We bounced a few more times, then he sort of touched the brakes and the bike glided down the platform. We’d made it! I couldn’t believe it.

“How’s that!” Geoff hooted, coasting to a stop in front of a backup of cars on the other side of the bridge. We were in front of a woman in a minivan, her eyes as large as dinner plates. “Eight-five on the dismount, maybe, but I’d say the landing was a perfect ten…” Geoff turned around and gave me a shit-eating grin. “Sweet! Next time, think I’d like to give that one a try at night.”

ACROSS THE STREET from Ta-boó, the man in the tan car had watched the whole scene unfold, and he didn’t like one thing about it.

The first Mercedes pulled up, the doors flung open, and one of Stratton’s men dragged Liz Stratton into the backseat.

He squinted into the camera. Click, click.

Then Stratton’s boys in the Hummer peeled out after Ned Kelly and that Kiwi cowboy on the show-off bike.

“Dangerous folks,” he muttered to himself, clicking off one more shot. That son of a bitch better be able to really ride.

Then two of Stratton’s goons got out of their car and went up to Ellie Shurtleff.

For a second, that made him reach for his gun. Didn’t know if he should interfere. Some kind of argument took place. They started to get a little rough with her. The Shurtleff gal flashed her badge, standing up pretty tall in the saddle.

She had spunk, the man in the car had to admit. He’d give her that.

Setting up this scheme to get to Liz Stratton. Cavorting with a murder suspect.

“Spunk,” he chuckled, but not exactly a lot of shrewdness. All he’d have to do was pass along a print to the feds across the street and it wouldn’t exactly be a gold star for her career. Or the rest of her life, for that matter.

Stratton’s men backed off. Flashing the badge seemed to work, because after some jostling, they got back in their car. They drove the Mercedes close to the other car, then sped away. He took his hand off his gun. He was glad he’d decided to wait. This could get even bigger.

Maybe he should just pass along these prints. The guy was a wanted killer. She was taking a hell of a risk. What if she was involved in some way herself?

He watched the FBI gal get back in her car and drive away. “Not shrewd,” he said to himself again, tucking away his camera. He flicked a matchbook between his fingers.

But a shitload of spunk.

ABOUT 3:30 that afternoon, Ellie met us back at Champ’s garage.

I was happy to see that she was okay and gave her a hug. I could tell by the way she held on to me, she’d been worried about me, too. We told her about the motorcycle chase.

“You’re crazy.” Ellie shook her head at Geoff.

“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug, as if reflecting on it. “I’ve often found the line between crazy and physically irresponsible to be quite blurred. Anyway, I thought it was a far cry better than having to party up with those guys in the Hummer. Given the circumstances, I actually thought things went pretty well.”

I shot a glance to the clock on Champ’s garage wall. It was getting to be that time. A lot could play out for us in the next hour or so. We could find out who stole Stratton’s art. I could be cleared of the murders. “You ready to go to Liz’s? Ready to nail Dennis Stratton?” I asked. Ellie seemed nervous, though – for her, anyway.

“Yeah,” she said. She caught my arm, her expression tight. “Just so you understand, that’s not the only thing that’s going to happen at Stratton’s today.”

She opened her jacket. A set of handcuffs dangled from her waist.

I felt my stomach shift. I’d felt strangely free for the past few days, following up on the crimes, maybe getting closer to catching a killer. I’d almost forgotten she was an FBI agent.

“If it all goes like we hope in there,” she said, that law-enforcement look back in her eye, “you’re going to turn yourself in. You remember the deal?”

“Sure.” I looked at her and nodded, but inside I was dying. “I remember the deal.”

WE CROSSED OVER the middle bridge to Palm Beach mostly in silence. My stomach was twisting inside. Whatever happened at Stratton’s, I knew my freedom was about to end.

The town was eerily quiet for a Thursday in mid-April. There were only a few tourists and shoppers on or around Worth Avenue seeking out the late-season sales. A white-haired doyenne crossed in front of us at a light, in a fur wrap despite the April heat, her poodle in tow. I looked at Ellie and we smiled. I was holding on to anything I could right now.

We turned onto Stratton’s private street, just off the ocean. That’s when I realized something was wrong.

Two police cars were blocking the road, their lights flashing. Others were parked all around Stratton’s gate.

At first I thought that the reception was for me, and I was scared. That Liz had set me up. But no… An EMS truck was pulling through the gate.

“Get down,” Ellie said to me, turning around. I sank down in the backseat, my face tucked under my cap. Ellie lowered her window and flashed her shield to a policeman blocking traffic. “What’s happened?” she asked.

The cop took a quick glance at her ID. “There are a couple of bodies in the house. Two people shot. Never seen anything like what’s been happening lately.”

“Stratton?” Ellie asked.

“No,” the officer said, shaking his head. “One’s a bodyguard, they’re telling me. The other’s Mr. Stratton’s wife.”

He waved us through, but I felt my blood drain, and a feeling of panic grip me from head to toe.

Liz was dead. Our case against Stratton was dead, too. We had no way to prove he knew that his wife had set him up. But worse, we had lured poor Liz into this.

“Oh, Jesus, Ellie, we got her killed,” I said, feeling as if it were Dave all over again.

Ellie turned in through the gates into the long pebbled driveway. Three more patrol cars were parked in front of the house, as well as a second EMS van, its doors open.

“You wait here,” Ellie said, pulling up in front. “Promise me, Ned, you won’t run.”

“I promise,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.” Ellie slammed the door and ran inside. I felt as though something inevitable was about to happen. I knew it, in fact.

“I promise, Ellie,” I said, reaching for the door, “I’m not running anymore.”

STRATTON WAS IN THERE.

Ellie spotted him in the foyer. Sitting in a chair, rubbing his ashen face, mirroring shock. Carl Breen, the detective Ellie had met in Tess’s suite, was sitting with him. And Ponytail, the pockmarked asshole who’d taken off after Ned and Champ, was standing smugly by.

“I can’t believe she would do this,” Stratton muttered. “They were having an affair. She told me. She’d been angry with me. I’d been working too hard. Ignoring her… But this…”

Ellie looked ahead into the sunroom. Her stomach sank. She immediately recognized one of the muscular bodyguards she’d seen at Stratton’s party lying face up on the floor. There were two bullet holes in his chest. But worse, so much worse, was the sight of Liz Stratton, lying back on the floral love seat across from him, still dressed in the same white pantsuit as she had on that afternoon. A trickle of blood ran down one side of her forehead. Vern Lawson was kneeling beside her.

Ellie had heard a cop talking on the way in. It was supposed to be a murder-suicide.

Like hell. Ellie felt her blood grow hot. She looked at Lawson, then Stratton, then back at Liz. What a complete sham!

“I knew she was upset,” Stratton continued to Detective Breen. “She finally told me about the affair. That she was going to end it. Maybe Paul wouldn’t let her go. But this… Oh, God… She seemed so happy just a few hours ago.” Stratton caught Ellie’s eye. “She went out to lunch with friends…”