Barefoot in the Sun (25 page)

“I could put us down there,” she said.

Syl launched an eyebrow in the direction of the balloon’s crown. “You could land us in the water, too. Don’t you dare.”

“The beach winds are kind of unpredictable, but I could do it.”

“One wrong cross breeze and…” Syl leaned over the basket and then grinned at her, his hazel eyes dancing. “You could probably do it.”

She puffed out a breath. “No
could
about it.”

“Okay, young lady, if you drop this baby right on that clearing, I’d pay you twice what you’re making in Arizona to work for me.”

A funny lightness popped in her chest—was
that
the release she’d been seeking all day? “You would?”

“Hell yeah. I have a dozen customers a week asking to come over here to Mimosa or one of the other islands, and I’ve never had a pilot qualified to land it.”

“Damn, Syl, I love a challenge.”

“Go for it.”

A ping of excitement shot through her, and for the next few minutes Zoe sparred with the Gulf breezes, depending on instinct and experience to guide her as she adjusted the valves and took the balloon up, down, and directly over the clearing.

“Woo-hoo!” she called out, exhilarated with her success as she curled her fingers confidently around the maneuvering vent.

Syl lifted his hand. “Don’t get too cocky!”

Just as he said that, a gust pushed them off course, whipping the basket toward the west. She responded instantly, twisting the valve to shoot out more gas and take them above the breeze, high enough above the tree line that she could now see the buttercream rooftops of Casa Blanca tucked into the foliage and beach.

“My friend owns that resort,” she said proudly. “Her husband is the architect.”

“Really?” He leaned over the side of the basket while she gave full attention to the burners. “I figured it was some corporate conglomerate who owned it.”

“Nope, just a mom-and-pop deal, but it’s top notch.”

“Think you could get your friend to send some of those rich clients my way?”

Zoe struggled with another gust. “Done and done. Okay, I’m going to try this again.”

“Looks like they spotted you, though.”

She turned to look, her gaze scanning the resort until it landed on the rooftop of Bay Laurel and the driveway in front of the villa. There, two men stood side by side, one of them pointing straight up at the balloon.

At the sight of Oliver, even a thousand feet below, her heart flipped. Or maybe that was a reaction to the man he was talking to. And the car parked in the driveway—a dark sedan that Pasha would say “screamed” FBI.

“Those tourists are ripe for the picking, don’t you think?” Syl asked.

Someone was about to be picked. Someone up here.

She could only imagine what Oliver was saying.
There she is. There’s the woman you’re looking for.

Had he already turned Pasha in, too?

She swallowed the metallic taste of betrayal and let out a long sigh. “I can’t do it.”

“What?”

She stepped away and gestured to Syl. “You do it. Take us back to the mainland and call a runner to meet us. I can’t get down on that island.”

“I thought you were so sure.”

“I’m not sure of anything or anyone,” she admitted. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Come on, you can do it. I want to see you land this thing.”

She shook her head. “I’m not feeling it today, Syl.” Not feeling free or safe or untethered or any of the things she loved about flying.

Just numb.

“Hmm.” Syl stepped to the valves to do the work. “I didn’t really take you for a quitter, miss.”

Inside her chest, something slipped and gripped and hurt. What was she so afraid of? Whatever the truth, whatever it cost, she had to face this. Until she did, she had no chance at love or a home or the real freedom she’d been searching for all these years. She
had
to do this.

“You know,” she said to Syl, “I’m not a quitter. Let me at that valve.”

B
efore Oliver could find Zoe, Special Agent Nicholas Fitzgerald showed up at Casa Blanca looking for her. The woman at the front desk sent him to Bay Laurel, and as they greeted each other in the driveway, a brightly colored spot in the sky told Oliver exactly where Zoe was. The agent was alone and made no mention of the sheriff who had been with him when they’d been sent away from the IDEA offices. Maybe they’d decided to split the effort, sending the FBI here and the sheriff to get Zoe.

When the agent asked about her, Oliver pointed to the balloon. His gut told him exactly who was in it, if not flying it.

