“So?”

“That wasn’t in your report. I checked. You should have said something. Why didn’t you?”

Alec didn’t know how to respond to the absurd question. “So what about her? And what did you mean when you said I was back in?”

“She has brothers.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Three of them,” he continued, acting as though Alec hadn’t acknowledged the fact. “The oldest one just called the superintendent. Seems he knows the Madisons quite well. They belong to the same country club,” he added. “The Clairmont Country Club, to be exact. My wife and I have been trying to get in there for over five years.”

“And?” Alec asked, trying to force him to get to the point.

“Aiden’s the oldest Madison,” he said. “He’s a very powerful man.”

He sounded like a fan now. Alec was disgusted. “So?”

“So he’s concerned about his sister’s safety.”

Alec leaned back. “Why are you talking to me? Wincott’s in charge of the investigation. Refer the brothers to him.”

“Wincott has enough to do,” he said. “And Regan Madison isn’t a suspect…”

“Did Wincott tell you she wasn’t?”

“I’m telling you,” he snapped.

He wasn’t going to argue. Come on, he thought. Spell it out. Lewis was taking forever to tell him what he wanted. And Alec had so many other things to do. Like doodling. He almost laughed out loud then. Lewis had made sure he’d be excluded from any and all investigations, wanting him to sit at his desk and stare into space. Fortunately, he had a lot of doodles to finish, and right now Lewis’s palms were sweating all over one of his more creative ones.

“I want you to look after her until Wincott brings in Sweeney’s killer.”

Alec dropped his pen. “You want me to be her bodyguard?” He got angry just thinking about it. “I’m not a damned bodyguard,” he muttered before Lewis could speak.

“You are now. Know why I decided on you?”

“Because you knew I’d hate it?”

“That too,” Lewis said, grinning. “You have a bad attitude, Buchanan. That’s why you were so good working vice. You fit right in with all those perverts and psychos.”

His insults didn’t faze Alec. “Nice of you to notice.”

“You’re going to stick with the Madison woman night and day, day and night. You got that?”

Was he more concerned about the wealthy woman being upset or Sweeney’s murder? It was hard to tell.

“If her family has so much money, why can’t they hire bodyguards?”

“They could. Of course they could,” he said. “And they might.”

Every time he opened his mouth, he spit all over Alec’s desk. Man oh man, three weeks suddenly felt like a life sentence.

“But I want someone from this office with her at all times, and I want Aiden Madison to be beholden. Got that?” He didn’t ex-

pect a reply. He straightened and headed back to his office. He was shutting the door when he paused and shouted, “Buchanan?”

Alec didn’t answer.

“This is my ticket into Clairmont. Don’t screw it up.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Keep her alive.”

Due to the incessant rain, the maintenance crew didn’t get around to clearing the five-foot-high pile of dead shrubs and branches for days. The men wore black rubber boots and yellow slickers over their work clothes and were soon covered in mud as they hauled the refuse away. Vernon, the most energetic of the three-man crew, had tossed the last gnarled branch into a nearby wheelbarrow and was heading back to the shed to take a break and smoke at least two unfiltered Camels when one of his coworkers, a whiner named Sammy, started screaming like a girl, pointing and backing away. Sammy’s hazel eyes looked as if they were going to pop right out of his head.

Harry, the new man, wore large bifocals, which were splattered with mud and drizzle. When he walked closer to see what Sammy was carrying on about, he too started screaming. He didn’t sound like a girl, though; he sounded like a squawking bird.

“What’s the matter with you two?” Vernon returned to the men as he asked the question. Then he saw what they were looking at. A toe was sticking up out of the mud.

He squatted down, saw the chipped red polish on the toenail, and fell back on his ample butt. “Don’t touch nothing,” he choked

out as he scrambled to his feet. “The police won’t want us touching nothing because this here is now a crime scene.”

Harry was staring hard at the toe, half expecting it to wiggle. “How do you know, Vernon?”

“’Cause this is where the crime was perpetrated, you twit, or at least where the body was buried.” He paused to point dramatically at the toe before continuing. “And that makes it a crime scene. That’s what they call it on television when they wrap yellow official tape all around the perimeter. Sammy, for the love of God, stop your yelling.”

Sammy pulled a soggy handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes. “We should do something for her… shouldn’t we try to do something for her?”

Given the circumstances, Vernon was surprisingly calm. “No one can do anything for her now.”

“It is a real toe, isn’t it, Vernon?” Harry asked.

“What do you mean, ‘real’?”

“I’m thinking it could be a rubber one or a plastic one. One of those smart-ass college kids might be trying to prank us.”

It was a viable possibility. Vernon leaned in. “It’s real, all right. Rubber don’t decompose so fast, and I can see it isn’t plastic ’cause there isn’t any shine to it.”

Sammy gagged. Harry gave him a sharp look and waved him back. “The police won’t appreciate it if you puke on their crime scene. Take a couple of deep breaths,” he suggested.

“Are you sure the toe’s attached to a body?” Harry asked Vernon.

“You come up with the stupidest questions. I’m not touching it or tugging on it to see if it’s attached or not. That’s for the police to figure out. Why don’t you run over to the lecture hall and use their phone to call the police? Sammy and I will wait here.”

“Wouldn’t it be quicker if I just use my cell phone?”

“For crying out loud, does everyone in the U.S. of A. have a cell phone?”

“I don’t know about everyone else in the U.S. of A.,” Harry said. “But I sure do. Had it for over a year.”

He unfastened his slicker, pulled out a bright red phone, and dialed 911.

The last thing Regan wanted or needed was someone shadowing her every second of the day. Detective Buchanan didn’t particularly care how she felt, though. He strolled into her office, looking as scruffy and as sexy as she remembered, leaned against the side of her desk, and calmly announced that he was going to be her bodyguard for the next three weeks, or until the man who had e-mailed her the photo of Detective Sweeney was apprehended.

“Shouldn’t you be out there looking for the murderer instead of following me around?”

“I’ve been assigned to you,” he said. “Detective Wincott is out there looking,” he added.

She was frustrated and weary. She was also scared but wasn’t going to admit it. Cordie still hadn’t called her back, and Regan was worried sick about her and Sophie.

“Yes, you already told me that Detective Wincott was in charge. I haven’t met him yet. I have been cooperating, haven’t I?” she said. “And it seems you only just left. There’s been such commotion here since then. I need some time to just sit down and think. My head’s reeling. I have some work to finish, and then I want to…”

He tried not to smile. “Think?”

“Yes, think.”

“No problem,” he said.

He removed his tie and stuffed it in the pocket of his jacket before taking it off and draping it over a chair.

She watched him get comfortable on the sofa. “What happens in three weeks?”

“Sorry?” He was rolling his sleeves up as he turned to her.