Julian had just finished unpacking his three Vuitton suitcases, and neatly placed his clothes in closets and dresser drawers. Happy to be relaxing in his loft, the place he’d now be calling home for who knew how long, he poured himself a glass of Jordan Cabernet and sat on the sofa.

He wasn’t yet sure how he would handle visits with his daughters. He certainly couldn’t let them see his loft, particularly if he was conducting experiments. Perhaps when he picked them up he’d have to rent a hotel room. He’d take them out to dinner, of course, but wasn’t quite sure what other activities would satisfy them. If it were up to him, just sitting next to his kids, sharing a bowl of popcorn, watching a movie would suit him just fine. He had promised Nicole that he’d pick them up two nights a week and on weekends. But depending on his activities, he might have to change the schedule. There was no way for him to predict when his research would conflict with his visits.

As content as he felt at this particular moment, flashbacks of what he had done to Nicole still troubled him. Was he losing control? Had his cousins warped him forever? For the last couple of years he had been struggling with his marriage. Hating any kind of altercation, he never confronted the difficult issues with Nicole. He just let them fester. But unlike Julian, Nicole loved a verbal showdown.

If he felt reasonably comfortable that his kids would be okay and not suffer from the deep emotional wounds so often inflicted by divorce, he might have had the nerve to hire a good attorney a long time ago. But he understood all too well what it felt like to be unloved. And he didn’t ever want his kids to deal with the same psychological damage.

His unhappiness with their marriage still didn’t address his motivation to hurt Nicole. Why would he force himself on her with no regard for her welfare? Had he been so caught up in the moment that for one brief period of time he got lost in his emotions? Was Nicole merely a vessel that allowed him to punish Marianne and Rebecca? One thing was certain: No matter what the circumstances, he could never let it happen again.

Julian gulped the last of the wine and flipped open his cell phone. He dialed the number he’d already memorized. “Have you made any progress?”

PI Spencer knew better than to discuss anything sensitive over the telephone. “Big Brother” was always listening. “The wheels are in motion.”

“Do you have anything for me yet?” Julian asked.

“I’ve got a whole package of goodies.”

“Are you familiar with Post Office Plus on Girard Street in La Jolla?”

“Next to the Italian bakery?”

“That’s it. Would you mind dropping off the package this afternoon? I’ll pick it up first thing in the morning. Do you still have my PO box info?”

“I do, Mr. Smith,” Spencer said.

“Terrific. Anything else?”

“Call me tomorrow.”

“How’s your sister?” Sami asked, squeezing her eyes shut, preparing herself for his answer.

“Well, believe it or not, she’s slightly improved.” Al explained how his sister had squeezed his hand and that he requested the doctor perform another EEG.

“I am so glad to hear that.”

“She’s still in a coma, but her brain activity is almost normal.”

“So what happens now?”

“It’s still a waiting game,” Al said.

“Is the doctor optimistic?”

“Cautiously.”

“I can’t imagine what you’ve been going through,” Sami said.

“How you holding up? What’s going on with the investigation?”

Al had enough on his mind, so Sami carefully filtered her answer. “I’m hanging tough. No major breakthroughs in the case, but I’m piecing things together.”

“So, in other words, you’ve got nada, right?”

“Guess I can’t bullshit a cop.”

“Are the captain and chief turning the thumbscrews?”

“Not yet, but I expect to get bludgeoned at any moment,” Sami said.

“Don’t let ’em intimidate you.”

“I can deal with them. I’m not so sure I can handle Mayor Sullivan.”

“She’s a tough cookie.”

Silence.

“I have something I want to share with you, Sami.”

How she hated when people started sentences like that. “Should I fasten my seatbelt?”

“You may need to.”

Her mind flooded with a range of possibilities, all of which were unsavory. Did he meet some Brazilian hottie? Have a change of heart about their relationship? “Okay, now that my armpits are all sweaty, what’s going on?”

“Since flying down here, I’ve had nothing but time on my hands. Time to think. Time to evaluate my life. Time to look at things from a different perspective.”

She didn’t like the way this was heading. But she held her breath and listened. She was hopelessly in love with Al, and if he was about to dump her from six thousand miles away…

“I’ve expressed how I feel about God and religion and evolution,” Al continued.

“I know. God and religion are fairy tales and evolution is scientific.”

“Well, maybe I’ve been wrong.”

“In what regard?”

“You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve been praying. And the strange thing is, I haven’t any idea who I’m praying to. Watching my sister lying helplessly in that hospital bed, fighting for her life—”

“There’s nothing wrong with praying. We all seek God when the chips are down. Haven’t you ever heard the saying, ‘There are no atheists in foxholes’?”

“Doesn’t that make me a hypocrite?”

“No, it makes you human.” Al didn’t often expose his vulnerabilities. In fact, until this moment, Sami wasn’t sure he had any. His willingness to share this intimate situation warmed her heart. “Don’t feel you have to apologize for seeking God.”

“But suppose she doesn’t pull through? Suppose God doesn’t answer my prayers?”

“I’m not exactly in good graces with God, so how can I give spiritual advice? Maybe you should talk to someone about this.”

“Who?”

“Brazil is one of the most Catholic countries in the world. Surely the hospital has a priest or chaplain who visits sick patients regularly.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Al said.

“See. Once in a while I can actually say something meaningful.”

“Thanks for listening to me whine.”

“Not to worry. I fully intend to return the favor.” She felt a bit choked up. “Send my love to Aleta.”

Peter J. Spencer III was starting to think that his newest client didn’t have the best intentions. Spencer had no problem operating outside the law. But when he drove to Post Office Plus and dropped off the package for his client, his gut instincts, which usually were reliable, led him to believe that “John Smith” might be involved in a sinister plan.

If, in fact, his mystery client and Detective Rizzo had been romantically involved, Spencer could understand why he might want to find out what she was doing and with whom. As a PI for over twenty-five years, he had seen it all—everything from jealous spouses to disgruntled employees to crooked politicians to Mafia vendettas to sexual perverts. Nothing could possibly surprise Spencer. But he felt certain there was more to the “John Smith” story. The logical side of his brain told him to let it go and just do what his client paid him to do. But his bloodhound nature wouldn’t stop asking questions he could not answer.

Against his better judgment, Spencer decided to pay a little visit to Post Office Plus first thing in the morning. Surely “John Smith” would arrive in an automobile. One with a California license plate. A plate that could be traced by a number of Spencer’s contacts.