He surrendered with a sigh. “I heard from your brother.”

“What?” She exhaled so hard that her chest went a little concave. “When?”

“Last night. He called me directly on my cell phone while I was beating the bushes—literally—looking for him.” He explained the circumstances. “This was before Morrow summoned me to deal with Kinnard and your rescue.”

“Where was Josh? Was he all right? What did he say?”

“Well, he didn’t give himself up. Last he was seen, he was on foot. This morning they brought in track dogs to try and pick up a trail.”

“Dogs?” she asked in horror.

“He’s a fugitive, Ms. Bennett. Thumbed his nose at me. Told me we should give up looking for him. Swore we’d never catch him and that he’d never surrender. But he’s still trying to cut deals. This one? If I would guarantee your safe return, he would give me Panella’s last known whereabouts.”

“He’s known all this time and has been keeping—”

“That surprises you?”

“If he knew, why’s he held back?”

“Because he’s a felon. He hasn’t been convicted of his alleged crimes yet, but you and I both know that he’s a damn crook. He’s an even better liar and manipulator.”

She didn’t defend or argue those charges, so Joe continued. “All along I’ve figured Josh was holding a few aces, so that if and when he got in a tight squeeze—which your abduction was—he’d have something to play. He pulled one out of his sleeve last night.”

“What did you play? You couldn’t guarantee my safe return.”

“No, I couldn’t. Honestly? At that point in time, I thought you were probably dead already and your body sunk in a swamp somewhere. I told Josh that. The only guarantee I could give him was to do my best to find you, dead or alive, and I promised to keep at it until you were either rescued or your remains recovered. He hemmed and hawed. Waffled. You know how he is. Eventually, he took the deal.”

“He told you where Panella is?”

“He claims not to know that, but he told me where Panella was headed when he took off. Costa Rica.”

Joe watched her for a reaction, and when she didn’t register so much as a blink, he went on. “It was to be only his first jumping-off spot on his way to South America, according to Josh, who said he knows this because his last official duty while in Panella’s employ was to wire some walking-around money to a bank down there.”

“At least you’ll know where to start looking for him.”

“We’ve already started. What we’ve turned up so far?” He rubbed his brow as though it pained him to tell her what he must. “The only time on record that Billy Panella was in Costa Rica was about a month before we busted open his scam. He spent a long weekend at a swank resort outside of San Jose.” He lowered his hand and looked at her directly. “With you.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Eventually she closed them.

Joe gave her a ten count to see if she would deny it, qualify it, something. When she didn’t, he got out, opened the backseat door, and reached in to take her arm. “Till we get to the bottom of this, you’re registered here under the name of Ms. Jones, and your roommate is a federal marshal named Gwen.”

Chapter 23

Late Sunday afternoon, the Terrebonne Parish SO determined that all the evidence had been collected from the now-famous bar. The crime scene tape was removed and the establishment was permitted to reopen.

Word spread quickly, and soon the parking lot couldn’t accommodate the customers who drove for miles to see where Friday night’s drama had taken place.

The bartender recruited customers who could be trusted with the cash register to help him fill orders while he retold his story that contained the juicy details media sources had omitted from their reports.

But the evening really belonged to star witness Royce Sherman. The pool table where he’d been playing with his buddies when he decided to approach Jordan Bennett became center ring.

“Little did I know that my move on her would sic the feds on my ass. Not to mention”—he slung an arm across his live-in’s shoulders in a gesture so broad that he sloshed his third Jack and Coke on her new tank top—“getting me in dutch with my old lady here.”

His old lady wasn’t amused, but his audience was spellbound as he gave them a spectacularly appended version of his conversation with Jordie. He relished his newfound celebrity. No one would ever call him a loser or ne’er-do-well again. His name had appeared more than once in the Times-Picayune. Even his mean ol’ daddy had been impressed when an interview with him was aired as the lead story on the ten o’clock news Saturday night.

As the evening wore on, the crowd became thicker. No one noticed the man who came in with a group to which he didn’t belong, then separated himself from it and sought out the darkest corner of the bar in which to lurk.

It was the farthest point from the jukebox. He didn’t go near the gregarious bartender, never ordered a drink, just watched Royce and listened to his tale, which grew a little taller with each retelling, and Royce’s role got larger.

“I didn’t know nothin’ about the fraud case. I had to Google Billy Panella to find out his connection to this gal.” Here, his eyes bugged. “Whoa! Dude. Her brother’s gotta be the dimmest bulb in the box to double-cross this Panella character. That TV reporter asked me did I think Panella sent Bolden and that other guy to exact his revenge on Josh Bennett. Hell yeah, I told him. But I threw a wrench in it by talking to her. If his sister’s still alive, Bennett’s got me to thank.”

“You can say that again, Royce,” muttered the man backed into the corner.

Royce’s old lady finally had enough of his braggadocio. She suggested that it was time for them to go. When Royce said he wasn’t ready yet, she insisted that they go. Royce ignored her. She then shouted an ultimatum: Either he leave with her right then or not bother coming home at all.

Royce saluted her a so long. This time, he slung his arm across the shoulders of a starry-eyed young woman who’d been more appreciative of and attentive to his story.

Royce’s live-in stalked out, accompanied by two female friends who lent full support to her grand exit. The man in the corner overheard them urging her to change her door locks and telling her that she would be better off never to see that asshole again.

Another hour passed. Royce Sherman became drunker, and the young woman more in thrall of him. In a particularly amorous move, she reached up and used his stringy goatee to pull his face down to hers. They kissed while the crowed hooted and hollered encouragement.

The spectacle almost caused the man in the corner to miss the incoming call on his cell phone. While glad that the phone, which had been dormant all day, was finally vibrating inside his pants pocket, he was equally annoyed that the call was so late in coming. He sidestepped his way along the wall till he reached the door, then gratefully pushed through.

He took the phone from his pocket and, as he threaded his way across the parking lot toward his car, glanced down at the phone’s LED. Unknown Caller. But it could be only one person: Shaw Kinnard. And he would be calling for only one reason: He’d killed Jordie and wanted to be compensated.