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  Venturi made plans to leave town. They accelerated when a too-chatty woman, who identified herself as Judy Grimes, an investigative reporter at The Washington Post, called his unlisted home number. He said he’d get back to her, then visited his financial adviser.

  An FBI agent with a degree in accounting, Jim Dance had retired from the bureau and parlayed his expertise into a successful Manhattan practice. He and Venturi had worked together on a number of cases in the past and were friends.

  Dance’s office was impressive, plush carpets, dark leather and mahogany furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the East River. Framed degrees and awards were displayed on the walls. And his blond, younger second wife and baby smiled from a silver picture frame on his desk.

  “Michael, Michael. How are you?” His greeting was heartfelt, his handshake strong.

  “You’ve heard, I’m sure.”

  Dance nodded.

  “It’s not about to get better. I’m out of here. Probably won’t be back.”

  “Sorry.” Dance shook his head somberly. “Their loss. You were their best and brightest.”

  “Couldn’t be happier to be unemployed,” Venturi said. “The job was a mistake from the start.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “All I want now is distance between me, this city, and that agency.”

  Dance nodded. “Can’t say I blame you for that.”

  “I’ll let you know when and where I decide to settle.”

  “I guess you’ll want to transfer your portfolio.” Dance picked up his fountain pen.

  “Why? You’ve done a great job.”

  Dance looked pleased, then chuckled. “So you have been checking your statements. I hear from you so rarely, I often wonder if you even open them. Need to cash out some investments now?”

  Venturi shook his head. “You know how I feel, Jim.”

  He had never touched a dime of his $19 million wrongful-death settlement for the loss of his wife and their unborn child. He considered it blood money and put it out of his mind after investing it.

  “I have some savings. I’m all right for now. I’ll find something to do.”

  Dance looked troubled. “You haven’t been active in trading, or taken advantage of any of your assets.”

  “I’m not comfortable doing that.”

  “What about charity?” Dance asked thoughtfully. “Overnight I can put together a list of worthy causes you might support in Madison’s name.”

  “I’ll give it some thought later, sometime in the future. I have too many other things to think about right now.”

  “Well, keep it in mind. Call me any time, day or night, if you need anything. And for God’s sake, stay in touch. Let me know where you land, so I can forward your statements. Here, take my cell phone number.” He scrawled it on his business card and pushed it across the desk. “I can always transfer the money to you or your new financial adviser.”

  “I know you take good care of everything,” Venturi said, getting to his feet. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  “I wish you well, my friend.” The two men embraced.

  “Take care of yourself, Michael.” Dance stepped back and gazed like a concerned father into his eyes. “Remember. You’re still young, only thirty-eight. Despite the past, your future still lies ahead. It’s just up to you to find it, enjoy it, and be happy again.”

  Dance saw him out of the office and watched him walk away.

  Venturi’s steps felt light. He was happy as hell to be free of his job and on his way out of town. If a Senate investigating committee began issuing subpoenas, he wouldn’t make it easy for them. He’d simply get lost, no forwarding address.

  He’d arranged too many fresh starts for undeserving people. Considering his own role in the New Hampshire tragedy, he probably didn’t deserve a new life, either. But he thought about what Jim Dance said and decided he’d do the best he could.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  He had to say good-bye, could not leave without seeing her.

  They met for lunch. She arrived first, as always, and waved to catch his eye. Her smile lit up the room. She looked terrific, blond hair cut in a sleek, swingy style, a feminine eyelet blouse under her stylish linen suit.

  He planted an affectionate kiss on her cheek, inhaled her sweetly familiar scent, and realized again how much he loved this woman. Their lives were forever linked by joy and pain.

  “How are you, sweetheart?”

  “Good,” he lied. “Couldn’t be better.”

  “Something’s up. You sounded so serious on the phone.”

  He was glad the waiter interrupted.

  She ordered iced tea, lifting an eyebrow in approval when he told the waiter to make it two.

