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pen in her hand. Her expression was frozen in the vicinity of incredulous. I sat quietly for a moment, letting the information process. I sipped my now-cold coffee and rested the file and my legal pad in my lap.
    “This isn’t some sort of hoax?” she asked.
    I shook my head. “Liam watched the tape.”
    She grimaced. “Your boyfriend watched your mother have sex?”
    I groaned. “I know. Major yick factor. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to watch it. I draw the line at mother porn.”
    “What does Liam think?”
    I shrugged. “Haven’t spoken to him since last night.”
    Becky leaned forward. “You have to call the police,” she admonished. “I’m an officer of the court. Technically I’m supposed to report a crime in progress.”
    I felt a pang of guilt. “But you’re my best friend. That trumps technically. Say I could get her to go to the cops. Would the tape have to be used as evidence? Would it have to become public?”
    “I don’t see how it could not be. The tape is the evidence of the crime.”
    I sighed and slumped against the chair. “Then she’ll never go for it. She’d rather pay than risk having her friends in the DAR know she had sex with a married man. Or maybe just that she had sex. Who knows how her brain works?”
    “What about the guy? Deacon?”
    “He’s off tapping some off-shore bank account to get his share of the money.”
    “What’s he like?” Becky asked.
    “No clue. I didn’t even know about him. I thought she had her sights set on a doctor from the country club. But apparently she met this guy and it was lust at first sight. There’s nothing you can think of?”
    Becky put the pen down. “There is the possibility of a closed courtroom. Then no one could actually see the tape.”
    I perked up. “Really?”
    She nodded. “The jury would see it. Then the judge could clear the gallery so no one but the parties would actually see the tape.”
    “That’s great. How do we make that happen?”
    “It’s the call of the trial judge,” she explained. “And they don’t do it very often. Unless your mother is classified as a Jane Doe. But that’s usually reserved for sexual assault cases. To protect the identity of the victim.”
    I ran my fingers through my hair as I brushed it off my face. “Sounds like a long shot.”
    “It is. Lunch today?” she asked.
    “Sorry, I have to go out and interview witnesses, then stop by my mom’s place to get some evidence and to see if anything else has been delivered.”
    Becky frowned. “Isn’t that a little dangerous?”
    “No. My mother has workmen at her place. Some sort of remodel on the penthouse.”
    “Keep me in the loop?” Becky asked.
    “I don’t want to be in the loop.”
    “Sounds like you’re stuck.”
    “More like I’m screwed.”

Hard work and perseverance just makes you tired.

Chapter Four
    M y GPS announced that I had reached my destination on the left. I turned into a small community named Fairwinds just off Blue Heron. It was an older neighborhood with quintessential 1950s, single-story, Spanish-style homes. I crept along, watching for house numbers. It seemed like every house had either a boat and trailer or a vehicle up on blocks in the driveway. I could hear the dull thud of bass music and the discomfort of being watched by the few residents out working on lawns or cars or hovering over small children.
    I found the first address on the list and parked my car at the curb. I could smell garlic and mojo as I grabbed my briefcase and headed for the door.
    I pulled out my file, then stuffed it away before ringing the doorbell. A locked iron gate stood between me and the front door.
    A woman in a denim mini skirt and a tight tee shirt opened the door. “Yes?” she asked as she flipped her black hair over her shoulder. She had a heavy Spanish accent. South Florida has a large Hispanic community made up of Cubans, Guatemalans, Dominicans, Mexicans and any number of other variations on the theme.