Oliver wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to say to the agent, so he let the visit unfold to get a feel for the man. His impression wasn’t entirely positive, based on Fitzgerald’s cool demeanor during their conversation, which didn’t change even after Oliver invited him inside.

“I really wanted to speak with Pasha Tamarin personally,” the agent said. “But the staff at your clinic made that impossible.”

Oliver made a mental note to give Wanda a raise.

Once they were seated in the living room, the other man leaned forward and looked earnestly at Oliver. “I’m not sure how much you know about the subtleties of DNA, Dr. Bradbury.”

He managed not to smile. “I know a little.”

“Your patient, whose real name is Patricia Hobarth, is allegedly enmeshed in multiple crimes, the worst of which is the murder of her son.”

“She didn’t do it.”

Fitzgerald’s crystal-blue eyes sparked. “Perhaps you know a little bit about DNA, Doctor, but determining innocence or guilt really isn’t part of your job.”

“Maybe it isn’t, but her health is my number-one concern right now. Ms. Tama—er, Ms. Hobarth has undergone an extremely delicate and experimental procedure today. Stress could grossly undermine the treatment. So my job is to keep you away from her. When she’s healthy, I’m sure she’ll talk to you.”

“You’re sure?” Fitzgerald choked softly. “She’s changed her name, used false identification, fraudulently reported her own death, abducted a child, and God knows what else to avoid being tried for this murder.”

“She
was
tried for the murder and acquitted.” He’d done a little research himself after Zoe had left last night.

“She was not acquitted,” the agent corrected. “And she most certainly can be retried. She can no longer escape the power of technology and our ability to find fugitives. Obviously, she’s living in fear of that.”

“Maybe she’s living in fear of something else,” Oliver suggested. “Like the real killer.”

Fitzgerald shook his head and sighed. “There’s never been another serious suspect.”

“There’s never been any hard evidence.”

“And you’re basing that on what knowledge, Doctor?” Fitzgerald demanded. “Talking to her about it or reading ancient news accounts?”

The latter, but he was undeterred. “I won’t let anyone near her for at least a week.”

“We can end this very, very quickly, Dr. Bradbury,” the other said. “We don’t even have to talk to her. The FBI has DNA evidence and wants to compare it to Ms. Tamarin. We need access to her to get a clean sample.”

“You want DNA? I have vials of her blood. It’s yours. Moreover, I have mitochondrial DNA, which, if you do a little studying, you’ll discover that you can match with zero doubt and quite quickly, too. In a matter of hours, not weeks.”

The agent shook his head. “We need to verify that it’s her blood, not a random vial from some local health clinic.”

Ire whipped up Oliver’s spine. “You may go to my clinic and examine the vials that were taken during a transfusion today. You may stand at the door and watch the nurse take any sample for DNA testing. But you may not talk to her.”

“Why not?” he asked. “Why can’t I at least question her?”

“She’s eighty-four and battling for her life,” Oliver told him. “And I might add that if she wins that battle, she may save hundreds, even thousands, of others. But not if she collapses under the stress of this investigation.”

Fitzgerald sat back and crossed his arms, unrelenting. “I’ll get a warrant.”

“She’s sound asleep. She can’t tell you anything.”

“But I can.”

Both men turned at the sound of Zoe’s voice as she stepped around the entryway wall into the living room. Her hair wind whipped, her cheeks chapped, her eyes bright from tears or fear, she walked into the room and managed to avoid eye contact with Oliver.

But he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“How’d you get down here so fast?” Oliver asked.

“I’m that good,” she shot back, her attention on the FBI agent. “And the driver broke land speed records. I’m Zoe, er…” She reached out her hand as he stood. “Bridget Lessington.”

“Special Agent Nick Fitzgerald.” The man gave her enough of a once-over to really irk, but Oliver stood slowly, waiting for the introduction to be complete before he walked over to Zoe.

Finally, she looked at him, and the hurt in her eyes punched a lot harder than Fitzgerald’s smart-ass attitude. “How is she?” Zoe whispered.