  He asked about her work. She taught seminars on protocol to newly appointed ambassadors, political figures, and business executives who traveled abroad. Her business had taken off and lately, she said, she’d branched out.

  “I’m doing jail time.” She revealed over Caesar salads that she was now teaching classes in table manners, etiquette—and life, to youthful offenders in jails, prisons, and detention centers.

  As they dined on tiny, light-as-a-feather ravioli, she told stories, including one about “a baby-faced fifteen-year-old, so bright and funny that I wanted to take him home and adopt him.” Later, she’d asked why he was there. “Homicide,” she whispered. “He actually killed someone.”

  “Bad people never look like the monsters they really are, Victoria. That’s how they get away with so much. You’re never left alone with them, are you?” he asked with alarm. “Tell me guards are always present. Please?”

  She laughed, a light and airy sound that could wring his heart and hang it out to dry.

  “I worry,” he said gruffly.

  “I worry about you, too, sweetheart. I think of you every single day.”

  “Vicki, I need to tell you something.”

  She put down her dessert spoon, her expression grave.

  He told her how he’d left the job, without mentioning New Hampshire.

  She nodded solemnly. “When I read about that awful case in Flemington, I thought that terrible man might be one of your witnesses.”

  “He was. I couldn’t stay on the job after what he did. But in the end I had no choice. They fired me.”

  “Their loss,” she said. “Like they say, ‘It’s dangerous to be right when the established authorities are wrong.’

  “The U.S. Marshals Service isn’t what it used to be.” She stirred her tea. “Wyatt Earp must be spinning in his grave.

  “I did wonder how that monster happened to be caught, and how all that stolen money…” She paused expectantly, her look sly and knowing.

  He smiled and averted his eyes.

  “Just thought I’d ask,” she said lightly. “I take it I’m not alone in asking.”

  Their eyes held for a long and meaningful moment and, for him, it felt like the old days—almost.

  “So, I’m about to ride the wind blowing out of this burg. I’m taking off.”

  “To where?” She looked alarmed.

  “Not sure yet. A place where I can go fishing, read, and decide how to live the rest of my life.”

  “You could have told me after I finished my tiramisu.” She pouted, eyes shiny. “I’ve lost my appetite. You’re saying good-bye.”

  He nodded.

  “Forever?” she asked softly.

  “Hell, no!” The idea startled him. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I settle somewhere.”

  She sighed. “Promise?”

  “We’ll always be there for each other,” he swore. “Always.”

  “Wherever you go, I’ll visit.” She dabbed at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief and tried to smile. “You can’t hide from me, you know.”

  They both knew he could, of course.

  “How’s Sidney?” he asked.

  She sighed. “Same old. Same bad. You know what he’s like. Trouble and nothing but. I shouldn�
��t say it, but I swear that boy was a bad seed.”

  “Myself? I’m convinced they handed you the wrong baby at the hospital. Want me to talk to him before I go? I’m leaving tonight.” Venturi frowned. “Is he around?”

  She wagged her head forlornly. “Haven’t heard from him in weeks. Doesn’t answer his cell. I hope he’s not in trouble. I’m sure I’d hear if he was. Bad news travels fast. No news is good news with him.”

  “Speaking of that,” he said. “No matter who asks, you don’t know where I am, haven’t heard from me, and don’t expect to.”

  “Absolutely. That first part will even be true, won’t it?”

  Her limp was scarcely noticeable as they left the restaurant. The handsome carved wooden cane she still carried seemed more an accessory than a necessity these days.

  They hugged on the sidewalk. “Love you, Mikey.”

  “Ditto.” He kissed her forehead. “Love you, too.”

  No one who saw her climb into the cab would suspect she’d lost a leg in the Staten Island Ferry crash that killed eleven passengers, including his wife and unborn child, and injured 165 others. Doctors had doubted she would live. When she did, they predicted she’d be confined to a wheelchair.

  He smiled and waved back at his mother-in-law, as her cab merged into traffic. Moments later she was gone.

