"What are you telling me, Ms. Elliot?"

"Oh please, call me Maude."

He nodded and took a deep breath.

"I met Savanah last year when I came up to Toronto for the opening of the Crystal Casino. We sort of hit it off. She's a darn good photographer-"

"Get to the point ... Maude."

"Oh. Sure. I guess you're wanting to get back to bed, huh? Heck, I'm used to these kind of hours-"

"Maude."

"Oh. Ah ... Savanah has filled me in with what's going on, you're trying to nail that senator? Good for you. They're all a lot of sleazebuckets you know, would sell their blind grannies if they thought it would buy them a few votes. Anyway, what she's got here, the photos, they're good, a little grainy, but ... what I've got are better."

Johnny frowned. "Are you saying you have photographs of Foster-"

"Aruba, three years ago. You see, Formation never holds their meetings in the same place; for obvious reasons they wish to keep their anonymity. Just so happens I was there doing a shoot for one of their compet.i.tors, the Hilton I think, or maybe it was Holiday Inn. I wandered over to the Rama Rio Resort with the thought of knocking on a few doors, handing out a few business cards, drum up a little business. The place was swarming with bigwigs; I mean these cats were dripping the dinero, know what I mean? Major big shots we're talkin', and pretty d.a.m.n creepy lookin' if you ask me. I thought I'd fallen into a friggin' United Nations powwow. j.a.panese, Mexicans, Middle Easterners. And right there among them was these familiar faces."

"Foster."

"Among others. Ever heard of Gary Taylor?"

"Elected governor of Nevada the last election."

"Bingo. How about Mark Schwin?"

"Minnesota senator."

"And last but not least, Harry Johnston."

"Just announced his intentions of running for governor of New Jersey the next election." Johnny closed his eyes. "Jesus. You have their photographs?"

"Not with me, of course. They're in my files. Shoot, at the time it just never occurred to me that there was any kind of shenanigans going on. I just happen to collect photos of the rich and famous; occasionally I can make a buck or two on them if the right opportunity comes along."

"Where are your files, Maude?"

"Home."

"Where is home?" he said through his teeth.

"The Caymans."

"Put Savanah on the phone, please."

Savanah got back on the phone.

"Is she a nut or what?" Johnny asked.

"Not at all."

"Where are you now?"

"Atlanta. On my way to the Caymans."

"Once you get your hands on those photographs, stay put. I'm flying down to get you myself."

"What about Leah, Johnny? What do you intend to do about her?"

"I don't know," he said in the dark.

When Leah awoke, she reached for Johnny. He wasn't there. She sighed and closed her eyes, smiling as she thought of the night before, of fireworks and falling stars, and the happiness in her son's face. It was a dream. A wonderful, beautiful dream. Too romantic to be real. Too miraculous to be believable.

The door opened and Shamika, grinning ear to ear, walked in pushing a wheelchair.

Leah sat up and rubbed her eyes.

"Well? What do you think?" Shamika parked the chair by the bed. "It arrived this morning. Top of the line, honey. This baby is good for a hundred thousand miles at least. And get a load of this." She dropped into it and touched a b.u.t.ton. The chair moved forward. She touched another and it rolled back.

Leah slid from the bed and moved slowly around the chair, her throat beginning to hurt. "Am I really seeing what I think I'm seeing?"

"This sweetheart must have put Johnny-boy back a good twelve grand. And not only that. I just got a call from a Jolene Carrington at Albuquerque Medical Research Inst.i.tute. She spoke to Johnny three days ago. He's arranged for us to take Val in to be evaluated for Botox treatments. If he's considered a good candidate they can begin the treatments immediately. Like that day."

Leah pulled off her nightgown and grabbed for a tee shirt, then her jeans. She began to laugh so hard she stumbled around with one leg in her pants, the other out.

A maid appeared at the door, and Shamika, laughing too, cried, "Hold on to your drawers, Leah, the panty s.n.a.t.c.her is back."

Grabbing up the panties Johnny had pulled off her the night before, Leah tossed them to the wide-eyed servant. "You may have my panties. You may have all of my panties. I may never wear panties again, for that matter." At last she wiggled the jeans up over her naked hips and snapped them. "Where is Johnny?" Barefoot, she ran from the room.

"Haven't seen him this morning," Shamika yelled after her.

She took the stairs two at a time, barely managing to contain her outrageous desire to slide like a mischievous kid down the winding banister. On tiptoe she moved to the office door, which was slightly ajar; hearing someone speaking quietly, she nudged the door open.

Edwin Fullerman sat behind Johnny's desk, his back to Leah as he spoke on the phone.

"Look, Ted. We are not prepared at this time to go on record with any public accusations. What good would it do either of us? Until we have proof positive in our hands we keep our mouths closed. All I can tell you now is that Johnny is on his way to some undisclosed location to pick up the evidence to nail that son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h. I can appreciate your position. District Attorney Singer has been more than patient. You know and I know Johnny didn't drive himself off that road and intentionally kill Dolores Rainwater. He was purposefully rammed off that road by another car. Your forensics experts have verified that beyond a shadow of a doubt. But until we've established a motive ... exactly. We'll be faced with another scandal that will end up hurting a lot of people and damaging Johnny's reputation."

Ed tapped on the desk with the end of a pencil as he nodded and sighed into the phone. "I've attempted to call Robert Anderson this morning. No luck so far. But I'm sure Johnny will want you to discuss your plans to publicly make a statement regarding the accident and the investigation with Bobby before you go on the air. Yes, I realize both the DA's office and the police are getting a lot of heat over this. It looks as if you're protecting Johnny.

