“Fuck off,” the bodyguard with the ponytail said, attempting to push past him.

“Fuck off?” Geoff blinked, stunned. He kicked the legs out from under the big one with the ponytail, knocking him to the floor. “I take my Britney very seriously, mind you, and I don’t care for anyone making her seem like some cheap passed-around tart.” He grabbed the second guy by the arm and hurled him up against the bar. A tray of drinks toppled, glass shattering.

A pretty brunette bartender with the nametag Cindy yelled, “Hey, cut it out!” Then, to the other bartender, “Andy! Need a little help here. Bobby! Michael!”

Suddenly, Ponytail reached inside his jacket and pulled out a gun.

“On the other hand, mate,” Geoff said, backing away, palms up, “anyone who sticks her tongue down Madonna’s throat for the whole world to see is a bit of a slut in my book.”

He pushed a barstool at the startled bodyguards, then made a dash for the front door.

“It is you!” he said, knocking into Rod Stewart at the bar. “Loved the last album, mate. Very romantic. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“THIS IS NED KELLY,” Ellie said, pushing Liz Stratton into the backseat of her FBI car.

Liz stared, shocked and confused at what she was hearing.

“He’s an innocent man, Mrs. Stratton, who’s being framed for murders we think your husband committed.”

I turned from behind the wheel and peered into Liz Stratton’s eyes. They didn’t look outraged or angry at what was going on. Only a little afraid.

“He’ll kill me,” Liz said. “Can’t you tell – I’m scared to death of him. But I can’t hold this together anymore.”

“We’re going to put him away, Mrs. Stratton.” Ellie squeezed into the rear seat next to her. “But to do it we need your help.”

I hit the gas and gunned the car as soon as I heard the door slam in back. I went around the block and stopped on a side street.

Ellie turned and faced Mrs. Stratton. This was it, I knew. What Liz said in the next two minutes could save, or doom, me. “We know you set up Marty Miller to pose as Tess McAuliffe to have an affair with your husband.”

Liz swallowed, knowing there was no point keeping up the pretense anymore. “Yes, I set him up,” she said. Part of her seemed to smile while admitting it; another part seemed on the verge of tears.

“And, yes, I know he found out and had her killed. I know it was wrong, terribly wrong. But my husband’s a dangerous man. He won’t let me go anywhere without those goons.”

“I can make that end,” Ellie said, placing her hand on Liz’s shoulder. “I can tie him to the murder scene at the Brazilian Court. I just need to prove he found out about what you were doing.”

“Oh, he knew about it,” Liz Stratton sniffed. “He ran a security check on Tess. He traced a bank wire of mine to an account under her real name. He confronted me two days before the art was stolen.”

Liz pulled down her sweater and showed us two dark bruises around her neck. “This proof enough for you?”

I couldn’t wait any longer. I spun around. Liz knew enough that she could change everything that had happened to me. “Please, Mrs. Stratton, who stole the art? Whoever did murdered my friends and my brother. Who is Gachet?”

She placed her hand on my arm. “I promise you, Mr. Kelly, I had nothing to do with whatever happened to your brother. Or any of the others who died. But I wouldn’t put anything past Dennis. He’s crazy over his art. He wants it back more than anything I’ve ever seen.”

I looked at Ellie. She seemed as surprised to hear these words as I was. If Dennis Stratton didn’t steal his own paintings, then who did?

“Someone double-crossed him, Mrs. Stratton. I think you may know who. Who took the art? Who set this in motion? Was it you?”

“Me?” Liz’s mouth twisted into an amused smile. “You want to know what a prick my husband is, well, you’re about to find out. The art wasn’t stolen.” A glimmer of revenge flared in her eyes.

“Only one painting was.”

ONLY ONE PAINTING was stolen. Ellie and I blinked at her, perplexed. “What are you saying?”

Suddenly I heard the roar of an engine coming from down the block. Champ, bent over the bars of his Ducati, was gunning the cycle straight for us. He decelerated in a flash, screeching to a stop next to our Crown Vic. “Time to go, Kemo Sabe. Posse’s on our tail. About a block behind.”

I looked up the street and saw a black Mercedes making the turn, speeding directly toward us.

“It’s me they want,” Liz said, looking at Ellie. “You don’t know these terrible people. They’ll do anything for my husband.” She turned to me. “You’ve got to go!”

She pushed open the car door and, before we could stop her, climbed out and started to back away. “Here’s what I’ll do. Come to the house,” she said. “Around four. Dennis will be there. Then we’ll talk.”

“Liz,” Ellie said, starting after her, “just tell me what you meant, only one painting was stolen? There were four.”

“Think about it, Agent Shurtleff,” Liz Stratton said with a smile, backing farther away. “You’re the art expert. Why do you think he calls himself Gachet?”

The black Mercedes veered toward Liz and started to slow down. “Come to the house,” she said again with a thin, fatalistic smile. “At four.”

Two men jumped out on the run and grabbed Liz Stratton. They glared angrily at us, stuffing her roughly into the backseat. I didn’t like leaving her, but we didn’t have a choice.

“Uh-oh, Neddie.” Champ glanced back up the street. He revved the Ducati. “We’ve got trouble.”

There was a second vehicle behind the Mercedes – a black Hummer – speeding directly for us. And this one showed no signs of slowing.

“Ned, get out of here.” Ellie started to push me out the door. “They’re after you, remember.”

I squeezed Ellie’s hand. “I’m not leaving you.”

“What can they do to me?” Ellie said. “I’m with the FBI. But I can’t be here with you. Go!”

“Ned, c’mon,” Geoff urged, revving the Ducati to a deafening pitch.

I jumped out of the driver’s seat of the Crown Vic and hopped on the back of Geoff’s cycle. Ellie waved. “I’ll call you when we’re clear.”

“Don’t worry about her, mate,” Champ said. “Worry about us!”

I locked my arms around his waist. “Why?”

“You ever been in an F-15?”

“No.” I looked behind. The Hummer was bearing down on us. It wasn’t slowing. In about three seconds it would be right on top of us.

“Neither have I.” Champ said, redlining the Ducati, “but hold on. I’m told it feels something like this.”

THE FRONT WHEEL kicked up, the g-force threw my head back, and with what seemed like a supersonic blast, the Ducati rocketed away.

I felt as though I were being dragged by a jet taking off, holding on for dear life. I pressed myself into Geoff’s back, certain that if I loosened my arms for a second, I’d be hurled onto the concrete like a bouncing ball.

We flew down the street in a tuck, headed in the direction of the lake. I took a glance behind. The Hummer didn’t even stop. It was coming after us for sure.

“Get out of here! They’re coming!” I shouted above the roar into Champ’s ear.

“Your wish is my command!”

The Ducati’s engine exploded and I was thrown back hard as we shot past homes at a hundred miles an hour. My poor, abused stomach tightened in a knot. A stop sign was coming up pretty quick. Cocoanut Row. The last intersection before the lake. There was only one way to go down here, north. Champ slowed just a little. The Hummer was barreling fast behind.

‘Which way?” Champ shouted, glancing back.

“Which way? There is only one way,” I said. Right. We were still only a block or two from the poshest shopping street in all of Florida. There could be cops around.