Free The Seadragon's Daughter by Alan F. Troop

little inconsistent?”
    “And don’t you love that about me?” she says, bumping her hip against mine.
    I nod, put two fingers to my mouth and whistle a sharp, loud burst. The dogs look in my direction, their ears flattened, their tails tucked in. Slowly, one by one, they slink into the underbrush. “At least you haven’t spoiled them completely yet,” I say.
     
    With all of our dock space taken up by our boats, Claudia pulls her boat alongside my Grady White. Henri places fenders for her and has her tied off by the time we arrive. Killing her outboard engines, Claudia grabs a briefcase and makes her way from her boat to mine and then to the dock.
    I wait while she hugs and kisses Henri, saying, “Thanks for the help,” then hugs and kisses Lizzie, finally embracing Chloe before she turns toward me.
    Staring at her powder blue spaghetti-strap T-shirt and matching shorts and bare feet, I say, “Did your Dad give you the day off?”
    “Hardly,” Claudia says. “He sent me.” She opens the briefcase and takes out a small tabloid newspaper. “Pops thought you might want to see this week’s Dish . I told him there was no way I was going to ride out here in a dress and heels.”
    Chloe takes the paper first, studies it and then passes it to me. “Nice picture,” she says. “You think we could get the original?”
    Frowning at her, I say, “Funny.” This time, instead of the picture taking up most of the front page, it covers only the middle third. Instead of Henri and me, the photo’s a closeup of my face, taken, I guess, with a telephoto lens as I guided my boat into Monty’s marina.
    Above the picture a headline blares,
    WE WILL NOT BE INTIMIDATED!
    Below the picture another headline asks,
    WHAT IS THIS MAN TRYING TO HIDE?
    “There’s an editorial inside, on page two,” Claudia says. “It tells all about them being threatened by Ian’s letter.” She takes the paper back, opens it and points to the section of the editorial. “Read how he ends it.”
    One would think, if Mr. DelaSangre is as innocent as his attorney claims, he would be demanding to speak to us and to anyone else who would listen rather than threatening those who ask legitimate questions. If he would like to visit with us and tell us his side of the story, we’d be perfectly glad to hear him out.
    No one at this newspaper has any interest in any of our stories mistakenly blackening anyone’s reputation. But if Mr. DelaSangre insists on siccing his legal attack dogs on us, he’ll find our appetite for legal battles to be every bit as keen as his and our pockets every bit as deep.
     
    I shake my head and pass the paper to Chloe. “Ian said this might happen,” I say.
    Claudia says, “Surprisingly, Ian’s not gloating. He really doesn’t like the guy. He wants to know if you want him to send Pepe Santos a letter threatening suit too.”
    “Have you located him?”
    “That and more,” Claudia says. “I really love working with Toba Mathias. The woman had both men’s contact numbers, cellphones, addresses, even E-mail addresses, by the day after our meeting.”
    Chloe says, “That doesn’t sound very hard to do.”
    Claudia nods. “No, but then Toba started E-mailing the freelancer, Andy Malcandado, telling him she admired his investigative report, that she always wanted to be a writer. Asking him questions about writing?”
    “And that worked?” I say.
    “Not until she E-mailed him one of her pictures. She called me a couple of days ago to tell me they finally made a date to meet—a breakfast date for seven-thirty at the Brickell Emporium.”
    “I couldn’t resist.” Claudia smiles. “By the time I got there, about seven-fifteen, Toba was already waiting by the restaurant’s door, decked out in a tight pair of red shorts and a skimpy halter top.” She laughs. “I went inside and took a table by the front window—where I could watch. You should have seen the look on that poor guy’s face when he pulled up in