"You were an hour short of spouse, I guess, and I think it's worth having Jackson's accountant try to make a case to the IRS that you qualify. After all, you'd been living together for a while, and common-law wife might count."

"Common-law wife sounds like a broken-down trailer and a couple of old cars up on blocks in the front yard."

"If it works, don't knock it. Jackson was worth something over three million dollars, including the beach house, his belongings and his investments, so if you have to pay the estate taxes, it's going to bite."

"Listen, Fred, that's so much more money than I ever expected to have in my life that Uncle Sam can have his cut without any bitching from me."

"Still…"

"I know, save what you can."

"Right. Now the good news. A couple of weeks ago, Jackson and I took out life insurance policies. We each insured ourselves for a million dollars, and we each had a survivor's policy for another million that would go to the other in the event one of us died. This was to ensure the survival of the practice, since losing a partner means losing a lot of business."

"That's fine with me, but are you saying he left a policy for another million?"

"Yes, and it's payable to you, by name, not to his estate or spouse. What's great about that is that, if you do have to pay the estate taxes, you'll have cash without having to sell assets."

Holly put a hand to her breast. "My God, I had no idea about any of this."

"I don't know if you know this, Holly, but Jackson took that piece of land your house is on in lieu of a fee from a client years ago, then he bought an old Florida farmhouse inland somewhere for a dollar, sawed it in half and had it moved to the lot and reassembled."

"Jackson told me about that."

"So, after a lot of renovations and additions, and in the current real estate market, which is spectacular, that little old farmhouse on the beach is probably worth two million dollars, should you want to sell."

"I don't. Jackson still lives there, as far as I'm concerned."

"As you wish, it's yours to do with as you like. Jackson has a brokerage account and some T-bills, and about forty thousand dollars in cash in the bank. It's going to take a few weeks to get this probated, but you'll have the insurance money in a week or two, so you'd better start thinking about what you're going to do with it. You don't want that kind of money sitting around in a checking account."

"I know Jackson's broker. I'll talk to him."

"Good idea. If you need any immediate funds, I can advance them to you."

"Thanks, Fred, but no."

"That's about it, then. Do you have any questions?"

"No, I don't think so."

They stood up, and he hugged her again. "You call me when you have questions of any kind. Have you made any arrangements for burial?"

"Ham's taking care of that. Jackson wanted to be cremated and scattered without ceremony."

"He told me the same thing."

"Thank you, Fred. I appreciate your help."

She kissed him on the cheek and left.

Holly drove up AIA with Daisy sticking her nose out the window, and across the north bridge, then took a left down a dirt road and arrived on Ham's little island. He had inherited the land and a small house from his old army buddy, who had been Holly's chief until he was murdered.

Ham walked out of the house and gave her a big hug, then held her at arm's length. "You look a little funny," he said, "kind of stunned."

"Stunned is right," she said. She told him about the meeting with Fred Ames.

"Well, I guess you and I are lucky in the people we choose to be close to. I've got my house, and now you've got yours."

"I guess so."

They went into the house and to the kitchen, where Ham had been cleaning fish.

"Fresh out of the Indian River," he said, gutting a sea trout. "The sun is over the yardarm; why don't you pour us a drink?"

Holly went to a kitchen cabinet and found a bottle of bourbon and two glasses. She got ice from the fridge and poured them both a stiff one. They clinked glasses.

Ham raised his glass. "Better times than these."

"I'll drink to that," she replied, sipping the whiskey. This had been their evening ritual since she had been old enough to drink, especially when they were serving on the same post. The bourbon tasted like comfort and friendship.

"You given any thought to what you're going to do?" Ham asked.

"Just what I'm doing," she said. "I'm going to find the people who killed Jackson, and put them in jail and see them tried and convicted, unless they find a way to make it necessary for me to shoot them, which I'd do with pleasure."

"Me, too," Ham said. "As a matter of fact, I was going to offer to do it for you, if you'd look the other way for a minute."

"Tell the truth, I'd rather see them rot in jail."

"I know you don't think much of the death penalty, for a cop, anyway."

She nodded. "That's right. What could be worse than rotting in a Florida prison? Dying would be fun in comparison."

"You got a point, though I favor the penalty, myself, even if I don't get to personally administer it. What about after that's all done? You're a woman of means now; you can do whatever."

"I'm just going to keep on being a cop and keep drinking with you, I guess."

Ham rolled a fillet of fish in flour and dropped it into a pan of hot oil, then he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.

"You sure know how to make an old man happy."

She kissed him back. "I don't see any old man."

"I'm gettin' there, sugar."

"Not you, Ham, not ever."

Ham blinked rapidly. "Oh, shut up and drink your bourbon."

The following morning Holly went back to work on the bank's personnel files.

Hurd Wallace came and leaned on her doorjamb. "Why do you think we'd be more interested in somebody who's new at the bank than somebody who'd been there for a long time?"

"Standard operating procedure," she said. "New employees are more likely to be involved in crimes against their employers than longtime ones. Didn't they cover that when you went to the academy?"

"Yes, they did," Hurd said, "but there's all kinds of reasons for an old employee to get involved: somebody has debts, maybe gambling or drugs; somebody has an affair and wants to run away with the new girlfriend and ditch the wife, needs funds."

"I agree," Holly said. "All I'm saying is let's start with the classically most likely employees and work our way down the list."

"There're two on your desk, there," Hurd said.

Holly picked up a folder. "Emily Harston?"

"Yep, and the other one is Franklin Morris. He's a new manager at the bank, been there four months."

Holly dug out the file. "Came from their home office in Miami; twenty-seven years old, married with a young child, senior loan officer. Would a loan officer know how much money was in the vault on any given day?"

"Probably not, unless he made it his business to know."

Holly turned to the other file. "Emily Harston has been there seven and a half months, a teller. Married, no kids, home address, P.O. Box 1990, Vero Beach."

"Kind of funny to have a post-office box as a home address," Hurd said.

"Good point." Holly turned to the next page. "Here we go: twelve Birch Street, Lake Winachobee. Where's Lake Winachobee?"

Hurd looked blank. "You got me, but there're a lot of lakes in Florida."

Holly got a Florida road atlas from a bookcase and spread it on her desk. Hurd came and looked over her shoulder.

"Well, we've got Lake Okeechobee, to the southwest," she said, pointing at it.

"Florida's largest lake." He pointed at a patch of water to the west. "What's this?"