Free Act of Betrayal by Edna Buchanan

floors. Not a scratch. This guy’s a real character. Somebody asked in class the other day what they do down on the border when somebody runs from them. He said, ‘You shoot ‘im, right where the suspenders cross.’”
    â€œNice.” I winced. “Maybe he could help with our immigration problem. Did you say Texas? Is he married?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œMaybe I know just the woman for him.”
    â€œLottie?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œThought she was seeing some lawyer.”
    â€œCompetition is healthy.”
    â€œIs that so?”
    â€œSure,” I teased.
    My description of the car bombing and the gun battle at the Miami Dream Motel made him homesick, or so he said. He sounded eager for local news and police gossip, so I filled him in and read him my Charles Randolph story.
    â€œDon’t know why, but that case seems to ring a bell.”
    â€œHe’d never been in any trouble.”
    â€œFind out if Gables ever sent a tech to the house to try to raise a set of prints off his belongings. Be a shame if none existed.”
    â€œThey didn’t,” I said. “Sounds like the detective did as little as possible.”
    â€œMiss you,” he said, as romantic as he ever got on the telephone.
    â€œThree months to go.” I blew him a kiss.
    â€œMaybe not,” he murmured. “We may get a long weekend at Labor Day. Keep the dates open, I could fly down.”
    â€œSounds good to me. I can put in for comp time.”
    I wondered later why I sounded so breezy when I really longed for the man. This time will be different, I promised myself. We’d work at keeping our jobs from becoming a conflict between us. He had never asked if I was seeing anyone else as he had suggested. Did he assume I was? Was he? Was that why he asked me to keep the dates open? Was there more than miles between us? Luckily, I had no time to box shadows.
    Next on my list of messages to return was a woman whose only interest in the Charles Randolph case was that her son and his best friend were also missing. Long gone, presumed dead. A Drug Enforcement agent had unofficially informed her that the two were shot and deep-sixed during a drug-smuggling deal off Key West. That was twelve years ago but, despite her sons history of drug arrests, she could not accept it.
    â€œIsn’t there a chance,” she asked, “that he’s alive and has been working undercover for the government all these years?”
    She didn’t like my answer, though I couched it as gently as possible.
    â€œI called about the Randolph boy,” the next woman said. She sounded congested, as though she had a cold. “I’m sorry to bother you but I can’t help it. I saw his picture this morning and…” She snorted and blew her nose. “I’m sorry, I’ve been crying.”
    â€œDo you know him?” I rolled my chair to my terminal to take notes.
    â€œNo,” she whispered. “But it was such a shock when I opened the paper. He looks so much like my son.”
    â€œOh.” Disappointed, my eyes roved down the list to the next message.
    â€œDavid has been missing for four years.”
    Something cold rippled down my spine.
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œHis dad and I are divorced. He was spending the weekend with his father when they quarreled and he stormed out. It was over something stupid. You know how kids are. He had no money on him and he apparently tried to hitchhike back to my house in Surfside. We never saw him again.”
    David Clower was twelve, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and slender.
    After we talked, I reopened my MISSING file and stared at the entry for Butch Beltrán. Fair-haired, blue-eyed, and slender, missing since March.
    What the hell was going on here?

4
    I woke up next morning still thinking about the missing boys. The early news reported that the third hurricane of the season, which had been barreling down on Bermuda,