  That night as his neighbors slept, he loaded the car with what little he was taking with him.

  He took Scout’s food and water dishes but left the twenty-pound sack of dog food behind. He’d stocked up on pet food too late. Scout was already hooked on people food. He preferred pasta to Purina.

  At 1 a.m. he took Scout for a brisk walk and a last look at the old neighborhood. Venturi left a note and a check for the landlord, filled a thermos with coffee, picked up a sack of roast beef sandwiches from Arby’s, and drove into the night. Neither he nor the dog looked back.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  His internal compass drew him south like a magnet. Was it the fishing, the boating, or the possibility that he might find the only other human being he knew he could trust? Maybe the latter, if the return address on an old Christmas card was still good. But that seemed unlikely, given Danny Trado’s lifestyle.

  Not at all sleepy, Venturi felt energy charged and expectant, escaping the past by speeding into an unknown future. Traffic was light except for big eighteen-wheelers on all-night interstate runs. He made a pit stop near Baltimore for gas and a brief jog with the dog.

  As they raced south through the night, he listened to the radio, switching from volatile talk shows, to news, to music, and back, signals fading as he drove out of range.

  Eventually he switched it off and listened to the sound of his tires on the road. They outran thunderclaps and lightning, encountered a few light rains but no serious storms.

  After a misty dawn, he paid cash for breakfast, careful to use no credit cards along the way.

  Later, caught in a crush of commuters headed home, he stopped at the South of the Border motel for dinner. He intended to rent a room and sleep until traffic thinned out, but still on an adrenaline high, he kept moving, through heat waves rising off the pavement as the temperature soared, through traffic slowed by mishaps and accidents, both major and minor. Scout, weary of the scenery, curled up on the passenger seat and slept soundly.

  “We’re in Florida!” Venturi told Scout at last. When night fell around them, Venturi realized that Florida was one long, long peninsula. Pink mist rose to meet a sun-scorched dawn along the turnpike. The closer they came to Miami, the more congested traffic became.

  Bumper to bumper in a new rush hour, he consulted his GPS and was relieved to find the address he sought was only thirty miles away. He stopped for gas, jogged with the dog, washed his face, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair. He wanted to shave but the restroom was too dirty and had no hot water.

  When he found the ranch-style suburban house, he drove by slowly. A black SUV and a Harley sat in the driveway; a little yellow tricycle was parked on the porch.

  He stopped halfway down the block and tried the old number using a new prepaid cell phone.

  “Hola?” She sounded young.

  “Is Danny there?”

  She switched seamlessly to English. “Hold on, I’ll call him.”

  He heard a radio or TV, and the high-pitched laughter of children.

  Someone finally picked up. “Danny here.”

  “Trado?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “The guy next to you when we jumped out of a Blackhawk into shark-infested waters in full scuba gear.”

  “Mike! Venturi? That you? How the hell are you? Where are you? What are you doing?”

  “Hoping to visit you. Sometime soon.”

  “The sooner the better, bro. Mi casa es su casa. Can’t wait to see you.”

  Venturi hung up and swung into a U-turn. It was too hot and sticky to leave Scout in the car so they walked to the front door together. He rang the bell.

  Danny threw the door open and let out a whoop.

  “Mike! It’s you! You sneaky SOB!” Danny hadn’t changed since they last saw each other. As robust and muscular as ever, he caught his visitor in a fierce bear hug as a number of small children darted out from behind him.

  “Look! A dog! A dog!”

  “Doggie!” piped the youngest, a diapered toddler still unsteady on his feet. There were only three of them, but their energy levels made it seem like more.

  “Does he bite?” demanded a sturdy, crew-cut boy about five years old.

  “No,” Venturi assured them, hoping, as the children rushed Scout, that he hadn’t spoken too soon.

  “Yes! Yes, he does! He bites!” yelped the woman who answered the phone. Her white-flowered sundress showed off her glistening tan and long, shiny black hair. “That dog has teeth like a shark. He will bite you—if you bite him first. You hear me, Julee? He bites back. He’ll bite off your nose, your toes, or your ears.”

