Sting

“Where are the kids?”

“Upstairs. Molly is in the tub. Henry is dressed and ready. He’s in his room playing a video game.”

“They okay?”

“They had a knock-down, drag-out this morning over whose turn it was to empty the dishwasher.”

“Who won?”

“I did.”

Joe smiled as he pulled a chair from beneath the dining table and dropped into it. “How was Top Gun?”

“Goose dies every time.”

“The wine?”

“Maybe I should have splurged on an eight-dollar bottle.”

“Anything’s drinkable with popcorn.”

“I skipped the double butter. I’m getting fat.”

He reached for her and pulled her onto his lap. Running his hand over her hip, he said, “Your curves are womanly.”

“Even my mom jeans are getting tight.”

“I love ’em tight. Let’s have sex.”

“The kids could walk in on us, and I have to draw that pumpkin face.”

“It’ll take sixty seconds.”

“The pumpkin or the sex?”

He laughed. “Tired as I am, I may need more than sixty seconds.”

Kidding aside, she touched his face with concern. “You look exhausted. What’s going on?”

“Josh Bennett got tired of the taxpayers’ hospitality and pulled a disappearing act.” Taking advantage of her speechlessness, he said, “Don’t announce that over the speakers at the carnival. We haven’t gone public with it y

et. I was hoping to catch him before we had to.”

“How in the world did he get away?”

“He didn’t come down for breakfast. Marshals went to check. Room was empty, bed still made.”

“I thought he had one of those ankle monitors.”

“Clever little shit got it off. They found it in the bathroom. That was Tuesday. Then last night…” He filled her in on everything that had occurred since Hick’s initial call.

“He and I agreed to take a short break, then we’ve got to jump back in. Now that Josh Bennett’s sister is missing, and the whole mess resurrected, I may have to change my mind about announcing his escape. In any case, I won’t be going to the carnival. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She stroked his head. She knew better than anyone how badly the Billy Panella case had eaten at him.

Over a three-year period, Panella had craftily enticed the clients of his investment firm to put their money into phony stocks, municipal bonds, pharmaceuticals to cure cancer, energy exploration that was ecofriendly, resorts and exclusive retirement communities, even shrimp and catfish farms—none of which existed.

With Josh Bennett’s wizardry with numbers and money-juggling skills, Panella had committed fraud to the tune of thirty million dollars and change. He had made everything work for a while, paying occasional dividends with the promise of big payoffs to come.