Page 69 of Fire on the Moon

“No!”

“Yes. He never would have found you, but I got in touch with him and went down to Florida because you kept saying that you wanted to see him.”

The old man’s face contorted. “I did, and I didn’t. I wanted to make things right with him. But I now I know that would have been impossible. All he wanted was to get that money back—and to punish me for taking it away.”

She pressed her hand over his. “But it’s all over now. He can’t hurt you. He’s dead.”

“How?”

She gulped. “It was like a freak accident. A large animal was in the nursing home. It got him.”

“But how?”

“There must have been a vicious dog on the loose,” she answered lamely, wondering if Dad was going to point out there were two dogs. But maybe he had blended them into one.

Her father seemed to buy into her explanation—probably because he wanted to. But would the police believe the story?

“Where did your young man go? Or did I make him up, too?”

“He went to get the police,” Francesca answered, knowing they were going to show up soon. “But it’s best if you don’t tell them he was here.”

He studied her tense expression. “All right.”

In the distance she could hear sirens blaring.

Suddenly exhausted, she sat down in the chair beside the bed. Where was Zane? She wanted him to come back, but she understood why she had to carry this off alone. Forcing herself not to grip the wooden arms, she folded her hands in her lap.

She could hear voices in the hall. Finally when a uniformed officer opened the door and strode into the room, she felt tension crackling through her body. Would this guy realize she was the woman who was wanted for murder in Naples, Florida?

Playing the part of a terrified bystander, she asked, “Is it safe to come out now?”

“The building is clear.”

“Thank God.”

The cop had a notebook in his hand. His name tag said, “Murphy.”

“You’re.” He looked at his notepad. “Mr. Turner’s daughter, Francesca?”

“Yes. I was visiting him.”

“Did you see anything?” he asked.

“Well, a nurse came in, and I saw . . . a man on the floor. Is he all right?”

“Do you know him?”

This was it—the jackpot question. While she was still deciding how to answer, two more men entered the room. Her heart leaped when she saw one of them was Zane. The other was an older man she didn’t know. He spoke to the cop.

“I’m Frank Decorah, head of the Decorah Security Agency, and this is one of my agents, Zane Marshall. He was on assignment in Florida when he got involved in a murder investigation.”

An interesting way to put it, Francesca thought. Zane was fully dressed, and she had to figure the guys in the flower truck had brought clothing for him.

Decorah gestured toward Francesca. “The dead man is her uncle. Before he died, he admitted coming here to murder her father and her, too. We have that confession on tape as well as his admission that he sent thugs to murder Ms. Turner and my associate.” He didn’t add that his operative and Ms. Turner were murder suspects down south.

The cop stared at him. “A confession on tape?”

“Yes. We need to go over to your station house where Ms. Turner and Mr. Marshall can give a statement and turn over the tapes.”

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