Randy White - Deceived

“That’s the problem with gerrymandering,” Ford responded, which made no sense until he explained. “What I mean is, where they live. Sematee County has got that one little section of panhandle that juts west to the bay. It’s only a few miles of waterfront, and all mangroves, so it’s an invitation to drug trafficking because the county seat is so faraway.” Then he asked a few questions about the Helms family, before adding, “I’m not surprised they still have problems up there.”

“Where aren’t they having drug problems?” I said. “Half the people I went to school with screwed up their lives that way. The Helms kids, they’re not even the worst examples.”

“Crystal and Mica,” Ford remembered, filing the information away. “And Mrs. Rosanna Helms-your mother’s closest friend.”

Ford meant something by that, I could tell, but I was eager to get off the subject and put him at ease. “It’s out of our hands, that’s what I’m telling you. We don’t need to worry. If something comes up, Joel gave me his cell number, plus cell numbers for the head detectives, too. The sheriff’s department gets paid to find criminals, Marion. And Joel’s already sent two texts, which proves he’s keeping me in the loop.”

I had offered to show Ford the messages, but he’d been satisfied with my paraphrased versions. The first message read No news. Call if U need me day or nite , and the second had asked if I was available for a charter on Monday. I hadn’t responded but intended to reply Yes , which Ford also knew and had accepted without comment. Now he voiced concern, saying, “Does it seem odd the guy wants to fish when there might be a psycho loose in his county?”

“No,” I laughed, but soon sobered and amended, “Wait… you’re right. A seventy-year-old woman missing-even if it’s Joel’s day off, he and everyone else should keep at it until they find her.”

Ford, though, was also thinking about it and decided he was wrong. “The man’s a prosecutor, not a violent-crimes investigator. Until the police have a suspect, there’s nothing he can do. You two are friends, he hears a dispatcher say your name, so it’s natural that he shows up as a favor to you.” Ford nodded, his expression saying Good for him , then seemed to swing the other direction, asking, “You think he has a romantic interest?”

Was this jealousy? If so, it wasn’t in his tone, which was reflective, even clinical. There was no reason to duck the question, but my own inclination toward privacy can behave without reason.

“Interested in me ?” I asked. “How would I know?”

Ford cleans his glasses whenever he needs a few moments to think or to regroup. Wire-rimmed glasses. He cleaned them now. When he was done, his clinical tone was newly visible in his eyes.

Right away, I knew I’d made a mistake. I just lied to you, that’s what I should have said. But I didn’t. Instead, I told myself, It’s such a minor thing, then sat there and watched my new lover smile his understanding. “The guy’s a fool if he’s not interested in you,” Ford said. “Either way, I’m glad you’re in touch-like a safety net, just in case. The thing is, Hannah”-Ford stood-“that phone call I got at two a.m. I’m debating on whether to leave for Venezuela tonight or try to postpone.”

It caused me to almost spill my coffee. “Where?” He hadn’t mentioned a trip, let alone a trip to another country.

Ford held out his hand, meaning he wanted to talk inside. “The call was about a consulting job-out of the blue. They need me right away. I’d like you to stay here, but not just to look after the place-because it’s safer.”

I realized he was waiting to help me to my feet. It was a gentlemanly gesture that didn’t fit a lover who, without warning, packs up and flies off to South America. I took his hand anyway, unsure whether to fall into his arms or wait for an explanation. “Sorry, I’m flustered,” I said. “Worst-case scenario, I figured it was one of your old girlfriends, or that your dog was delayed, or… I don’t know what I thought. But a new job ?”

Ford’s smile was sympathetic, but the careful, clinical look had not left his eyes. “I almost forgot about the dog,” he said, meaning the retriever he had bought and who was scheduled to arrive on Thursday. Then he reassured me by wrapping an arm over my shoulder. “I’ll only be gone a week, ten days at the most. Before I leave, though, I want to make sure you’re not in danger. Mind if I have someone I know call Joel Ransler? Or one of the detectives? Depending on where they find Mrs. Helms, and from what you told me, I’m not convinced it was a random attacker.” When I didn’t reply immediately, he added, “Is that a problem?”

I loved the warmth of his closeness and was relieved to hear he wouldn’t be gone long, but I also didn’t want Ford, a biologist, to invite danger-or even ridicule-by poking his nose into business that belonged to law enforcement professionals.

I pulled away. “Marion, I’ve never had any trouble taking care of myself. I’m more worried about your health. The doctor said to avoid anything stressful. And didn’t I read about some kind of war going on in Venezuela?” Which was another lie, but a white lie. The fighting I’d read about was somewhere in the mountains of South America, and my geography was rusty.

“A war, huh?” Ford replied, which told me it was the first he had heard of it. His eyes hadn’t left mine, but he looked away, as if deciding something. “I want to trust you, Hannah.”

“You can!” I said.

The man nodded, his glasses glinting momentarily before his sharp eyes returned. “Let’s go into the lab. We need to go over a few things.”

“You can tell me anything,” I said, and came very close to adding, I might be in love with you . Rather than risk it, I hugged him, hoping he would feel what I was feeling. Maybe he did, from the way he kissed me, yet I had a sudden, nagging fear there was now something wrong between us.

The next morning, a Sunday, I awoke in my lover’s bed and was soon aware of a pleasant but peculiar odor on his hands when he returned from the lab. Just a hint of a chemical, or some solvent, that soap could not wash away. A familiar odor to me, but it didn’t belong in the laboratory of a marine biologist-Ford and I had been workout companions before we became lovers, so I would have known.

Hoppe’s Gun Oil, I finally realized, an almost fruity scent. My nose would soon track the memory to my late Uncle Jake’s office, and then his holster, which he had carried as a Tampa detective. A bullet had retired Jake to fishing and running a small private investigation agency, but he loved to shoot and often took me along as his student.

Why had a biologist, who’d never mentioned owning a weapon, used gun solvent?

By then, it was Sunday night and too late to ask. Marion Ford was on a plane to Caracas.

When Joel Ransler parked his Audi near the dock on Monday morning and walked toward my boat, he was alone, which was unexpected, but then I saw his grave expression and knew the reason. They had found Rosanna Helms.

“Bad news?” I asked, wiping my hands on a towel.

My instincts were correct. Yesterday at sunset, deputies had noticed vultures circling a few hundred yards from the house. They were unaware that a footpath led to the area, so they had cut through the mangroves, using lights when it got too dark to work. There was a circular clearing there, a small pond in the middle-the beginning of a sinkhole. The woman was found facedown in water that was just deep enough to float her body.