“So a 529 can be used as a sort of estate planning tool, a way to move assets outside your estate while retaining control if the money is needed in the future.”

Galimore was a very quick study.

“Yes,” I said.

“How much is a donor allowed to put in?”

“Thirteen thousand per year.”

Our eyes met.

“Get the code.” Galimore sounded as jazzed as I was.

I dug the spiral page from my purse and unfolded it on the table.

ME/SC 2X13G-529 OTP FU

Wi-Fr 6–8

Silently, we both translated the first line.

Mary Ellen. Sarah Caroline. Two times thirteen thousand into a 529 plan. Owen Timothy Poteat. First Union.

“First Union National Bank became Wachovia, then Wells Fargo,” I said.

Galimore cocked a brow.

“Right. You knew that. When can you get your hands on Poteat’s financial records?”

“Now that I know what I’m looking for, the job will be easier.”

“Tomorrow?”

A waggled hand. Maybe yes, maybe no.

“So.” Galimore gave me a high-beam smile.

“So.” I smiled back.

“Why did Rinaldi think it was worth writing down?”

“Poteat is the single witness who claimed to have seen Cale Lovette after the night of October fourteenth. The man has no job and no assets. Suddenly he parks twenty-six thousand in accounts for his kids?”

“Someone paid him to lie.” Galimore was right with me.

“Or at least Rinaldi thought so.”

“Who?”

I’d given the question a lot of thought. “The FBI? The Patriot Posse? A party wanting to make it look like Lovette and Gamble were still alive?”

Galimore leaned back and took a swig of his San Pellegrino.

Moments passed. In the dining room, Gran’s clock bonged nine times.

“Big weekend coming up.” Galimore’s eyes had drifted to the TV behind my back.

“Want audio?” I asked.

He shrugged.

As I crossed to turn up the sound, the station cut to a commercial.

We are the champions, my friends?….

“That’s what we are.” Galimore laughed. “The DOD’s going to be recruiting our asses to join some secret cryptography unit.”

“Yep,” I agreed. “We dazzle.”

Shooting to his feet, Galimore sang another line of Queen. “‘No time for losers!’”

“‘Cause we are the champions,’ ” I joined in.

Galimore caught me in a waltz hold and swirled me around.

We finished the lyrics together.

“‘Of the world!’”

More swirling.

I laughed like a kid at a carnival.

Finally we stopped. The emerald eyes caught mine. Our gazes locked.

I smelled Galimore’s sweat and cologne. Traces of tomato and garlic on his breath. I felt his body heat. The hardness of muscle below his cotton shirt.

I experienced a sudden, almost overwhelming yearning.

A memory flashed in my brain. Andrew Ryan and I dancing in this same room. A little black dress dropping to the floor.

Yearning for whom? I wondered. Galimore, who was here? Ryan, who was so far away?

Heat rushed up my face.