This was a great vantage point for the retirees to watch the Navy SEALs train while they ate. His father was already seated at the prime booth by the window. When Quinten gave you a time, he arrived at least ten minutes early himself.

“How was your trip?” Tyler asked as he slid into the booth opposite his father.

“Same old, same old.”

Tall and erect, Quinten Foley had a military bearing that was impossible to miss even in golf clothes. His square jaw told the world he was accustomed to his orders being obeyed. His slate-blue eyes could level a man at fifty paces. His full head of black hair had turned silver, but it only added to his commanding presence.

“I ordered huevos rancheros for you. I know how much you like them.”

Tyler didn’t even attempt a smile. He’d been an eggs Benedict man-until Holly reformed him. He’d never cared for huevos rancheros.

“I have to be on the course at eight-thirty.” His father smiled. “Hope all my traveling hasn’t screwed up my handicap.”

Tyler nodded as if he gave a shit.

“I hear Calvin Hunter died while I was away.”

Adam’s uncle and his father had both been navy commanders. Calvin had skippered a nuclear sub before moving to some top-secret naval intelligence position on land. The men had been golfing buddies when they both were in San Diego at the same time.

“He died of a heart attack.”

“Too bad. Wish I could have returned for the funeral, but I was in Zimbabwe negotiating a deal for a client.”

“Adam couldn’t get back either,” Tyler commented as their waitress poured him a cup of coffee. “He just returned. His uncle left him everything, including a mountain of debt.”

His father’s ice-blue eyes narrowed. “Calvin didn’t have any debt to speak of. He made a lot of money.”

“Showing dogs?”

A beat of silence. “No, in real estate.”

Tyler thought a moment. “Maybe. They’re just sorting through the estate. Adam doesn’t know much. He wasn’t close to his uncle. In fact, he was blown away that he left him everything.”

“Everything?” His father actually looked stunned. The only other time Tyler could remember seeing that expression was when his father had come home to find the MPs, and his wife dead. Tyler had been huddled in the corner with the chaplain, but his father never saw him.

The waitress arrived with a heaping plate of huevos rancheros for Tyler and put scrambled eggs, tomatoes instead of potatoes, in front of his father. To the side was a single slice of toast. The old man wouldn’t butter it.

“I was wondering if you could do something for me.”

“Sure.” Tyler ran his fork through the gooey mess and waited for the “if I should become ill” bit.

“I was in Istanbul last year and ran into Calvin. My laptop was on the fritz. Damn things aren’t reliable. I stored some info on Calvin’s machine. Now that he’s gone, I need to retrieve that file. Could you ask Adam to let me into Calvin’s office? I’d call him myself but I only met him the one time.”

How well Tyler remembered that day. They’d graduated from the police academy together. Adam’s father was there-so, so proud. He’d been with Adam’s uncle Calvin, who’d also been very proud of Adam. Quinten Foley had grudgingly attended, then left before the group went to celebrate at a nearby Mexican restaurant.

“No need to bother Adam,” Tyler said, recalling his conversation at lunch with Adam yesterday. “Right after Calvin Hunter died, thieves broke into the house. All they took was his computer and some discs.”

“You’re lying.”

Tyler slammed down his fork, anger building in his gut. His father had insulted him many times over the years but he’d never called him a liar. He shot back, “Why would I lie about a robbery?”

Quinten Foley flinched at Tyler’s unexpected outburst. He’d never raised his voice to his father. “Sorry, son. I just can’t believe…”

“As an ex-police officer, I can tell you that robberies after a death are quite common, especially if the newspapers give the time of the funeral. Criminals know everyone will be at the cemetery and not at the house.”

“I see,” his father replied, his tone preoccupied.

“The thieves left behind lots of valuable antiques and other things. That means they were after stuff they could sell quickly for drug money. Newer model computers can be sold in minutes on the street.”

All the color leached from his father’s face. His voice faltered. “R-really?”

“Swear to God.” He could have added “hope to die,” but he didn’t allow himself the pleasure. Until last night he hadn’t thought about his father’s death. But one day-in the not too distant future-his father would die. Then, like Adam, Tyler would inherit a bundle.

WHITNEY WALKED INTO Trish Bowrather’s Ravissant Gallery, Lexi at her side. This morning when she’d picked up Brandy for his walk, Trish had invited Whitney to stop by after her morning rounds to have coffee with her. Trish wanted to chat, and Whitney had a feeling she knew what was on the older woman’s mind.

Ryan Fordham.

Whitney hadn’t heard from her ex last night. She’d been half expecting another call, but it hadn’t come. While she’d been out, FedEx had delivered an express envelope. In it she found the papers Ryan wanted her to sign but no note from him. She read the document; it seemed to be a longer, more legalese version of what she’d signed after arbitration, but she couldn’t find the original document. It was probably in one of the boxes she’d yet to unpack.

“Hi,” Trish called to Whitney, her hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone. She gestured toward a black lacquer chest that had to be an expensive Chinese antique. On top was a coffee machine and porcelain cups. Cream, sugar and artificial sweetener were beside the coffeemaker.

Whitney unhooked Lexi from her leash. The retriever bounced over to join Brandy, who was perched on a bronze silk harem pillow. It served as his dog bed while matching the studied elegance and sophistication of the gallery. She helped herself to a cup of coffee and added a splash of milk.

The gallery was a commercial version of Trish’s own home. Whitney wondered if the same architect had designed both. The matte-white walls displayed enormous abstract oils. One drew Whitney nearer. Whitney shuddered, but couldn’t help walking closer and closer.

“Thought provoking, don’t you think?” Trish asked.

Whitney practiced her smile. The mammoth painting was mesmerizing. The oil canvas could have doubled as a wall in her small cottage. It was streaked with globs of red and neon-green paint. Off to one side was a large cobalt blue eye that seemed to follow Whitney as she moved. “Who’s the artist?”

“Vladimir. He has some long, unpronounceable Russian last name, so he just goes by Vladimir. He’s one of the most successful artists in the area.”

The eye gave Whitney the willies, but she didn’t mention it. This morning when she was loading the dogs in the SUV, she’d looked up to the second-floor window of the main house. For a moment she’d thought the curtains had shifted. Now she imagined Adam Hunter, his intense blue eyes becoming one, staring down at her from behind a razor-wide gap in the drapes. Just like the haunting eye in the painting.

“Aren’t you exhausted?” Trish said. “How many dogs have you walked this morning?”

“Eleven. Three were only short walks before drop-offs at their groomers.” She followed Trish across the white marble floor to a sitting area with a black leather sofa and two matching chairs. She lowered herself into one chair, careful not to spill her coffee.

Trish sat on the sofa and crossed long legs clad in beige linen slacks. “Have you heard anything more from your ex-husband?”

Whitney shook her head. “No, but he FedExed the papers to me. I don’t see any reason I shouldn’t sign-”