West put in several calls about the stolen vehicle that had been involved in the Cantrell accident before he finally connected with Bob Vincent, the rightful owner of the Acura MDX.

"Took forever to get reimbursed from the insurance company," Vincent told him in a voice filled with gravel. "d.a.m.n bandits. The damage wasn't that bad, but since it was used at a crime scene they ran me around and around. Talk, talk, talk. Blah-bidy, blah-bidy, blah-bidy. Good luck trying to get them to stop explaining over and over again why I couldn't get my car back. n.o.body would listen to me. n.o.body cared that the car had been stolen, but I was out the money. And don't get me started on my insurance company. My previous insurance company. b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were just looking for a reason not to replace it."

"When was the vehicle stolen?" West asked.

"A couple of nights before the accident. I left it outside that construction job I had in Santa Clarita and when I came back it was just gone."

"What construction job?"

"Theron Construction. We were putting up mini-storage, y'know? Tilt-up concrete. Check with Michael Theron. He's the one hired the riffraff and kooks that took my car."

West questioned, "You think one of the men on the job took your car?"

"You bet that's what I think. That's what I told you people, but n.o.body would listen. Those guys were always looking at my car. I knew what they were thinking. It was a d.a.m.n fine vehicle. But you guys . . ." he muttered. "Told me that because it was taken after hours, it was probably some random theft, but I know one of them came back for it."

West remembered Osbirg and Bibbs had been on the case. "You're saying the police didn't investigate thoroughly enough."

"I left it there because I was being a safe driver. Y'all kept acting like me having a few beers with some friends was a crime or something. I don't drive drunk, Detective. That's something Bob Vincent doesn't do."

West had clashed with Osbirg on more than one occasion and currently, with Paulsen in the doghouse with Lieutenant Gundy, Osbirg wasn't around. Bibbs had been moved to another station, but neither of them was known for being a top-grade investigator. "Can you give me names of the men you worked with?"

"Sure. Bubba, Dips.h.i.t, and Preacher." He chuckled low in his throat. "That's what I called 'em, anyway."

"Got anything more concrete?"

"Nah . . . you'd better check with Mike." Vincent then gave West the number for Mike Theron and as soon as West was off his call, he placed another one to the man who owned the construction company. That call went straight to voice mail, so he left a message, then tried Callie again.

This time she answered right away. "Hi," she said warmly.

He felt himself heat from the inside out and thought, Boy, you've got it bad. "Hey, how's it going? How's Tucker getting along?" he asked.

"He keeps hoping we have furrall cats, but he's doing okay. Have you heard anything on Victoria?"

"They're 'cautiously optimistic,'" he said, then explained that Talia had called earlier. "She seems to have calmed down a bit, but then she's been spending time with Cal who's divided his workload with Teddy until Victoria gets back on her feet. If she gets back on her feet . . ."

"So, it's basically good news," she said.

"Barring any unforeseen setback, looks like Victoria might be okay."

"I hope so," she said, sounding relieved. "What about Andre? Have they seen him around?"

"Talia didn't say, and she would've, if he'd been there. Maybe he left. Figured it wasn't the time to work his way back into the family with Victoria down."

"No," she said positively. "You didn't meet him. He's not going to give up."

He really wished he'd met up with Andre, the way Callie had an aversion to him. They talked about Tucker for a few minutes, and he debated on telling her what he suspected about Teresa, that she'd been driving the car that rammed her husband's Mercedes. Before he could decide, she knocked the thought right out of his head with news of her own.

"I may have found Jonathan's secret hiding place. Maybe where he kept the money the Cantrells are so sure he had." She told him about Security One, then really took him aback when she added, "I told Derek about it, and now he wants to try to get into the box by pretending he's Jonathan."

"You're kidding."

"I told him it wouldn't work, that he should just go through legal channels, but he left before I could put the total kibosh on that. He said he's coming back later with the death certificate, but I don't know. He likes shortcuts . . . just like Jonathan."

"Why did you tell him about the box?" West asked.

"Because I don't care what's in it. I just want to tie up all the loose ends to my old life."

He nodded, even though she couldn't see him, then checked the wall clock. Four P.M. "I might be off earlier than I'd planned. Just waiting on a few calls."