“She’s good. She’s sleeping, and I’d like to keep it that way.” Oliver nodded to the other man. “Special Agent Fitzgerald has other ideas.”

“I don’t want to hurt your…friend, Ms. Lessington.”

She closed her eyes for a quick second in reaction to the name. “Please call me Zoe. And she’s my great-aunt, even if that’s not what some piece of paper says. What do you want from her?”

“An interview,” Fitzgerald said. “What do you know about the murder, miss?”

She brushed a hair off her face. “I didn’t know she had a son until a few days ago. She’s never mentioned him.”

“All those years of living together and she never mentioned she had a son? Don’t you find that odd?”

Zoe didn’t answer, but worked to swallow.

“She never mentioned her trial?” he asked.

“No.”

“She never mentioned her life in Pennsylvania?”

“Rarely.”

“She never mentioned her marriage to Matthew Harold Hobarth?”

“Not once.”

“She never—”

Oliver shot between them. “That’s enough.”

But Zoe’s eyes were wide, along with her mouth. “What was his name?”

“Hobarth. Matthew Harold, but he goes by—”

She grabbed his arm. “Goes by? He’s
alive
?”

“Barely, but yes.”

“Have you talked to him?” Zoe and Oliver asked the question in perfect unison, each taking a small step closer to the other.

The FBI agent shook his head, shutting them down. “First of all, he can’t talk. He suffered a stroke in an assisted-living facility outside of Columbus. I met with him before coming down in a failed effort to get more details about Patricia’s relationship with her son and really get a better handle on her motive. To be honest, Harry isn’t going to live out the month.”

Zoe’s eyes narrowed at the news, but Oliver moved in, putting a hand on her shoulder to ask the question burning in him. “Did you happen to get
his
DNA for testing while you were there?”

“No, Dr. Bradbury,” Fitzgerald said, taking note of the protective stance and flicking an interested eyebrow. “Mr. Hobarth’s alibi is ironclad and was never at issue during the trial, so don’t even go there.”

“I’ll go wherever I want,” Zoe shot back. “Including to Ohio to clear my aunt’s name.”

“Ms. Lessington, she is not your aunt.” All warmth was gone from the man’s eyes as he met Zoe’s gaze. “And you are not an investigator. I suggest you cooperate as fully as possible, as our investigation shows you have long gone past ‘victim’ in this case.”

Oliver stepped forward. “I think it’s time you leave.”

“Why?”

“She doesn’t have a lawyer present.” Oliver ushered him to the door. “I’ll call my clinic and if you go there right now, they will arrange for you to get the DNA sample from Ms. Hobarth. You can verify it, take it, test it, and compare it to whatever you have.”

“And then—”

“And then,” Zoe said, cutting him off. “You can clear her.”

He gave her a long look, then nodded. “We’ll see about that.”

Oliver walked him to the door, watched him drive away, and returned to the living room to find Zoe madly dialing a cell phone.

“Who are you calling?” he asked.

“Slade Garrison.”

“The sheriff? How do you think he can help you?”

She smiled. “I think I can help him.” She held up a finger and talked into the phone. “Slade? Zoe Tamarin. Wanna get married?”

Oliver almost fell over.

Oliver nodded throughout Zoe’s conversation with Slade, obviously not the least bit surprised as he listened to her arrange a meeting at the Naples sheriff’s office so she could break the case wide open for the young deputy.

When she disconnected, they stared at each other for a beat and she waited for the inevitable litany of questions.
Why didn’t you tell me about her son last night? What are you hiding? Is Pasha a murderer?

“Her ex-husband killed the child,” he said instead.

Relief rocked her. “How do you know that?”

“She told me.”

She stood speechless.

“The same way she told you,” he explained. “She told me to find Matthew. She didn’t mean the son, she meant the father.”

“They’re both Matthew,” she finished. “But the newspaper said M. Harold Hobarth, so I figured he went by his middle name.”

“Whatever he went by, that’s who she’s been running from, Zoe, not the FBI or police.”