  The little girl closed her mouth abruptly, pursed her rosebud lips, and paused to weigh the warning. About three, and barefoot, she had dark curly ringlets and big, black olive eyes.

  “A little biting situation we’ve been dealing with,” Danny muttered in an aside. “They say it’s just a stage.”

  He turned to the woman, exposing his white teeth in a wide grin. “Luz, guess who this is?”

  She gazed up at Venturi, who, like Danny, at six feet four, towered over her. “He called you Mike.” Her lively eyes darted from one to the other. “The Mike? Michael Venturi?”

  “The one and only,” Danny said. “My wife, Luz. She’s the mother,” he said, nodding toward the children.

  She hugged him warmly. “Danny talks about you all the time. He says you’re like brothers.” Inside, she snatched up the toddler who protested noisily.

  “Does he know?” Luz asked, face bright with anticipation.

  “How could he?” Danny said, taking the boy from her arms. “Michael Venturi, meet Michael Trado.”

  The curious, big-eyed toddler gazed up at the stranger.

  “Is he named for…?” Venturi’s words trailed off as the child waved tiny fists.

  “Damn straight,” Danny said. “You can’t say we weren’t thinking about you.”

  “Let’s take the dog for a drink of water.” Luz herded Scout and the children toward the kitchen.

  Bright yellow cereal bowls and a small TV tuned to news and traffic reports sat on the table of a nearby breakfast nook.

  Danny switched off the TV. “Coffee?”

  “Too much caffeine aboard now. I just drove straight through from New York.”

  “A beer?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt.”

  Danny disappeared and returned with a six-pack of ice-cold Coors. “A little early.” He shrugged. “But you don’t show up every day.”

  “And it’s happy hour somewhere,” Venturi said.

  “Look! He likes Fruit Loops!” a child shouted in the kitchen.

&n
bsp; The boy stuck his head out the kitchen door. “Can we keep him?”

  “I don’t think so,” Danny said. “He’s your uncle Michael’s dog. But maybe he’ll let you play with him.”

  “We have no dog food,” Luz said from behind the boy.

  “That’s all right. He doesn’t like dog food,” Venturi said apologetically. “But he’s fine, he ate on the road.”

  They popped two beers and went to Danny’s study. As he locked the door behind them, he lost the smile and his expression changed. “You okay, bro? Any problems? Do we need to circle the wagons?”

  “Nope,” Venturi said. “Except I’m out of a job. Kicked to the curb before I could quit.”

  “Sorry, bro.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not. I never felt better.”

  “Heard the rumors. The grapevine was all abuzz. Can’t wait to hear the real story,” Danny said. “What’s said in this room stays in this room.” He pulled a punch at Venturi’s shoulder. “You don’t know how great it is to see you, man. You stayed in shape.”

  “You, too. It’s been way too long. Knew you were married, didn’t know you had three kids.”

  “Time flies. Just found out another one’s on the way. Should be here next March.” His smile faded. “Heard about your wife. Sorry, amigo.”

  “Me, too,” Venturi said reflectively. “A tough time. How you doing?”

  “I didn’t re-up.” Danny looked wistful. “They’re offering big bonuses to reenlist. A hundred and fifty thousand to stay on. I taught recruits for a while.” His boyish face grew serious. “I’d rather be in combat. Training is too damn stressful. You know their lives depend on what you’re teaching ’em, and some won’t survive. I’ll take action anytime. You know how it is.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “But when you have a family, life is different.”

  Venturi nodded and leaned back in the comfortable chair, his eyes roving the room. Danny had a large-screen TV. Above it and set in a horizontal wall panel were four smaller screens. Three of the small ones were tuned to local network affiliates, the fourth was on CNN, and the big screen was broadcasting Fox News. They were all on with the sound on mute. Danny always did have a need to know what was going on in the world.