“I know, but who else could I get to dust for prints?”

  “Don’t they have a do-it-yourself-detective kit?”

  “More jokes.” Luna smirked.

  “No. I am serious. I am sure you can purchase something.”

  “Yes, but I would still need a lab and a database to figure out whose fingerprints they are.”

  “Isn’t that what you call trying to find a needle in a cornfield?”

  Luna burst out laughing. “Needle in a haystack.”

  “Yes, I can never figure out your similes and metaphors. We have plenty of our own,” Chi-Chi said. Then she asked, “Music?”

  “Sure. What do you have in mind?”

  “Of course something mellow, but not enough to put us to sleep.” Chi-Chi thought for a moment. “I am a big fan of smooth jazz.”

  “Yes, we figured that out the first time you went out to dinner with Cullen.” Luna chuckled.

  “George Benson? Grover Washington Jr.? Bill Withers?”

  “Any of them. They have such staying power.”

  “Yes. Imagine—‘This Masquerade’ was recorded in 1976.”

  “Geez, I wasn’t even born then.” Luna gently tied a ribbon of liquid silver on one of the packages and clipped onto it a charcoal-black card with the initials “S&S” embossed in silver.

  Chi-Chi chucked. “Me either.” She walked over to a small, compact stereo system sitting on a shelf on the opposite wall. She clicked a few buttons, plugged in her phone and the intro to George Benson’s first major hit began to play. Both women immediately began to sing along.

  “As sad as these lyrics are, the song is still painfully romantic,” Luna mused.

  “Speaking of romantic . . . How are you and the good marshal doing?”

  “As in what? I don’t keep any secrets from you.”

  “No. You only keep them to yourself,” Chi-Chi teased. “Have you told him how you feel?”

  “Have you?” Luna said, referring to her brother with a slight tone of accusation.

  “Okay. Okay. We can talk about me after we talk about you.”

  “I really like him. A lot. I get all butterfly-y when I see his name pop up on caller ID. What do you call that?” Luna pulled out a sheet of bubble wrap.

  “After all this time, I would not call it a crush, even if it feels like one,” Chi-Chi advised. “You truly care about him. And I know he cares about you.”

  “I think it’s the distance. Not the emotional distance, but the miles. He lives over two hours away. Sometimes I think that’s what keeps it exciting. We’re not in each other’s hair all the time.”

  “True.”

  “Besides, what do I say? Hey, Christopher, want to go steady?”

  Chi-Chi let out a big snort. “You, my friend, could get away with something like that.”

  Luna giggled. “Hmmm. Well, let’s see how this trip goes. You can tell a lot about someone when you are in a different place.”

  “Wait—you are the one who can read people.” Chi-Chi stopped what she was doing to give Luna a pointed look.

  “Yep. Except when it comes to my own life.” She sighed. “I suppose that’s how I’m supposed to learn life’s lessons. If everything was easy to read, what fun would it be? When it comes to other people and things, I get a vibe, and then I try to fit the pieces together.”

  “Yes, and I have seen you do it. Many times.” Chi-Chi went back to hammering a piece of silver.

  “And so, what about you?” Luna prodded.

  “I am going to follow your lead and wait until we are back from New York City to make any decisions.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Elle, Chi-Chi and Luna met up at the café. Each spoke the Nigerian greeting for good morning, “E kaaro,” followed with “Namaste,” a Sanskrit greeting that meant, “I honor you.”

  Luna brought over a tray of their usual coffee and scones to the small table where Chi-Chi and Elle were sitting. She pulled out a chair. “So? What’s the latest?”

  Elle was all atwitter. “I phoned Camille, and she is thrilled all of us are coming to New York. I made some inquiries about flights.” She tapped her finger on the table. “First option is we get up early to catch a nine ten flight from Charlotte to Newark. But I’ll get a car service, so we don’t have to be fully awake to drive. It will take two hours to get to the airport, so we should leave around five thirty.”

  “In the morning?” Luna faked a yawn.

  “Yes, my dear, but you can sleep most of the way. We’ll wake you when we get to the airport. You’ll just have to stay awake long enough to get through security. Then you can sleep on the plane. It’s a two-hour flight.”

