you saw all that in ‘one’ look? I knew it had to be someone, ahem, special, he observed in his usual calm and deliberate manner.

What can I say? It’s firmly etched in my mind. Joe didn’t expect the laughter. He was serious.

Charlie Culpepper whistled. Well, guys, you know what this means, don’t you?

Yeah, Joe’s mouth twisted in a snarl. It means I’m cursed. Who knows how long before everything comes together again? Lord, save me from women drivers!

Oh, no sweat. The sting will still happen, make no mistake. They don’t know what you had planned. You can still pull it off whenever you want to. The big deal now is the woman in the car. The one who’s got you beating yourself up right now. His buddies agreed, grinning.

Joe looked at them all as if they were strangers.

She probably lives somewhere in the general vicinity. She could be a neighbor, Sam McMillan added, egging Charlie on.

Joe closed his eyes and shook his head. No, Fate could not be so cruel.

Ron just grinned. Because of course, it could. At fifty-nine, he figured he’d seen just about everything, fair and unfair, that Fate could dish out. It seemed to Ron that chances were good that Joe would meet this woman again, before long. Sparks would surely fly. Nope, there was no doubt at all about that. He wondered if he should run a pool to see just how long it would be. He held up a wrinkled ten, saying 100 days. Sam held out two fives, noting he thought four months. Charlie shook his head, said two months and held out his match. The bet was on.

For crying out loud! Joe rolled his eyes and scoffed at them. And tried to change the subject. Hey, did any of you catch what it was that AT was trying to get at with that pep talk today? ‘AT’ was the nickname they applied to their Unit supervisor, Adam Thompson. A man who inspired perfection because he gave it.

Charlie laughed, The one about not, how did he put it?

Sam finished for him: Not taking work home? Easy. Like how I’m gonna win this bet. Just means you shouldn’t take home any paperwork. Thompson wants us to be sure we get some down-time. I heard someone in Child Recovery got so caught up in a job that he went round the bend.

Ron looked at Sam in disbelief. You moron. Where do you get these ideas? He didn’t go ‘round the bend’. He had to be taken out in a straight jacket. But that’s not it. Adam means don’t shack up with anyone you’re supposed to work with. It makes things too uncomfortable for everyone else. Y’know, like Peters and that cute analyst in Charleston. Practically tore the whole field office apart when they broke up. Ron turned to Joe. What’d you think he meant?

Well, I thought he meant don’t get involved with anyone you’re covering. Since it might lead to poor timing when you need to make a call or maybe even some hesitation if it came to a confrontation. Then the suspect could get away. Getting a rowdy chorus of Hell, no quickly led to Joe’s turn to buy the drinks. Soon thereafter, everyone agreed it was time to go.

Joe never told anyone that after he left the bar that night, he drove by the scene of his ignominious defeat. Just to be certain the lady had been able to get out of her predicament. He knew it was a near-compulsion, but he needed to be certain that she had gotten help. Finding the lane clear he went home, where some R&B and Jack Daniels Black could soothe his soul.

Still later that night, he woke from his dark dreams in a deep sweat, memories of a terrible time he’d almost been able to forget. It was just after he started working with Ron. He’d been in an undercover operation and had been exhausted by nearly twenty-four-hour surveillance at the end of the job. Trapped in a haze between awareness and sleep, his mind couldn’t turn on. His fiancée, Eileen, was leaving to shop for a wedding dress with his fabulous, trendsetter mother at ritzy Phipps Plaza.

She leaned over him and kissed him, enveloping him with her essence. He could feel the thrust of her velvety tongue as she ran it slowly, deeply around the interior of his mouth. His pulse quickened, her scent lingered in his nostrils. Eileen pressed her breasts across his arm, purring as he rubbed them.

Joe vaguely heard her skirt rustle as she drew away, gliding out the door. Through the haze drugging his mind, he stumbled to the kitchen to call her back to finish what she had started. He was too late. She was pulling out of the short driveway of his townhouse; he stayed to see her merge into traffic. Cursing his luck, he stumbled back to the bed, his desire melting into confusion as he wondered if he’d just dreamed it all. She’s such a tease!

Hours later, he had awakened and showered. Feeling energized, Joe had begun to stage a romantic dinner: Grilled salmon, potatoes wrapped in foil and cooked on the grill, spinach salad, fresh bread, chilled white wine.

