Free Courting Disaster by Carol Stephenson Page A

to I-95. I noticed a dark sedan, one of those interchangeable Japanese models, doing the same maneuvers. Once on the interstate, I pressed the accelerator and unleashed the car’s power. I zipped south toward Delray Beach and glanced in my rearview mirror. The black sedan was one car behind me.
    Unease prickled along my spine. I was probably imagining things but just in case…
    I changed lanes. Moments later the sedan followed suit. I swallowed, hard. Okay, don’t panic. This wasn’t the movies. Just because someone might be following me didn’t mean they were out to harm me. With rush-hour traffic beginning to flood the lanes, it would be a tough job to pull off anyway.
    However, losing the tail in this traffic wouldn’t be easy. I was going to have to lose him with maneuverability as opposed to speed. Still, I would lay odds with the Mustang over the foreign model any day.
    I switched back to the left lane. Sure enough, the sedan followed.
    I checked my mirrors, waiting for the pattern in the lanes to clear. Deliberately, I passed the exit I had meant to take. Then, just before the Linton exit, opportunity happened. I accelerated, roaring across one lane after another to my right. I hit the exit ramp and grinned as I saw the other car, trapped in the middle lane, hurtle past the exit.
    Sucker.
    I tooled along the overpass and got back onto I-95, heading north this time. I took the next exit at Atlantic Avenue and headed east. All the while my thoughts raced as to why someone would be tailing me.
    Granted, I’d just been involved in a car accident. The insurance company for the other driver could be doing a preemptive strike with surveillance. If so, I would have to shrug it off. While I wasn’t planning on bringing a personal injury action, I couldn’t rule it out if I kept having problems with my head. I was self-supporting and had a law practice to maintain. I needed to leave the option open for the time being, even if I had to put up with any personal invasion. I wondered if our investigator, Gabe Chavez, could dig around and find out whether it was an insurance surveillance or not.
    My gut told me there was a more sinister reason someone would be following me. Perhaps my renewed interest in Borys’s murder had reached the killer. What was it he or she thought I might remember? I didn’t know the answer but I sure wanted to find out.
    I turned off bustling Atlantic, lined with restaurants and shops, and drove through the older residential areas, which contained homes ranging from ratty to well-maintained. Poised almost midpoint between Boca Raton and West Palm Beach and an easy commute to their concentrated commercial areas, Delray Beach continued to fight for its own identity of old Florida with emphasis on tourist business.
    Turning onto the narrow lane of Hibiscus Place, which boasted a number of early 1900s houses, I grabbed the first parking place. After locking my car, I walked along the street and then up pavers to the front stoop of the Florida-style bungalow with pristine white siding and marine blue shutters. A dark blue mini-SUV was parked in the driveway. Talk about color coordination. I pressed the doorbell. From inside I thought I heard a floorboard creak, but no one came to the door.
    I opened the screen door and knocked on the inner wood one. “Drew?” I called out. “It’s Carling.”
    One of the double-hung windows was open, but the only movement I spotted was the sheer curtains fluttering. Maybe he was around back. Then I heard the noise again. Not the sound of floorboards, something else.
    I tried the door and the knob turned. “Drew? Are you all right?” A shiver raced through me when I thought I heard a moan.
    I dragged out my phone and punched in 9-1-1 before pausing. What if Drew wasn’t in trouble? Better to be safe than sorry. But I didn’t hit the call button. Instead, I rummaged in my bag and pulled out a pepper spray container. Armed, I sent the door flying open.
    Cautiously