"That would be great," she said with feeling.

He liked the way she said that, and for some strange reason a sudden memory of Roxanne complaining that he never told her he loved her popped into his head. Put on the spot like that, he'd never been able to say it to her, and truthfully, he just didn't feel that way about her. Now, Callie, even given the short time they'd known each other, he easily could see himself saying those three words.

"I'll get there as soon as I can," he told her.

As he hung up, he heard smooching noises and looked up to see Dorcas standing behind him with an open bag of Cheetos and a c.o.ke. "Who's the lucky lady?" he asked, grinning like an idiot, his teeth orange.

"Callie Cantrell."

Dorcas started choking on his snack and West s.n.a.t.c.hed the bag out of his hands. "Give me those," he said.

"Cantrell? Man, you like to live dangerously," he said when he finally got himself under control.

West grabbed a few Cheetos and shoved the bag back into his friend's hands. He really wanted to just settle down with Callie and Tucker and keep the danger to a minimum.

South Central. Not the safest place to be in Los Angeles, but perfect for what Naomi needed: a place to leave the car. She'd driven the Chevy back to the city and stayed at a Comfort Inn in Burbank, walking to a nearby 7-Eleven to pick up baby wipes, her method of choice to wipe down the vehicle of all prints. The dent from the old lady and her companion wasn't all that significant. She'd barely brushed them and they'd toppled over. Still, she didn't want the slightest chance of being caught, so she stayed the night and most of the day in Burbank and then drove on to South Central, wearing plastic gloves. She emptied the glove box, took out the registration, then made sure all the side pockets and the area beneath the seats were clean. She'd already checked the trunk during her wipe down, and finally she simply walked away from the car, leaving the keys in the ignition. Sure, the license plates and VIN number would trace the car back to Daniella, but by that time Naomi would be long gone.

At the nearest bus stop, she chose the next one that stopped, not caring where it took her. Turned out, she ended up heading south. She managed to work her way to Marina del Rey, where she stopped at a cafe overlooking the ocean and bought herself some outstanding fish tacos and a gla.s.s of white wine. As she ate, she stared across the Pacific. It p.i.s.sed her off that Teresa had had an exit plan. Maybe all of them did, except her. Loyal till the end . . . they could inscribe that on her tombstone after she was dead.

But she didn't plan on dying today.

It was after five by the time she got to the front porch of the house she'd shared with Andre and the handmaidens. Slipping her cell phone from her purse, she started to call Andre, then hesitated before putting the call through. If she were smart, she'd just gather her things and get the h.e.l.l out. s.h.i.t was going to rain down in torrents soon, and Andre was a f.u.c.king head case. How many times had she told him to go the doctor? Fifty? A hundred? A thousand? Something was deep-down wrong in that screwed brain of his, and though she loved him in a way she'd never loved anything before, and never expected to again, he was bad news for her. If she stayed with him, she would be arrested or killed. She hadn't been the one who'd murdered Teresa, but she'd been there, and she sure as h.e.l.l had wanted Teresa dead, but then, hadn't they all?

And there was no getting around the hit-and-run she'd done for Andre.

Nope. It was time to move on.

Still . . . Her thumb hovered over the send b.u.t.ton. Just before she pressed it, she thought she heard something inside the house. Frowning, she put the phone away and pulled out her key, inserting it into the lock.

As she pushed open the door, she heard murmuring. A woman's voice. A chill slid down her spine and she hesitated just inside the threshold. It didn't sound like Daniella or Clarice . . . Was someone on a cell phone?

"Hey-" she started to say, just as the hall closet door flew open and a body launched itself at her. "What? Wha-?" Her words were choked off as a dark bag was thrown over her head. She immediately struggled but felt the p.r.i.c.k of a needle in her arm, which sent her heart into overdrive as fear kicked in.

Struggling with all her might, she heard the clatter of the hypodermic needle against the floor as she managed to throw her attacker off her. She ripped the bag from her head, but the woman-she could feel the shape of her body more than see her in the dark-was back on her in an instant, ripping at her hair, sc.r.a.ping her face with her nails. They rolled on the floor and Naomi grabbed her attacker's hair and tried to slam her head against the hardwood entry hall. No such luck. The woman pulled away and cuffed Naomi with a wicked right cross.