"What? You can tell Singer to kiss our a.s.s. No way is Johnny going to turn himself in to the frigging police for questioning. I don't care if this makes the police and DA's office look like a bunch of dunces. Fine. Make your G.o.dd.a.m.n statement. Someone ran Johnny and Dolores off the road that night in an obvious attempt to kill them. The police are investigating the evidence. At this time Johnny makes no further comment on the matter."

Ed slammed the phone down and swung around in the chair. His eyes widened to find Leah standing in the door.

"Oops," he said, and dropped the pencil to the desk.

"What's going on?" Leah asked, her stomach feeling queasy all of a sudden. "What are you saying? That someone attempted to murder Johnny and Dolores?"

He rocked back and forth in the chair and drummed his fingers on the desk. "Yes," he replied carefully.

"Why wasn't I told about this?"

"Johnny didn't want to overly alarm you."

She walked slowly toward the desk, her eyes locked on Ed's. "Why are the police keeping so hush-hush about it?"

"You know the press and the wild public speculation. The last thing we want to do is throw open a can of worms."

"Then you have an idea who's behind it?"

Ed looked away. "Nothing definite."

"You just told Ted Weir that Johnny is off someplace gathering evidence. Obviously you think you know who did it."

Mouth pressed, Ed considered his words. "First and foremost, Ms. Starr, we must protect Johnny. It's our job. He didn't get to where he is by dumb luck. He never made a move in his career that wasn't orchestrated beforehand. He's methodical and goal oriented. He's surrounded himself with people as brilliant and motivated as he is. You know as well as I do that Johnny has no intention of spending his life in front of a camera. He has far greater aspirations, not to mention brains."

"You're not answering my question, Ed. Who would want to murder Johnny and Dolores?"

"Someone who considers Johnny a threat, I suppose."

She stared at Ed and watched as a red flush crept up his face, making his green eyes look greener behind their wire-rimmed spectacles. The sick feeling in her stomach spread through her body like icy tentacles as she backed to the door.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," she said, shaking her head. "You're going to accuse my father of this, aren't you?"

"I think you'd better talk to Johnny-"

"My father might be a machine but he's not a monster. He's not a murderer."

Leah turned for the door.

Edwin jumped from his chair. "Leah, wait-"

"Go to h.e.l.l," she shouted. "All of you."

Savanah finished spreading the collection of photographs out over the table as Johnny leaned over her shoulder, inspecting each picture. There were images of sea birds and waves crashing against craggy sh.o.r.es, sunbathers frolicking in the surf, smiling seaside waiters serving guests icy drinks. There were others of plush hotels with bra.s.s ceiling fans, cool marble floors, and lush tropical trees growing in the foyers, and restaurant shots of buffet tables laden with pa.s.sion fruits, mangoes, and papayas.

But it was the last dozen photos that Savanah laid down that grabbed his attention.

Maude Elliot picked up one of the three-by-fives and waved it at him. "Got this with a telephoto lens. That sweetheart could define a nose hair at half a mile."

Johnny took it and walked to a light.

Maude chuckled and elbowed Savanah. "He's d.a.m.n pretty, ain't he? If I wasn't sixty-five and gray-headed I might put a move or two on him. Always did like the tall dark surly kind."

Savanah smiled and reached for a photograph.

"He don't say much, does he?"

"He's simply very careful with his words."

"Guess he'd have to be, being who he is and all." She reached for the vodka and Seven she had put down earlier. "Sure you two don't want a drink? By the looks of those clouds I suspect you're going to be here a while. Storms predicted for all night. I'd think real hard about taking that Cessna up in these winds. You guys care for a sandwich? I've got goose liver and pimiento cheese. Don't know about you, but I'm starving."

Maude moved to the kitchen as Johnny shifted through the many photographs of well-suited businessmen, among them the familiar faces belonging to Foster, Taylor, Harry Johnston, and Schwin.

"It's the same group that came to Toronto last fall," Savanah said. "They blocked off an entire wing of the hotel to a.s.sure their privacy from the guests."

Johnny took other photographs and studied them as intently, then joined Maude in the kitchen.

"You do all your own developing?" he asked.

"Sure do."

"Can you enlarge this photograph to bring out these faces a little more clearly?" He pointed to the slightly blurred image of a man standing behind Senator Foster.

"Sure. No problem." Putting aside her sandwich, Maude headed for the darkroom.

Johnny walked to the plate-gla.s.s door and looked out on the distant horizon, where the gray rainclouds met the wind-whipped ocean. Maude was right. No way was he taking his plane through those clouds.

"I expected more enthusiasm." Savanah moved up beside him. "It's Leah, isn't it? You know this will destroy her. More important, it will undoubtedly destroy the two of you."

"She'll see reason. She has to."

Savanah laid her hand on Johnny's arm. "For your sake, I hope you're right. Me? The b.a.s.t.a.r.d killed my sister. I'm going to make sure he goes to prison for the rest of his life."

"Maybe."

Frowning, Savanah shook her head in confusion. "Maybe? Are you telling me that you question whether Foster was behind the attempt to kill you and Dolores?"

Johnny turned away. "I think I'll have that sandwich now."

Savanah paced as Johnny stood at the gla.s.s door, ate his goose-liver sandwich and watched the rain slam against the coast. Lightning danced above the waves and thunder vibrated the walls of the condominium.

Finally, Maude emerged wearing an ap.r.o.n and rubber gloves. She handed the still damp photograph to Johnny. He moved to the lamp and turned the eight-by-ten into the light.

"Ah G.o.d," he groaned. "That son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h."

TWENTY-TWO.