Security Measures. Joanna Wayne

      “We lived peacefully when Tyrone and Vincent were in prison. They’re out now.”

      “You’re right, but like I said, we have no reason to believe they think you’re alive. Even if they did, I doubt they’d have the money or the inclination to seek revenge at this point in their lives.”

      “But their cronies might do it on their behalf.”

      “Not likely. When Vince Sr. died and Tyrone and Vincent went to prison, the Mob fell under new leadership, and that’s been evolving over the past few years. Word is the new kingpin doesn’t want anything to do with the Magilintis.”

      “More reason for Tyrone and Vincent to nurse their grudge against me.”

      “Their grudge is against Candy Owens. She’s dead.”

      Ken made it sound as if the prison break was no reason for concern, but she wasn’t buying the story. “I know you too well, Ken. If you were convinced there is no chance of danger, you wouldn’t have called.”

      “Just a precaution.”

      Yeah. Like a tornado watch or a hurricane warning is just a precaution. If it doesn’t hit, you’re fine. If it does, heaven help you.

      “I’ll keep you posted,” Ken continued. “The authorities will probably have Vincent back in custody in a matter of days.”

      “A lot can happen in a matter of days.”

      “But no reason to think that it will.”

      His voice was smooth and calm, no doubt designed to keep her from flying into a panic. Ken was good at that. If she’d had a father, she’d have wanted him to be like Ken. Instead, she’d fashioned Kelly’s fictional father after the genial marshal, only she’d made him much younger, of course.

      Ken was in his mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair, receding in front and thinning on top and always needing a trim. He was six feet plus of muscle and very little excess fat. He was a man’s man, but he had a gentle way about him when she least expected it.

      She trusted his judgment implicitly. If he said go back to Illinois, she’d go to Illinois. If he said stay at the beach, she’d stay. If he said run for the hills, she’d run.

      “How is the vacation going?” he asked.

      “Fine when my daughter isn’t lashing out at me for being controlling and paranoid. And that was before I had Vincent Magilinti to worry about.”

      “You don’t know how I hated to make this call.”

      She sank into herself, feeling as vulnerable as the grains of sand being tossed about by the wind and washed away with the tide. “I have another week off,” she said. “I’d planned to spend it at home. Should I risk that?”

      “Unless I get back in touch with you and tell you differently. Just go on with your life as usual. And ease up on Kelly. She’s a good kid and once she gets past adolescence, she’ll be human again.”

      “I’m counting on that.”

      “Now, try to enjoy the rest of your vacation. If there’s anything you need, give me a call. I’m always here.”

      “How about making Kelly and me invisible for a few weeks?”

      “I did. Candy and Nicole Owens are dead and buried. You are the beautiful widow Janice Stevens who has resettled in Chicago with your daughter Kelly.”

      “You make it all sound so workable.”

      “Making it work is my job. Yours is to enjoy your vacation.”

      “You got it.”

      “Later.”

      And that was that. But the nebulous dread continued as she trudged back to the beach house. Dread and the frightening premonition that she hadn’t seen the last of Vincent Magilinti.

      THE FRENCH QUARTER looked the same as it had fifteen years ago. Even the wino sleeping it off on the street across from Jackson Square could be the same. A group of college-age guys and girls crossed the street and walked past him, laughing and talking loud as if it were three o’clock in the afternoon instead of three in the morning. Fifteen years ago, Vincent might have been one of the revelers; tonight, he was a man on the run.

      It was risky to be here in the Quarter, but he was in desperate need of money and a vehicle. Vincent staggered as if he were drunk, then ducked into the dark corner bar and took a seat near the back. In less than a minute, another drunk, this one tall and burly, joined him at the table.

      “Buy me a drink, buddy?” He hiccupped loudly and almost missed the chair as he slid into it.

      “Sure.”

      A couple at the bar started singing “Blueberry Hill.” A few other patrons joined in, all off-key.

      “You look good for an escapee,” Rico whispered as he passed Vincent a key under the table. “Car’s a late-model, black two-door Ford parked on Rampart across from the Saenger. Money, car registration and an ID are in the glove compartment.”

      “Did you get the tools?”

      “They’re in a blue duffel in the trunk.”

      “Thanks.”

      The waiter walked by but ignored them, probably figuring they’d had enough to drink.

      “You’re not driving to Chicago to look up Candy and the kid, are you?”

      “Not a chance. As far as I’m concerned, they really are dead.”

      “So where are you heading?”

      “As far away from Angola as I can get.”

      “You going to see Tyrone before you leave town?”

      “Why should I?”

      “He’s your cousin.”

      “He didn’t do me any favors at the trial. I’m cutting out of here as soon as I walk out that door. I’m starting a new life.”

      “I hope you make it. One drink before you go?”

      “Yeah. Coffee. I’ve got to stay alert.”

      Rico slammed a fist into the top of the bar. “What do you have to do get service in here?”

      The waiter ambled over. “Name your poison.”

      “I’ll take a scotch on the rocks,” he said, letting his voice slur a bit. “Give my buddy here a coffee. He’s had a few too many.”

      “You have, too, if you’re driving.”

      “Hell, no, I’m not driving. I got me a room right on Bourbon Street.”

      “Good for you. Drinks are coming up.”

      The waiter looked to be about twenty, a couple of years younger than Vincent had been when all hell had broken loose and life as he’d known it had exploded in a burst of machine-gun fire and flowing blood.

      Now he was thirty-seven and felt as if he were a hundred. Prison did that to you. Yanked those rose-colored glasses of youth off your nose and crushed them under the feet of hundreds of brawny, tattooed thugs who all wanted to prove they were tougher than you.

      The coffee was thick guck, heavy on the chicory. Vincent drank it quickly, then nodded and headed for the bathroom. When he came out, Rico was gone. Vincent put a few bills on the table and slipped out the door. Fifteen years had been a long time. He wondered if Candy Owens would recognize him.

      He’d find out soon enough.

      Chapter Two

      Janice glanced at the clock on the dashboard as she pulled into the driveway of her home in the Chicago suburbs. Seven-thirty. Not bad timing, considering that they’d sat in stalled