She was dressed stylishly in a pale pink top and tan capri pants, her gym-fit body revealing not an ounce of excess body fat. Her blond hair offset a perfect tan that looked like she’d spent good money on it. Unfortunately, the Botox had robbed her angular face of all expression. While she waited for the movers to climb out of the truck, she nervously clocked the time on a silver bracelet watch that sparkled in the sun. Diamonds probably, and, frankly, why wouldn’t they be? She was certainly not dressed for moving day, but I had a feeling she had absolutely no intention of touching a single box. That’s what the movers were for. The fact that they were moving at all was the problem. Nick Spada was folding up his tent and getting the heck out of Dodge.

Six burly guys in tan short-sleeved shirts and jeans climbed out of the truck; after a moment of introduction at the door, they disappeared inside, ready to get stuff moving out. No sign of Nick Spada. I’d have considered that a good thing a moment ago; now it worried the hell out of me. Where was he? Was he already long gone? Had I lost my chance to bring him in? To go or not was no longer a choice. I ran across the street, climbed the stairs, and sidestepped the movers, who were making trips in and out of the house, weighed down by high-end stuff.

“Everything’s been packed,” I heard Mrs. Spada explain, her back to the door and to me. “Except the drapes, they’re not coming with us. It all has to be on the truck and on its way quickly, please.”

She turned and gasped when she saw me. My reputation, apparently, had preceded me.

I stepped squarely into her living room, the furniture gone, boxes everywhere. “Mrs. Spada?”

Her head jerked in frantic disagreement. “You can’t be here. Get out. Get out now.”

I looked around. “Where’s your husband?”

Her blank face lost all its color. “You’re supposed to leave us alone. You were ordered to leave us alone. Do you have any idea who we are?”

The movers slowed, then stopped what they were doing, to pay attention to our exchange. Mrs. Spada noticed and tried goosing them along. “Keep going. I’m not paying you to gawk.” She turned back to me. “I’m calling my husband, then I’m calling our lawyers. You have no idea how much trouble you’re in.”

“Is your husband here, or not?” I could feel time running out on me, and could kick myself for the time I’d wasted standing under the tree. Nick Spada had means. If he wasn’t here, he could be halfway to Bora-Bora by now, thumbing his nose at me the whole way.