As he had worked, the news anchor announced a horrific wreck on Sydney Marcus Boulevard. A car had caught fire, instantly erupting into a fireball. The occupants’ remains were charred beyond recognition; he got to the set in time to see the replay of events. Icy fingers of dread nearly stopped his heart. Moments later, the phone rang. Experts argued whether it was or wasn’t an accident. For Joe, it only mattered that Eileen and his mother were dead.

Never had he been so hurt, even when his dad had died.

Ron had stood by him through it all. Each of those first shaky days had seemed to last an eternity. Slowly, the ache became more bearable. Two years passed before Ron bluntly asked him when he planned to start dating. The pain no longer crushed him, was surprisingly no longer a part of every breath he took. Ron held him by the shoulders and stared him in the eyes, saying it was time for him to pick up the pieces of his life, reminding him that Eileen would want him to go on. The clincher had been Ron’s question: Wouldn’t Eileen resume living after a period of mourning had you been the one to die?

Haltingly, Joe had returned to dating. In time, he earned the reputation of being the unit’s Casanova. It was an unfair status, but he did nothing to dispute it. He had no problem getting dates. In fact, the problem was having his interest sparked enough to want to date. Lately, most women he met just wanted sex. It wasn’t long before those who wanted him started sending clear signals. It was awkward and frustrating. How could he have a love-life when no one appealed to him?

The memory of Eileen’s last kiss still haunted him after seven years. From time to time, he dreamed of it. He always woke up drenched in sweat, feeling her lips as clearly as that first time. It was as if she were at his elbow. Somehow, though, the dreams were increasingly interwoven with Ron’s constant advice: Whatever you do, don’t get personally involved with a client. Especially a woman. Not much chance of that happening. There weren’t any women he dated long enough to know his occupation or hold his interest. Jeez, aren’t there any women in Atlanta who want a real relationship anymore?

Chapter Five

LAVISTA ROAD,

NORTH DEKALB COUNTY

Snug in her car, Laura didn’t care about the flat tire or the inconvenience it represented. Meanwhile, the rain poured down, and the run-off on the windshield showed the torrent for what it was. Laura Hollister was simply too elated about quitting her job for the rain to get her down. At last, she was leaving her job at a minor state agency in anticipation of starting a new one as a teacher. It had been wonderful to turn in her letter of resignation two weeks ago. Neither the extra work nor the whining of her bitter supervisor had mattered one bit. Finally, the day she had long awaited had arrived.

She looked at the pizza that she’d picked up after leaving Walmart, where she got the last of the supplies necessary to clean, paint and prepare her ‘new’ house. My new life. Shrugging at the delay, Laura took it in stride; she had planned on a late night anyway. In four days, the movers would deliver her belongings. It wasn’t much time to get the long-neglected house into order. Thank God, all I really have to do is paint and tend to the yards!

She sat in the car waiting for the traffic to clear. She reflected on her newest focus, The House she had just bought. It was over thirty years old, and in a part of the county that had long supported excellent schools. With over 3000 square feet, it was a brick colonial from the early ’70s. It had three large bedrooms with generous closets, two baths, and a walk-in attic upstairs. On the main level was a spacious eat-in kitchen, separate pantry, living room, dining room, den with fireplace and a sliding glass door onto the deck, and a laundry room. Downstairs, there was a huge playroom, a fully tiled bath, and an unfinished basement offering lots of storage.

The entire lot was level. The fenced back yard was filled with old shade trees and overgrown shrubs. The front yard showed the most neglect. Its few foundation shrubs had grown nearly as high as the roof itself. Some windows hadn’t been touched by daylight in years. The weedy grass, too, was almost knee high. Any effort at landscaping had died years ago. All in all, the yards had been untended for years. Currently, it was the neighborhood eye-sore. Which was precisely why she had been able to get it for a song. No one else had seen its potential in more than twenty-two months on the market. Things are lookin’ up!

Her cell phone chimed the old Ghostbusters theme. It was Cindy, calling to check on her. As if Cindy could dash over and lend a hand. Cindy was a godsend, her roommate and best friend since college. She and her parents had practically adopted Laura that first year. Those were hard months after Laura’s mother died of breast cancer, made all the harder a year later when her alcoholic father became an unlikely hero by stumbling into a hold-up and saving the day by becoming the only casualty.

Careers, moving, marriages and motherhood had done nothing to alter their closeness. Although Cindy now lived in Texas, the two maintained regular contact. Thank God for Skype, Facebook, e-mail, text messages, and cell phone calls!