She saw stars. And then felt lethargy enter her muscles. The p.r.i.c.k of the needle. What had the b.i.t.c.h given her? Oh, G.o.d . . . This is it.

When she slowed down the fight, the woman released her and staggered to her own feet. Naomi stared up at her. "Who are you?" she mumbled.

For an answer the woman grabbed her by her jacket collar and dragged her down the hall to the prayer room, surprisingly strong for her wiry frame. As she neared it, Naomi smelled a faint odor of must and decay. What?

And then she saw the bodies. Daniella . . . Clarice . . . oh, G.o.d, Jerrilyn!

The cold feel of the necklace penetrated her swimming senses, then the tightening of the chain around her neck.

"For Andre," the woman said in a breathy growl.

No, Naomi thought. Not for Andre! No! He's not The Messiah. He's nothing but a screwed piece of garbage! No . . . no . . . no . . . o . . . o . . . o . . . !

The singing of his cell awoke Andre from the daymare he'd fallen into where Teresa's beautiful face turned into one of the chattering skulls. When he came to he was in a full sweat, seated in the Xterra outside the Cantrell house. He'd actually driven around the curve where Teresa had pushed Jonathan Cantrell's car off the road and a strange thrill had slid into his core, landing in his groin. Dimly he realized it was the first time in days that he'd felt even the most minor s.e.xual tickle. Something wrong there. The one thing he'd always counted on was his masculine essence. It worked for him with the draw of an aphrodisiac and yet ever since Teresa's death, it had diminished, almost as if it were dying with her. And his c.o.c.k was like a lazy dead worm.

Disturbed, his voice was curt. "Yeah," he answered.

"Where are you?" she asked.

He closed his eyes, willing his d.i.c.k to come to life at the sound of her voice. He tried to conjure up an image of Teresa. Not the ugly skull he'd seen, but the way she'd been . . . all lithe limbs, red lips, and molten heat. Nothing. "I'm in LA."

"Good," she said. "You're getting closer. Come on home."

"I'll be there soon." He cut her off abruptly, clicking off. His head was dully pounding, a usual state these days. And no s.e.x drive. Maybe Naomi was right. He needed to see a doctor.

He trained his gaze on the Cantrell front door. He'd followed Teresa from the ranch. No . . . not Teresa . . . Callie. Had to keep reminding himself. He'd followed Callie to the Cantrell house and then he'd left for a while, needing to plan. He'd driven to a coffee shop at a mall but hadn't gotten out. The Cantrell house loomed in his thoughts, reminding him of smooth and wealthy Jonathan Cantrell who'd thought his s.h.i.t didn't stink. Cantrell hadn't known he was just the latest Mark when Teresa had connected with him in Martinique. He'd thought their love would conquer anything. Ha. Teresa had wanted to hang on to him longer than she should, but in the end she'd left him cold, as it should be. They'd laughed about Cantrell's starstruck love for her all the way back to LA. He'd been like a dog with his tongue dragging on the ground. All he wanted was Teresa under him, in his bed. Andre had let it go as long as he could stand it. But Teresa was his, no one else's, and Andre made that clear to her when they were back together in Los Angeles. She'd eventually come to heel, but Cantrell was wilier than Andre had suspected. For once Andre had underestimated the man, who never stopped searching for the love of his life. And then years later, he actually found her again. He showed up on their doorstep and spoke to Daniella who lied that she was the only one residing there. But Cantrell wouldn't take no for an answer. Then Teresa came back from taking care of Stephen, and he was waiting for her.

As soon as Jonathan knew where they lived, he'd been marked for death, but he let Teresa lead him on a bit. She was quarrelsome anyway, unhappy with the handmaidens, and so she'd jumped at the chance to be with Cantrell. That's when he knew she had to be the one to kill him. And he made it clear that the task he set for her wasn't optional. She did it too. Ran that f.u.c.ker off the road. Andre had really thought that things would get back on course after that, but instead her scheming and planning had apparently intensified. She thought he didn't know about the boy, but he did. He just hadn't acted on the information like he should have. Like he planned to now.