  Luna stretched across the table and laid her head on her arms. “What’s the second option?” Clearly she wasn’t liking the first.

  “There’s an eight forty flight in the evening that arrives at around eleven. With any luck, we’ll get to the hotel by midnight.” Elle tapped two fingers this time.

  “I can live with that.” Luna sat up taller. “We’ll have to close up early.”

  “Or have two of the interns sit in. It’s a Friday night, so it will be busy. Your apprentice can manage any sales you have, right?” Elle asked, addressing Chi-Chi. Then she turned to Luna. “Sabrina knows how to operate your coffee machines, and Cullen can put up a sign like Jimmy Can-Do.” Elle pointed to the sign sitting on an easel outside the shop that sold items made from beer cans. The sign read:

  WE HONOR THE HONOR SYSTEM. IF YOU WANT TO PAY BY CREDIT PLEASE LEAVE YOUR NAME AND CONTACT INFORMATION AND THE ITEM NUMBER YOU’RE TAKING. SOMEONE WILL CONTACT YOU. OTHERWISE PLEASE DEPOSIT CASH OR CHECK. THANK YOU.

  “He can change the wording a bit. I don’t imagine anyone would be trying to haul away a piece of furniture on their own,” Elle added.

  Luna chimed in. “Good idea. There are price tags on the pieces, and he can lock up anything that could grow legs and walk off. So I vote on taking a late flight on Friday night. Then we can sleep in on Saturday and have the whole day to enjoy and prepare for the opening.” She looked at Elle. “We should pay for the extra night.”

  “Camille offered four nights. I don’t suppose it matters which four nights,” Elle replied.

  Chi-Chi looked at both women. “Well, this sounds like a perfectly reasonable plan.” Then she giggled. “Maybe I should ask my brother Abeo to cover for me.”

  Elle and Luna howled. “Who will protect him?” Elle gasped.

  “He’s a big boy now. Plus, he owes me several stones. I shall call him and tell him he must come here and mind the shop.” She said it with great authority. Then she finished with a sheepish grin. “And he won’t have his sister prying him out of who knows what.”

  The other women laughed. “We should get busy. We have a lot to do over the next couple of weeks,” said Elle.

  * * *

  J.R. walked onto the sawdust-covered floor of McSorley’s Ale House a half hour early for his appointment. He wanted to get a seat with the best vantage point, and he was early enough to have his choice of tables. In a few short minutes, the place would be packed with exhausted office workers, blue collar workers and an assortment of tourists. He motioned for one of the servers and ordered a Redbreast fifteen-year-old Irish Whiskey. “Neat.”

  It wasn’t long before Henry “Hank” Johnson sauntered into the bar. He was straining his neck to peer over the crowd that had quickly descended upon the old ale house. J.R. caught his eye. Hank slithered through the throng of the thirsty and weary and made his way to the table where J.R. was waiting. J.R. was not in a good mood. This man had walked back into his life, made demands and thrown him off schedule. Demanding $1,000 to keep his yap shut after all these years was bad enough. J.R. wasn’t about to just hand him an envelope. That would be too obvious. The plan was for J.R. to put the money in a messenger bag and leave it on the floor next to his chair. When it was time for them to leave, Hank would take the bag with him. It was one of the oldest handoffs in the books. J.R. was also annoyed at how clichéd it all was. He tossed back the whiskey seconds before Hank squirmed into the wooden chair across from him.

  Hank held out his hand. J.R. knew if he didn’t act civilized, it would piss off Hank, and he didn’t want to start anything. What he wanted was to end everything. So he begrudgingly shook his hand.

  “How ya doin’?” Hank asked.

  J.R. reminded himself to be polite. “Okay. You know. Same old thing.”

  “Well, that’s just it. I don’t know.” Hank was twirling a toothpick in his mouth.

  Really? J.R. thought to himself. If you’re going to be a criminal, don’t be a stupid criminal. And Hank was looking pretty stupid.

  “No. I guess you wouldn’t.” J.R. sat up straight. “I know my life looks easy, and for the most part it is. I’ve been lucky to have decent parents. But don’t think I don’t work at it every day.”