She stabbed her fingers through her hair, every follicle tingling with frustration. “God, if I’d known this earlier, I wouldn’t have wasted the day in a balloon, running away.”

Oliver reached for her hand. “Stop running, Zoe.”

“I should have that tattooed on my arm.”

“You should have it tattooed on your heart.” He pulled her closer, looking so deeply into her eyes the intensity rocked her. “I’ll be happy to do the work.”

“You forgive me for not telling you last night?”

“Yes, but why didn’t you?”

“The treatment was today and I thought…” Her voice faded, the idiocy of that decision so clear in today’s light.

“You thought I’d screw up somehow?” She could hear the hurt in his tone.

“I underestimated you,” she said softly. “My bad.”

“Yes, you are bad.” He eased her closer to kiss her forehead. “Let’s talk in the car. And you can tell me why this information is going to get Slade married. I’m assuming not to you.”

She just smiled.

On the way to Naples, she shared the conversation between Slade and Gloria, and they discussed all they’d been able to glean about Matthew Harold Hobarth from the news accounts.

“He’s crazy rich,” Zoe said, remembering a detail about him being on a Greek yacht during the trial. “Could she have been blackmailing him all these years and that’s how we’ve had cash? But what about his ‘ironclad’ alibi?”

“You answered that with your first statement. Crazy rich can buy alibis. I doubt she’s a blackmailer, but think about what drives your aunt.”

Zoe glanced out the window, following the sharp curve of white as a boat turned and changed its course and cut a new wake through the waters of the Intracoastal. Pasha would look at that and say something like
That’s a sign that there’s an unexpected turn coming in our path.
“She’s driven by nature’s clues.”

Oliver shot her a look. “She’s driven by fear.”

A breath of realization whooshed out of Zoe’s chest. He was right. “She ran, she hid, she changed her name, she stayed under the radar and out of the spotlight and off the grid.”

“Shitty way to live, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Point taken,” she conceded. “Why is she afraid of an old guy who had a stroke?”

“He wasn’t old years ago, and, as you well know, some very bad behaviors get so ingrained that they become the way you live.”

“All right, all right.” She fisted her chest. “You’re hitting home.” But then she relaxed her hand and reached over the console. “I’m so glad you’re here with me,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t want to do this alone.”

“You don’t have to do anything alone, Zoe.”

She closed her eyes and let the feelings wash over her, everything mixed together like a waterfall of gratitude and hope and contentment and…love. Wow. This was no half-assed admission that she couldn’t quite form in her mouth.

She
loved
him. She loved this man.

“Here’s the sheriff’s office,” he said, whipping his little sports car into the parking lot and yanking her from lovely realizations. She’d tell him later, she promised herself. The very first minute she could.

A half hour later, in a brightly lit conference room, Zoe and Oliver held hands under the table, a united front sitting across from Deputy Sheriff Slade Garrison.

“You were eavesdropping?” Slade asked for the third time, glancing around as if one of his cohorts might have heard.

“I was walking the beach,” she said. “And I happened to hear you.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “What did you hear?”

“Enough to know you want to solve this case.” She pointed at the name and information on the table between them. “Go up to Ohio and snag some blood from this guy before he keels over and dies. I’m telling you this will get you the glory and Glor
ia
all in one swoop.”

He almost smiled at her joke, but shook his head. “I’d need to involve another sheriff’s office, and the FBI wouldn’t like it.”

“You want the FBI to solve this crime?” Zoe asked.

“Because that Fitzgerald guy will beat you to it,” Oliver added.

“How do you know him?” Slade frowned, confused. “When did you meet him?”’

“He came to my rental villa,” Oliver told him. “Without you. He wants the glory, too, I think, and I doubt he wants to share it with the local sheriff.”

Under the table Zoe gave his hand a squeeze for the perfect assist.

“First we have to deal with Patricia Hobarth,” Slade replied. “Once she’s cleared, we can worry about other people who were tangentially involved and had watertight alibis.”

“But what if you were to preempt the FBI?” Zoe asked. “You’d be a hero.”