Page 64 of All Bets are Off

“Probably making a hair appointment,” West mutters. All we’ve seen Serena do since we took the case is work, go to the gym, and get her hair and nails done. She has her groceries delivered. “Wait. Why’s she turning here?”

I sit up straighter. “She’s getting on the interstate. This is new. And her husband works nights this week.”

“Don’t get too excited. She might have just found a better nail salon,” West says, allowing a Volkswagen to slide in between us and Serena’s car.

Twenty minutes later, Serena exits the interstate at the small town of Bloomington. We follow, keeping a good distance back, although Serena’s given no indication she’s noticed we’re on her tail. When she pulls into a neighborhood of high-end condominiums surrounded by a lush park, I look at West.

“Doesn’t Dr. Ackers live in Bloomington?” I ask.

“That he does. I think we may have found our man,” West says.

Blevins Ackers is a doctor in Serena’s hospital unit and on our list of her possible lovers.

“Think we can get a picture?” I ask. It’s either that or audio proof.

West looks at me. “What do you say we take a stroll around the park?”

I nod and take a pair of Ray Bans out of the glove compartment before climbing out of the car. I slip them on.

West hangs the camera around his neck then looks me over. “God, Logan, is that fucking Donald Duck on your shirt? That’s going to stand out in this swanky neighborhood.” He unbuttons his navy shirt printed with small birds and hands it to me, leaving him in a white T and shorts.

“It’s Colt’s,” I say, slipping my arms into the shirt, which smells of West’s cologne.

“Do I want to know why you’re wearing the kid’s shirt?” West asks.

“For God’s sake, he’s not a kid,” I say. Catching West’s look, I add, “We were in a hurry, I needed something clean, and it was in the laundry. I didn’t expect to end up at this ritzy place.”

We begin to stroll, casually looking over at the condos every so often to see what we can see. Once we reach the back where the balconies overlook a large pond, I pull a granola bar out of the pocket of my shorts, breaking it into small pieces and tossing them to the ducks. “See anything?” I ask West, who’s looking around through the lens of his camera.

“I think they’re on the third balcony up. In his sauna.” He turns back to me and takes some pictures of the ducks before changing to a telephoto lens and facing the building again.

“Maybe you can pretend to take a picture of me,” I suggest, walking a few yards that way and throwing some granola to a goose, which eagerly scoops it up.

West angles the camera and begins taking pictures while I grab another bite for the goose, which advances toward me.

“Would you hurry? I’m running out of granola,” I say, almost tripping over my own feet to keep out of the way of the demanding bird.

“I’m hoping they’ll get a little closer in the tub,” West says.

“Isn’t it enough she’s driven twenty minutes to get into a hot tub with this guy? Are they naked?”

“No. Wait. She just took off her bikini top. I think we’ve hit pay dirt.” West takes more photos. Meanwhile, the goose is snapping at my feet while I dance away from it.

“Shoo!” I throw the last bit of granola in its path. “Get out of here! Go on, it’s all gone. Go!” Raising its gray wings, the goose flutters after me, honking angrily. I scuttle to stand behind West.

“Dammit, Logan! You almost knocked me over! Fuck, get that crazy bird away from me. I’m trying to take pictures!”

“Yeah, well, give me the camera, and I’ll take the pictures while you entertain the goose from hell.”

Sighing, West lets the camera hang around his neck. “We probably have enough. I got a few of them kissing. Ouch! The fucking bird bit me!” When the goose advances on us again, we both take off running. The goose waddles amazingly fast behind us, wings raised in outrage, until we’re out of its territory, then it walks proudly back to the pond.

“Jesus. I hope nobody saw that,” West says when we’re safely in the car. “Two seasoned Marines running from a bird.”

“Yeah, well that was one damn mean bird,” I say, buckling up.

On the drive home, I leave a message for Ivan that we’ve got what he wants.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

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