She looked out the tinted window. Then she rummaged in her purse until she found a lipstick and reapplied the color and powdered her nose.
“This isn’t going to go away,” McPhee said. “The longer you stay in denial, the worse it will be when the truth comes out. And it will, believe me. Sooner or later the press will get wind of it.”
Sonya put her face in her hands. Why did McPhee, of all people, have to find out? Wouldn’t he have just a grand time, rubbing her nose in her stupidity, rubbing salt in her wounds? He’d told her from the beginning he thought something wasn’t right about Marvin.
“Your new friends, Brenna and Cindy. They were Marvin’s victims, too?”
Sonya nodded, her face still hidden. She couldn’t bear to look at McPhee, to see that knowing smirk that was surely on his face.
McPhee lowered the glass and said something to Tim, though she couldn’t hear what. The blood was pounding too loudly in her ears. A few minutes later the limo parked.
“Be right back,” McPhee said.
Sonya looked up then. They were in a strip shopping center. She had no idea what McPhee was up to and she didn’t care. She just wanted to take advantage of his absence and pull herself together. McPhee was right, she couldn’t play the denial game anymore. Now she had to draw on all her strength and make some decisions. If she crumbled, others would make decisions for her, as they’d done most of her life, and she wasn’t going to let that happen. Now now. Not when the stakes were so high.
With the decision made to own up to the true situation, Sonya felt better, stronger. She reminded herself that her friends Brenna and Cindy had benefited after taking a strong stand against Marvin. Cindy had recovered her restaurant and at least some of her money, and Brenna had tracked down the Picasso painting Marvin had stolen from her parents, as well as some of her jewelry. It was time for Sonya to pull her head out of the sand and resume the fight.
When McPhee returned to the limo a few minutes later, Sonya was sitting upright, posture erect, hands folded demurely in her lap, her face a mask of haughty detachment. She’d learned that face from Muffy. It was the one she wore in the fact of any disaster. “Never let anyone see you crying,” Muffy had told a ten-year-old Sonya after her father’s funeral, when she’d inquired why her mother had remained dry-eyed and stern-faced during the service. “If you must cry at all, tears are for when you’re alone.”
Then she realized McPhee was holding out a grande toffee-nut latte from Starbucks—one of her many weaknesses. “I had them make it with whole milk instead of skim, and extra whipped cream,” he said. “You don’t look like you need to lose any more weight.”
The small kindness almost undid her. She wasn’t used to McPhee being kind or sympathetic, not in recent history. Courteous, yes. Always mindful of her needs, always quick to do her bidding. As she took the coffee drink, she glanced over at him. No sign of a smirk. He looked genuinely worried.
“I told Tim to just drive around for a while,” he said. “I want to hear the whole story. I need to know what happened if I’m going to help you keep this thing contained. Now, let’s start from the beginning. How much did he take from you?”
Resigned, she told him what he wanted to know. “Not as much as he took from some of his other victims. I didn’t have a lot of easily accessible cash, just what was in my checking account—about thirty-five thousand dollars. He couldn’t get at my trust fund, which I’m sure was what he was hoping for. But he did take all my jewelry, which was worth a considerable sum.” She’d collected quite a few baubles over the years. Her mother was fond of giving her jewelry for just about any occasion—the larger and more unusual, the better.
Sonya took another sip of the rich, sweet coffee drink. The warmth was welcome, since she was shivering.
“He took three fur coats,” she continued. “A sable, a mink and a fox.” Not that she ever wore them. They were gifts, too, and very impractical, given that it seldom got cold enough for fur in Houston. Besides, fur coats were very un-PC.
“So Marvin was engaged to Brenna and Cindy and you at the same time?”
“Yes. Cindy had a lot of cash from her first husband’s life insurance. Her parents had left her money and property, too, as well as a restaurant, so I’m sure she was quite attractive to Marvin. Brenna is the heiress to a chi-chi department store in Dallas.”
“How did you locate them?”
“I found Brenna’s phone number in the call history of Marvin’s cell phone.”
McPhee arched one eyebrow. “And why were you looking there?”
“I’d started to suspect he had a girlfriend,” she admitted. “All those long absences when he was supposedly traveling on business. Whispered phone calls at odd times. So I snooped. But I didn’t try to contact her until after Marvin left with all my stuff. When I was supposed to be at the spa, I went to see Brenna instead. She had a lead on a third victim, who turned out to be Cindy. She lives in Cottonwood—that’s why we went there. By the time we found her, she’d already lost everything.
“Holy cow. Were there more victims?”
“He was working on a bank teller in Louisiana. Her father owned the bank. He was planning some sort of scam to get access to the bank’s computer system. But we caught up with him before he could actually steal anything from her. Flushed him out. We recovered some of Cindy’s money, but Marvin got away.” She laughed. “He had to run naked down Main Street to get away from us.”
She chanced another look at McPhee and realized she’d surprised him. He was staring at her, slack-jawed. “Let me get this straight,” he said when he’d recovered from the shock. “You went with Brenna and Cindy—those two pretty blondes I met a couple of weeks ago when you went to Dallas—on a manhunt? That’s what you were doing all that time you were out of town? That’s why you were in New Orleans?”
“Yes. Then there was New York.”
“You went to New York?” McPhee asked in a voice that sounded fearful of her answer.
“No, silly. But Brenna did. She and Agent Packer had him cornered at that jewelry show.”
“The one you were helping her get ready for?”
Sonya nodded. “Marvin escaped by jumping down an elevator shaft.” The story had been reported on CNN, and even the Houston Chronicle had run a piece on it. Thankfully, Marvin’s real name hadn’t been mentioned in either story.
“It’s all starting to fit together now,” McPhee said thoughtfully. “But it’s weird. I never thought of you as one of Charlie’s Angels.”
“As I’ve pointed out before,” she said with exaggerated patience, “you don’t know everything about me. What’s more, I intend to continue the hunt for Marvin. He’s getting bolder and greedier. Pretty soon he’s bound to do something really stupid and get himself caught. Or get somebody hurt.”
“It’s too dangerous. You can’t—”
“I can, and I will. Mother’s illness derailed my participation, but once we get her squared away, I’m back in it. Law enforcement isn’t making much of an effort. Marvin didn’t murder anyone or rob a bank, so he’s a low priority.”
“What about Packer?”
“He was the only FBI agent to take the case seriously, but then he got fired, and when he recovered the stolen Picasso they tried to give him his job back, but he refused, and now he’s a private investigator.”
McPhee squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, as if he had a headache. “Stolen Picasso?”
Sonya was pleased to have surprised McPhee. As she recalled how strong she and the other women—“The Blondes,” as the people of Cottonwood had dubbed them—had been together, she felt a surge of power wash through her. The feelings of helplessness and inadequacy