His mother disappeared with a swish of apricot satin. Cab shook his head, because Tarla was Tarla, and there was nothing he could do to change her. He was still getting used to the idea of having his mother back in his life. For years, she’d lived in Hollywood and then London, while he bounced from the FBI to the police to private investigative work and back to the police in locales from Barcelona to Rhode Island. His inability to stay put had earned him the nickname Catch-a-Cab Bolton. However, he’d endured the sweaty Gulf coast for more than two years now: partly because he was tired of running, partly because of Lala.

Three months ago, Tarla had concluded that Cab was finally putting down roots. She’d moved from London to Florida without so much as a phone call to warn him of her arrival. He’d still been on his investigation in Door County when she showed up at his condo to find Lala, nude, stepping out of his shower. Things had gone downhill from there between the two women in his life.

He liked having his mother close to him, but he was also glad that he had convinced her to buy a Gulf-shore condo not far from Diane, rather than her original plan, which was to locate herself in Cab’s building in Naples. Two hours along I-75 between them was just about right. He also couldn’t blame his mother for all the trouble between him and Lala. He’d done a good job of pushing her out of his life.

Cab watched Diane’s television interviews going on in the garden below him. He couldn’t hear any of the back-and-forth, but he knew it was all about politics, which to Cab was nothing more than the art of helping voters decide which candidate was the better liar. The young Asian host had finished, and another reporter – a woman with coal hair who made him think of Lala – was settling in to take her turn. In the pause, Diane’s gaze wandered, and her eyes met his in the dusky space between the lawn and the balcony. Her composure broke for only a moment. Ten years – it had been ten years. She nodded at him and gave him the smallest smile. He returned the acknowledgment.

That was all; that was the moment he’d dreaded for so long.

‘She’s born for this, isn’t she?’

He turned toward the voice, actually grateful for the interruption. A man joined him on the balcony. ‘I’m sorry?’ Cab said.

‘Diane. She’s so smooth with the press. I told her she should have jumped into the race ten years ago. She would have won in a landslide. Who knows where she’d be now? Hell, maybe the White House.’

‘Her husband had just been murdered,’ Cab pointed out.

‘Well, sure, that’s my point. She was a shoo-in.’