A sleek, black BMW pulled into the Cantrell driveway and a man stepped out. Andre gazed at him through slitted eyes, willing the headache to dial back a bit so he could appraise who this might be.

And then the man turned and looked right at him and Andre's heart stalled for a beat. Jonathan? No! Yes, his mind screamed, and he realized right then and there that Teresa had lied to him. She hadn't killed him. She'd let him live so she could be with him!

But there were newspaper accounts of his death. Think...

Lies, Andre realized now. He was so incensed he could scarcely see. Rage blinded him.

And then she came out to greet him and Andre realized he'd been duped. She might not be Teresa exactly, but she was a close enough clone and she and Jonathan Cantrell were plotting together. Plotting against him. Plotting for themselves.

They had the boy and thought they had a straight line to his money!

"You can't try to get into the box," Callie told Derek firmly. She'd come outside as soon as she'd spied his car pull into the drive. The sky was overcast and it was already dark. There was a definite unseasonable chill in the air, enough that she pulled her sweater close and held it tight. "I don't care whether you have the death certificate or not. And I'm definitely not going along with any plan to have you pretend you're Jonathan."

"Diane's sure that's where the money is," Derek said. "We could at least try."

"Nope."

"Just give me the key, then," he said with extreme patience, holding out his hand.

She set her jaw. She was standing less than two feet away from him and could read the implacable look on his face, but she could be just as implacable. "Did you talk to William about this?"

"Lister doesn't need to know."

"Of course he does! Derek, for G.o.d's sake, we need to follow the legal rules here."

"Lister would just try to stop me, and I'm going to find out what's in that box," he said stubbornly.

"Derek," she said, exasperated. "I'm not going to let you do this!" Out of the corner of her eye she noticed movement approaching from across the street. Someone was coming their way, but she didn't want to be distracted. She needed Derek to listen to her. "Did you even bring the death certificate?"

Derek started to shake his head, then flicked a glance at the newcomer and he froze in shock. "Hey, hey!" he said, his mouth turning to an O of surprise.

Callie turned and saw Andre. And a gun. Raised. Her own mouth dropped open in shock as her brain tried to process what she was seeing. "Wha-"

Bang! Bang-bang!

Andre pulled off three shots in quick succession and Derek stumbled backward, red blood spots blooming on his shirt, his hands clawing at his chest, his face full of stunned disbelief.

Callie emitted a bleat of shock as Derek fell in a heap. She turned wide eyes on Andre as he lifted the gun again and leveled it at her face.

Tucker, she thought. Oh, G.o.d.

"Callee?" As if he'd read her thoughts, Tucker called to her at that moment from inside the open front door.

The gun slowly lowered and Andre shifted his gaze from Callie to beyond her and Tucker. She seized the moment to twist around and run back to Tucker, half-expecting to be shot in the back. "Stay inside!" she yelled at Tucker, shocking him with her harsh tone.

He was standing in the foyer. His gaze moved past her. "What that sound?" he asked.

"Teresa?" Andre queried shakily from behind Callie.

She blocked Tucker's view of him, standing in the aperture in front of him. She grabbed Tucker by the shoulders and tried to turn him around, but he resisted. Callie was moving by rote. Her mind's eye was still filled with the sight of the gun barrel. And the snapshot image of confusion that had rippled across Andre's face as he'd looked her up and down.

"Where is she?" Andre's voice sounded far away.

He meant Teresa. He'd thought she was Teresa for a moment? "I don't know," she threw over her shoulder. If she could slam the door. Keep Tucker safe. Keep herself from fainting or screaming or G.o.d knew what.

On the ground outside behind her Derek was making moaning sounds.

"What that?" Tucker demanded, trying to look beneath Callie's right arm.

"Nothing!" she snapped.

"Turn around, or I'll shoot him," Andre ground out.

Callie wasn't sure if he meant Derek or Tucker, but she definitely believed he meant what he said so she slowly revolved until she was facing him again, her hands behind her, trying to hold Tucker back.

Derek had stopped moving, his eyes fixed now across the road on some faraway distance.

He's gone, she thought surreally.

Andre looked like a wild man. His eyes didn't seem to be tracking together. "Get in the car." He waggled the gun at her. "You and the boy. You drive."

"I need my purse . . . my keys . . ."