Waters Run Deep. Liz Talley

files for the third time that week, looking for anything that might grab him, might stand out enough to follow, but there was nothing. Dead end in every direction.

      He grabbed the files and bagged evidence and carefully placed them back into the cardboard box, setting it on the short filing cabinet. His office needed organizing. In fact, his whole house could use a good cleaning. His housekeeper, Gloria, cleaned the toilets and changed the sheets once a week, but she couldn’t make heads or tails of the cold-case boxes lining the wood floor of the living room.

      Damn it. Radrica Moore’s killer would go unpunished.

      He shoved the lid onto the box. Then he hesitated. He didn’t want to give up. Wouldn’t be fair to Radrica. To her mother, who still mourned the death of the thirteen-year-old honor student. He pulled off the lid and propped it against the box, staring into the contents.

      There was very little physical evidence in the case. The body of the African American girl had been found in stagnant water of the flooded timberland just off the Mississippi River, badly decomposed. The cause of death had been inconclusive, though the coroner found evidence of possible defensive wounds. The Rapides sheriff’s department classified it as a homicide, but had nothing else to go on.

      Nate padded into his kitchen, opened the fridge and surveyed the contents: six pack of Abita, leftover barbecue from the Wing Shack and a package of luncheon meat he didn’t remember buying. He grabbed an Abita and shut the door.

      As he cracked open the beer, he shifted his thoughts from the cold case lying dead in his office to the incident at Beau Soleil that afternoon. Even though the boy had been found safe and sound, something bothered him about the whole deal.

      Annie Perez.

      Maybe that’s who had him at attention.

      And not in a way he welcomed.

      When he’d reached the reunion between the “missing” Spencer and his over-the-top mother, he noticed how easily Annie faded into the background—purposely, it seemed.

      She’d skirted the gathering, melding herself into a quiet statue on the perimeter, but her eyes had been searching the group of people gathered as if weighing some unseen force.

      But maybe that’s who she was. Cautious, still and serious. Nothing wrong with being quiet, even if intensity flowed out of every pore of the woman.

      Desire snaked into his belly.

      Exactly what he didn’t need. He lifted the bottle and took a swig, swiping a hand across his mouth. It had been a while since he’d dated. Maybe too long. He’d been busy this past summer with more requests for help on cold cases than he could handle. The state budget had police and sheriff departments cut to the bone, and word had gotten out about his talent with homicide cases that had no pulse. His consulting jobs were freebies, and sometimes when things were slow, Blaine gave him leeway. Not that it really mattered. He didn’t work them for the money anyway. He worked them for the satisfaction of getting what he’d never have—completion.

      He walked back to his office and stared at the database open on the computer screen. The Annie Perez he’d met earlier today hadn’t been a real-estate agent in California. Didn’t mean she hadn’t been one someplace else, which was why he reserved judgment on the woman and stopped poking around looking for info on her. He had no real reason to check her out—she’d done nothing wrong. Still, something told him it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get to know her a little better.

      The only thing he couldn’t figure out was whether his interest was strictly professional. He really didn’t want to think about it being anything more. He was good at hunches; bad at lying to himself.

      * * *

      WHEN ANNIE WOKE UP the following morning, she felt as if she’d been run over and left for dead. Spencer had ended up in her bed at some point. She’d forgotten when. Some vague notion of 2:24 a.m., muttering “climb in” and then spending the rest of the night being kicked by a mule.

      She rolled over and looked at the mule sleeping peacefully on his back, mouth slack, brown hair sticking up like Billy Idol and jammies riding up over a plump little tummy.

      Little devil should be on a soccer team.

      She yawned in the bleary light escaping into the room through the heavy brocade drapes over the long windows. Had to be around 6:00 a.m. Her internal alarm clock woke her whether she needed to sleep longer or not. Leftover habit from high school when getting up had rested squarely on her shoulders.

      She slipped out of bed, brushed her teeth, pulled on shorts and running shoes. Spencer would likely sleep until seven-thirty or so. Plenty of time for a quick exploratory run. She’d head out to the highway and get a lay of the land and be back before Spencer demanded his Fruity O’s. But first she needed to let someone know she was leaving. After yesterday afternoon, she wanted the boy to be covered.

      She nearly ran into Carter Keene in the kitchen.

      “Up early,” he said, dumping creamer into his coffee. He glanced at her briefly before picking up a spoon. “Have you checked on Spencer?”

      “He’s in my bed still asleep. Are you the only one up?”

      “Yep. I need to get this movie in the can as soon as possible. The studio has another one lined up. Filming in Maine starts in December, so time is of the essence. We’re already behind.”

      He looked around as if on a covert operation. She looked around, too, wondering why he overdramatized everything. Then she remembered. He was a director. Hazard of the job.

      “So have you made any progress?” he whispered.

      Carter hadn’t talked to Ace in over a week, so the report was left to her. “We’ve done background checks on several of the investors of the Goliath movie, but haven’t found anyone indicating a desire to harm you. Mad at you? Yeah. Enough to do something to Spencer or Tawny? No.”

      He nodded, his gorgeous blond hair catching the weak sunlight, causing a sort of halo to frame his pretty-boy face. And Annie knew from the rumors surrounding Keene that he was far from angelic. “What about Rudy Griffin?”

      “Ace has one of his best guys working on his current whereabouts. From what we’ve learned, Rudy was on location in Oregon when the first note appeared. Right now, we’re not sure where he is.” Rudy was a stuntman who’d been injured on the set of Goliath, a big-budget movie that not only had a lion’s share of production problems, but also tanked at the box office. Carter Keene had earned plenty of disgruntled non-fans on that one, but none more so than the stuntman who accused Keene’s production company of unsafe and substandard practices. His burned arm had inflamed his need to bad-mouth and threaten Carter.

      Carter shook his head. “It has to be him. When I found that note, I knew he’d gone off his rocker.”

      Annie nodded. “Rudy Griffin made threats, but lots of people make threats. Doesn’t mean they’ll carry through with them. This could be a random crackpot, and we may never find out who sent the notes.”

      “But they feel so ominous…and personal.”

      “They do. But we may be grasping at straws. Ace will be in touch if there is nothing more we can do. And by the way, I appreciate you not blowing my cover yesterday, Mr. Keene. It’s best I stay hidden for now.”

      “Call me Carter, Annie.”

      “I’d rather not.” Hadn’t Tawny reminded her of her place yesterday?

      Annie could see he liked to call the shots, but he shrugged. “Whatever’s best.”

      She nodded, headed toward the back door of the kitchen and peeked out the glass door of the mudroom. Sunlight streamed through the coal-black trunks of the live oaks, throwing golden confetti on the grass beneath. Perfect morning for a run.

      Spencer.

      Damn. She’d forgotten to ask Carter to send Brick to babysit the door to her bedroom. She turned back around to