Free Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) by Randy Wayne White

a moment of indecision, I added,
Miss you, H4
.
    I hit the
Send
key twice before remembering there was no signal. By then, I could see that the unmarked car was, in fact, a sporty-looking Audi that had somehow survived the bad road. I recognized the driver, too, when he stepped out, although it took a moment. The face was familiar, but didn’t belong at a crime scene where pit bulls and hooded men attacked women.
    It was my charter client from yesterday, the good-looking younger man. Joel Ransler.
    •   •   •
    IF MY CLIENTS offer a business card, fine, but I never ask their occupation, nor do I contact them unless invited. As my late Uncle Jake had counseled me,
What is said on a boat, especially a small boat, is private and has to stay that way. I’ve fished movie stars, a bunch of pro ballplayers, even an astronaut, but I never brag about them by name, let alone ask for an autograph. For all you know, your clients told their wives they’re attending a funeral in Cleveland. Be respectful, do your job—leave gossiping to Yankees and amateurs.
    Which is why I didn’t need to pretend to be surprised when the detective introduced my client, saying, “Mr. Ransler is the county special prosecutor, so you can tell him anything you’d tell me.” He turned to Ransler. “We haven’t filed any charges yet, Joel. You sure you’ve got the time for this?”
    Ransler had a face and smile that reminded me of an actor I had yet to recall; an actor who was old now, maybe dead—I don’t see many movies—but had been equally good-looking, with a white smile and charm that filled a room even from a TV screen. He was showing that smile now, his eyes seeing only me, when he gave the deputy’s shoulder a pat and said, “Ms. Smith and I are old friends, Billy. I would’ve been here sooner, but I was in Arcadia when I heard the dispatcher mention her name.”
    Arcadia is inland Florida, a beautiful little town, but a two-hour drive, and it wasn’t in Sematee County. Instantly, I felt safer, even special. Just as fast, the detective’s attitude toward me changed. “Sorry, Mrs.—
Miz
Smith—if some of my questions seemed rough, but—”
    Ransler let the man off the hook by interrupting, “Billy’s one of the best we’ve got and that’s what he’s paid to do. She understands that—don’t you, Hannah?”
    Time to make peace, and I did. “He couldn’t have been more polite—same with the other deputies. What happened here was so crazy, it’s a wonder they could make sense out of a word I said.”
    Fifteen minutes later, Joel Ransler had his hand on my back and was steering me away from the house, where I’d just taken the special prosecutor step-by-step, describing what had happened. I had been right about someone returning to remove evidence. The recliner sat squarely in front of the television, which was still on. The kitchen sink was empty; maybe they’d wiped the place clean of fingerprints, too. The back door wasn’t broken as I expected, but there was no denying someone had used an axe on the front door and smashed the china cabinet, too, although the floor had been swept clean—even the Fisherfolk Inc.
pamphlets I’d seen were gone. When I told Ransler my suspicions, he didn’t pamper me by remaining neutral.
    “It’s what stupid criminals do if they don’t panic,” he said. “Or a sociopath whose mood swings back to normal. They realize what they’ve done, so try to erase it by neatening up afterward.”
    I said, “Even charity pamphlets?”
    “Chaos becomes the enemy,” he replied, then got down to business. “Your attacker wore a raincoat, you said. What color?”
    Ransler had been so nice I didn’t want to be rude, but it was now twenty after seven and I’d mentioned a couple of times I was in a hurry. Sensing my impatience, he added, “I believe your story, every word. Question is, who did this? And where’s Rosanna Helms?” Then gave me a squeeze before removing his arm from my