"Oh, you’re right. This would only happen to me. No one would believe this anyway, a flat in the pouring rain while I’m trying to move in! Don’t worry; I’ll call AAA in the morning. They can handle the tire.

I have enough work to do. Wait til you see pictures of the yard! It was a good excuse to get all those cool yard tools: Weed whacker, hedge trimmer, mower, and electric chainsaw.

From the other end of the line came a laugh, You are insane. I sure wish you’d let Mom give you the name of her gardener. Why not let someone else do the heavy work to get you started? Then in the fall, you could do the easier decorative things. So what are your plans for now?

Laura explained that her immediate concern was getting the house into a livable condition. "For now, I’ll concentrate on getting the basics done. You know, painting, and then cleaning. The movers come Monday around noon. I have roofers scheduled for Tuesday. The kitchen footprint is going to be the same, but new appliances and cabinet doors are due on Thursday. Yeah, I’m replacing the countertops and lighting, too.

However, with this damned flat tire, here on LaVista during rush hour, I’m penned in the car. I can’t even get out, which is frustrating. Once I’m out of this pickle, though, I’ll be back on track. You know I hate it when plans get interrupted.

Cindy commiserated. If anyone can make it happen, it’s you. I know you are ready for this. Life has suddenly become wonderful again. Just think. Not long ago, you were waiting for a divorce, living in that apartment, stuck in a dead-end job. And now? All the great changes are due to the fact that your low-life husband who couldn’t keep his pants zipped. I still can’t believe he didn’t cancel that insurance policy he bought during your honeymoon. Who’d have thought that a con artist like Mark would end up dying in a small plane with his latest lover! What poetic justice.

Laura had been head-over-heels for Mark. Suave, debonair, and savvy in ways she never could comprehend, he had convinced her to elope only a few weeks after they’d met. In an effort to appease her reluctance, he explained that the money they’d saved on the brief civil ceremony allowed him to buy a fully endowed $500,000 spousal benefit insurance policy. Gullible fool that she was, Laura had thought it reflected his utter devotion. She’d learned, much later, of course, it all had been a sham. Laura now realized Mark had forgotten about the policy over time, as had she. Once everything else had gone wrong with their marriage, she hadn’t thought of it again except as another one of his cruel jokes.

Who’d have thought that pretense would end up meaning so much? Cindy’s mother, Diane Morrison, was a top-notch financial consultant; she had offered excellent advice and guided her into a well-devised arrangement. With Diane’s help, Laura had made wise choices about its use.

The house had been a steal at $160,000, especially as others in the neighborhood were valued at well over twice that amount. For now, there was an account of nearly $90,000 to cover various costs: Moving, new roof, new gutters and downspouts, new HVAC, and updated kitchen. The ‘incidentals’, as Diane put it. At the moment, she was grateful that Diane insisted she set up this ‘rocking chair’ account for costs associated with making the house livable again.

The rest of the settlement was divided into three main parts. Two equal portions for the children, for college. An account of $100,000 was set aside for her own future. With her new job, she could look forward to having a very comfortable future on her own income. Yessirree, things are lookin’ up.

At last, the traffic cleared. It took little time for her to get the cans of compressed air and tend to the flat itself. She quickly resumed her journey home. The fact that she got drenched in the process was completely immaterial.

Laura turned into the drive wetter and later than she wanted. While the garage slowly opened, she reached into the glove compartment for her small camcorder. This was definitely going to be something to document.

After all, a whole new life was about to begin.

Chapter Six

THE VILLAGE GREEN,

NORTH DEKALB COUNTY

Hers was the only colonial in a neighborhood of Tudor-style manors, Spanish villas, French farmhouses, and sprawling Italianate ranches. Laura chuckled again at the subdivision’s name: The Village Green! The reference to a rustic colonial square amused her every time she drove past the colonnaded entrance marked by an elaborate landscape design. Who ever heard of a village with - well - villas and manor houses? Clearly, the developer had either a quirky sense of humor or a poor sense of architectural history.

Less than thirty minutes after blocking traffic, Laura ran inside her house, juggling the pizza along with her purse and camera. Leaving the nearly cold pizza on the cabinet, she went around the dismal fixer-upper and turned on the lights, filming as she went. At least the sellers had left the light bulbs in the ceiling fixtures. Working her way to the bedroom that would be hers, she left a trail of lights on as she quickly reassessed its problems.

Aside from her realtor’s concerns about long-term neglect, it really wasn’t so bad.