  “You sayin’ I should feel sorry for you?” Hank smirked and snapped his fingers at the waitress.

  “No. Not at all.” J.R. was clinging to every molecule of decency he had in him. If he could, he would grab the guy by his collar and throw him into the alley. “Look, we both know why we’re here. Can we suspend the cordial banter?”

  “Tsk-tsk.” Hank clicked his tongue. “Whatever you say, boss.”

  J.R. didn’t remember Hank being this much of a creep. But people changed, and they had only been eighteen when they first met. J.R. pointed to the bag on the floor. “It’s all there.” Then he pulled out a one-hundred-dollar bill and placed it under the saltshaker. He pushed his chair back and stood, slightly looming over Hank. “I have a meeting in a half hour. Have another drink on me.” J.R. wasn’t sure if that would please Hank or provoke him. For the moment, he didn’t care. He just wanted out.

  PART THREE

  Chapter Seven

  Putting It All Together

  New York City

  Friday

  Marshal Christopher Gaines reached out to his superiors at the field office to notify them he was finally going to learn the new computer system. They were even more pleased when he told them they wouldn’t have to pay for a hotel. The travel arrangements were made, and he planned to fly up to New York on the earliest flight that would get him into Manhattan by eleven. The course would take a total of six hours. He would do as much as he could on Friday and then return to the headquarters to finish on Monday. Because the rest of the crew wouldn’t be arriving until late Friday, he would try to finish everything that evening and meet up with them at the hotel for a nightcap. The trip was a few short weeks away and he was ready for anything. And with Luna and her pals, anything was possible.

  The trip was a long time in the planning, but the day finally arrived. Marshal Gaines reached his destination, the field office in New York, while Luna, Cullen, Chi-Chi and Elle were preparing to leave that evening. Chris reported to the security office, checked in and went to a waiting area on the second floor. There were several chairs and a table with the day’s newspapers. It was refreshing to see real newspapers. He’d left his phone with security until they cleared it, so he couldn’t read the news there.

  He thumbed through the New York Times. An article about Camille’s opening was on the front page of the Arts section, titled “Art Has No Age.” He snickered. Camille was part of the New York art world and from a prominent family. It was natural for them to run an article about her.

  Camille Pierce. Again, the name rattled in his memory, but before he had the opportunity to read the article, an agent summoned him into a large computer laboratory. There were several cubicles in a very chilly room.

  “I’m Hector,” the agent introduced himself. “I’ll be walking you through the program. I know it seems silly to do it in person with all the technology available, but people always have so many questions, and sometimes things progress more efficiently in a classroom-type atmosphere.”

  “Yes, I agree,” Chris answered. He was still kind of old school in some ways.

  As expected, the program was complicated. “Until you learn it,” Hector encouraged. “Most people can do this in a few sessions. I recommend taking breaks to give your brain a chance to ‘file’ away the information.” He used air quotes for “file.”

  Chris chuckled. “And how many times have you used that pun?”

  Hector snickered in response. “Too many to remember.” He motioned for Chris to take a seat in front of a large monitor. Hector took the seat next to him in front of an equally large monitor and began the tutorial. They were at it for several hours and had taken a few breaks when Chris realized it was almost five p.m.

  “I have dinner plans with one of my former professors. Do you mind if we reconvene later? Or tomorrow?”

  “Later is fine with me. If we can get through all of the protocols, we’ll both have the weekend off.”

  “Sounds like a very good plan of action.” Chris stood and stretched. “What time do you want to meet up?”

  “Seven thirty? Eight?” Hector suggested. “I’m going to grab a bite in the cafeteria, so whenever you’re ready, just send me a text. They’ll give you your phone back when you leave the building. You can text me just before you get back.”

  “Terrific. I appreciate your flexibility.” Chris held out his hand.

  “I appreciate your wanting to bang this out before the weekend!” Hector gave Chris a firm handshake in return.

