Behind The Mask. Metsy Hingle

      Webster tipped back his head and laughed. “I’ll say one thing for you, Sullivan. You certainly don’t lack chutzpah.”

      “As you said, there’s no need for false modesty.” And there wasn’t, Michael reasoned. Since leaving the police department, he’d earned more than five times his salary as a cop by working as a bounty hunter, a detective, a bodyguard or whatever the occasion called for. Maybe the jobs weren’t all that satisfying or noble, but the money had been good enough to pay his living expenses and provide him with extra cash to help out Janie and the two boys. And a million bucks would enable him to see to it that Janie and the boys’ futures were secure.

      “I’m going to need copies of everything you have on them—including the other detective’s reports.”

      Webster removed a manila file folder from a drawer in his desk and handed it to Michael. “I think you’ll find everything you need in there. Photographs, fingerprints, background information on Elisabeth and copies of the other reports.”

      After quickly skimming the contents, he closed the folder and stood. “I’ll need a retainer.”

      “Of course,” Webster told him, and reached inside his top desk drawer. He drew out a black leather checkbook. “I’ll pay you fifty thousand dollars now and the balance when you find Elisabeth and Timothy.”

      “You’ll pay me two hundred fifty thousand dollars now and the balance, plus my expenses, when I find your wife and son.”

      The smile died on Webster’s lips. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m just going to hand over that kind of money as a retainer.”

      “That’s the deal, Webster. Take it or leave it.” Though Michael hadn’t seen the bodyguard move, he sensed the big man come up behind him. Lightning quick, he whirled around, kicked the gun from the bruiser’s hand and sent the other man to his knees howling.

      “Why, you son of a—”

      “That’s enough, Otto. Leave us alone,” Webster ordered.

      “You can count on payback for this, Sullivan,” Otto muttered as he left the room.

      When the door closed, Michael asked, “So what’s it going to be, Webster? Do you want me to find your wife and son or not?”

      “Why should I believe you won’t just skip town with my money?”

      “My word,” Michael said softly. “You said you checked me out. If you did, then you know I never go back on my word.”

      Again, all the gentlemanly charm and refinement disappeared. Rage distorted Webster’s urbane expression. There was a coldness, a ruthlessness in Webster’s dark eyes that made Michael feel almost sorry for Elisabeth Webster. He’d seen enough evil in his thirty-three years to recognize it when he saw it. He was looking at evil now. And, in the space of a heartbeat, Michael considered walking away from the job.

      Webster scribbled out a check and slid it across the desk. “Here’s your money,” he said, keeping his fingers atop the check until Michael met his gaze. “But there’s a condition that comes with it. If you haven’t found my wife in thirty days, I pay you nothing. You return the retainer and eat your expenses.”

      “The last detective had six months,” Michael pointed out.

      “But as you pointed out, you’re better. It’s thirty days or nothing.”

      “All right,” Michael said.

      Webster released the check and sat back in his chair. “Don’t disappoint me, Sullivan. Find my wife and son for me.”

      “Don’t worry, I intend to,” Michael assured him, and tucked the check into his coat pocket. “You just get ready to write another check.”

      Three

      “Lily, your order’s up.”

      “Thanks, May,” Lily told the short-order cook who’d slapped down the BLT with extra mayo and fries for table six. Grabbing the order, Lily juggled it, along with the two salads and a sandwich plate, and began weaving her way through the crowded diner.

      She dropped off the salads and made her way to table five, where she served a roast beef po’boy, then turned to table six and delivered the BLT order. “Would you like another root beer?” she asked the guy who’d been in every day that week for lunch. He’d told her two days earlier that his name was Joe and that he was working with the construction crew down the block. Lily figured him to be in his mid-twenties. With his blond hair, sun-bronzed skin and a body that sported muscles from hard, physical labor, he’d caught the eye of her co-workers.

      “That would be great,” he told her in that odd drawl that sounded like a combination of Old South and Brooklyn, New York. But the smile—the smile was pure southern charm—something she’d discovered these New Orleans boys had in abundance. Since arriving in the city two months ago she had witnessed it again and again.

      “Be right back,” she promised, then stopped to take another order before making her way back to the counter. After turning in her new orders, she headed for the fountain where she joined Amber and Gina, the other waitresses at the diner, to load up her drinks.

      “I see Brad Pitt’s twin is back,” Amber commented as she lined up her tray with glasses and began filling them with Coke, tea and ice water. “And why am I not surprised that he sat at one of your tables again?”

      “I guess mine was the only one open,” Lily suggested.

      Amber rolled her eyes. “Lily girl, wake up. Anyone with eyes in their head could see the guy’s got a thing for you.”

      “Don’t be silly,” Lily said, taken aback by Amber’s comment. “He’s just a boy.”

      “Right. And I suppose you’re old enough to be his mother.”

      Gina chuckled. “She’s right, you know. That fellow’s got to be at least twenty-five. And if you’re older than that, it’s not by much.”

      She wasn’t. She’d turned twenty-five on her last birthday. Yet, she felt a lifetime older. “I guess I just feel older because I’m a widow and I have a child.”

      “Aw shoot, honey, I forgot,” Gina said. “I’m sorry.”

      “It’s all right,” Lily told her, uncomfortable that her fib had generated sympathy from the other woman.

      “Listen, I know how hard it is to lose a man you love. I’ve buried three husbands myself. But, trust me. It gets easier with time. You’ll see.”

      “I’m sure you’re right,” Lily murmured, eager to end the conversation.

      Gina gave her shoulder a pat. “In the meantime, don’t go ruling out Construction Joe over there. At least the guy’s got a job, which is more than I can say for my last husband. Besides, you’re still young. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

      But she didn’t feel young, Lily thought as she finished loading her drink orders. Probably because her life had been filled with so many changes in the ten years since her grandmother had died, and she’d gone to live with her mother. Those first two years in Florida had been frightening, living with the stranger who’d given birth to her, trying to fit in at a new school, in a new city. The one bright spot had been Adam. She’d been an awkward, shy girl, but he had treated her like a real person. He’d been sweet and kind to her, listened to the things she had to say. He’d made her feel special. And when her mother had accidentally overdosed on her insulin and died so suddenly, Adam had rescued her. He’d sent her to a Catholic boarding school, and when she’d graduated, he’d made her his wife. A shiver raced down her spine as she thought back on all the little things that had pointed to a sick, dangerous man. How could she have been so blind for so long? And what would have happened to Timmy if she hadn’t gotten him away from Adam when