  “Okay. See you later.” Chris moved toward the elevators and pushed the button for the lobby. Luckily, the FBI offices were only a ten-minute walk from the hotel and an eight-minute walk from the Odeon, where he was meeting Professor Robert Hasselberg. Chris was the first to arrive at the neon-lit, retro café. It was a shining light amid the dark streets of Tribeca in the 1980s, just before the revival of the neighborhood. Many luminaries such as Andy Warhol, Robert De Niro and John Belushi could be spotted back in its early days, when it signaled a new chapter of New York’s nightlife. It would soon shape the culture of Tribeca and SoHo. It set the bar for being hip. Chris enjoyed the history of the restaurant, particularly its roots in the days of unadulterated sex and drugs. He snickered that this place, once known for its debauchery, was a quick walk to FBI Headquarters. Right under their noses. But that was the eighties.

  Chris entered the famous foodery, took a seat at the bar to the left of the maître d’s station and ordered an iced tea. As much as he wanted a glass of Cabernet, he decided iced tea would be the better choice. There would be plenty of time later for a cocktail. The food was always impeccable. The French menu provided just enough of a selection to please most palates, and his was craving steak tartare. He figured a good dose of red meat would keep his blood flowing and his mind alert for the rest of his training. He spotted his former professor entering the restaurant. Chris was happy to see the older gent looking spry. It had been almost a decade. People could change in the best and worst ways in ten years.

  “Christopher Gaines!” the professor exclaimed. “My, have you grown up!” He chuckled. “A marshal, no less.”

  The men shook hands and patted each other on the back.

  “Yes, sir. A full-fledged US Marshal.”

  The men were ushered to their table as they chatted. “So, what brings you here?” asked Professor Hasselberg.

  “The field office wants me to learn a new program the FBI has initiated for recovering kidnappings and missing persons.”

  “You mean two different branches of government are working together? Wonders shall never cease.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Chris relaxed into his chair. “It’s surprising, but they actually have task forces now to help each other out.”

  “Amazing,” Hasselberg remarked. “And you’re in the missing children’s department?”

  “Yes. Sometimes it’s good and sometimes our work does not have a happy outcome. That’s the worst part of my job. Computer systems are a nuisance, but dealing with bereaved parents is horrible.”

  “I can only imagine,” the professor said as he perused the menu.

  Chris continued, “But I am also here for a little R and R. Some friends were invited to a gallery opening and I am the lucky recipient of a room at the Four Seasons.”

  “Oh. Fancy.”

  “I suppose it is. I’ll be sharing that room with a friend from Asheville. He and his sister have a shop in a very large art center in Buncombe County, and the woman who owns the center is friends with the woman who is sponsoring the opening.”

  “I never took you for the artsy type,” Professor Hasselberg joked. “I don’t mean to say you’re not sophisticated.”

  Chris laughed. “I wouldn’t go so far as saying I’m sophisticated. Let’s just say I’m not a hayseed or a Bubba.”

  “What kind of art installation is it?” the professor inquired.

  “It’s a show for women artists.” Chris thought for a moment. “Let me see if I have this right . . . A benefactor named Camille Pierce started a program for women of a certain age to pursue their dream of being an artist.”

  Hasselberg immediately placed his hand on Chris’s arm. “Did you say Camille Pierce?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Do you remember the class you had in unsolved kidnappings?”

  Chris snapped his fingers. “Yes!” he almost shouted. “I knew that name was familiar. When Elle, the woman who owns the art center in Asheville, mentioned Camille’s name, I thought it rang a bell.”

  “It was one of those unsolved cases that was resolved without the aid of law enforcement.”

  “Right.” Chris was thinking back now. “There was an abduction, but the family decided to pay the ransom and not notify the authorities.”

  “Yes, and then, after their son was returned, they decided to speak to the FBI and go on the record. Pierce was concerned all the money he withdrew would send up red flags.”

  “Wow. Talk about a coincidence.” Chris’s mind ran rampant, anticipating Luna’s reaction to this newfound information.

  “A coincidence is a significant coexistence of circumstances or events that have no obvious connection with one another, “the professor said in his most professorial voice. “Or, as Albert Einstein said, ‘Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.’ ” He shrugged. “It all depends on what side of spirituality you’re on.”