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J ake and I ate cold pizza and spent an hour trying to figure out what kind of game Langley could have been playing, to have his brother-in-law pose as a BDC rep. "Did he think I wouldn't find out? And what about the offer? Does this mean it's invalid?"

Jake shrugged, holding his hands out, palms up. "Beats me. You lawyer types are too devious for me."

I rolled my eyes. "Right. Whatever. After the three messages I left on his voice mail, you'd think he'd have called back by now."

"After that last one, where you called him the scurvy underbelly of a diseased goat, he might wait for you to calm down."

My cheeks got a little hot. "So I watch too many pirate movies. Sue me."

He tossed his napkin in the trashcan and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. "So, where were we? Greenberg wanted to meet with you, but it had to be on the yacht . . ."

I nodded, tapping my pen on the paper. "Yeah, she couldn't do lunch because she had the funeral of some associate or something. Poor guy committed suicide," I said, shuddering. "Although working with her would be enough to drive anybody over the edge."

Jake had sat up straight at the word "suicide." "Who was the associate?"

It was my turn to shrug. "I don't know. Why? Is it important?"

"I don't know. I just know that I hate coincidences. Why are all these people dying? Dack at the museum, some associate of Greenberg's. I don't like it."

"I don't like it, either, but it's pretty far-fetched to think the BDC cases had anything to do with a suicide."

He stood up and walked over to my side of the desk. "Humor me. Let me onto your internet for a moment."

He leaned over me while I logged back on to the computer, and I tried not to notice the tingling in the back of my neck. I rolled my chair out of the way, and he started a search. Within seconds, we were looking at an online article in the Post-Union about the death of Marion Ziggeran, the "much-beloved colleague" according to a quote from Sarah herself.

I rolled my head around, trying to work the knots out of my neck. "Ziggeran, Ziggeran. Why does that name sound so familiar?"

He shook his head. "I don't know it. Are you sure you don't have Zivkovich on the brain after today?"

He moved to stand behind me and put his hands on my neck and started working the knots out with firm pressure. "Counselor, that's some tension you've got built up here. You ought to relax more."

Every sane thought flew out of my head at the touch of his fingers. Magic fingers.

I tried not to drool. Drooling is so unappealing.

Focus, December.

"Right. No. Not Zivkovich. Ziggeran. And you try to relax, when you have people shooting at you, assaulting you, getting murdered next to you at the museum . . ."

The museum. What . . .

"The museum! Orange Grove Productions! Where is that invoice?" I dug around in the piles of paper on my desk, then found my URGENT CASE QUESTIONS file under an empty can of Diet Coke. I shuffled through the pages in the folder until I found the invoice.

"Ah ha! I was right! Look at this, Brody," I said triumphantly, pointing to the invoice.

We both stared at the box marked CLIENT NAME on the bottom left corner of the invoice.

"Marion Ziggeran," Jake said softly.

I whirled around in my chair. "Marion Ziggeran. Everybody who knows about this commercial seems to wind up dead."

Jake's lips quirked in a half-smile. "Not a bad fate for people in advertising."

"This is no time for jokes! We've got to report this to somebody. This is too big for me to handle. I've got to reach my contact at the FDA, too. I'm going to call him at right now. I have his home number," I said, reaching for the phone.

Jake walked over to the door. "I have a friend at the FBI. I'm going to call him and find out where we should go with this," he said, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket as he walked.

He stopped at the doorway. "Good job, Vaughn."

I stopped mid-dial and looked up at him. "We make a good team, Brody."

He smiled and then walked off, and I tried to shake the hormonal overdrive out of my brain. Danger. Bad guys. Imminent evil. No time for romance.

I finished dialing, and the phone rang a few times and went to voice mail. I was on my own. I left a brief name and number only message and slowly hung up the phone. Maybe Jake would have better luck with his FBI contact. As I stood up, the phone rang, and I grabbed it.

"Hello?"

"December, thank God I found you! Nathan never came home!" Celia is sobbing; I can hardly understand her.

"Honey, calm down. What do you mean, he never came home? From where?"

"He . . . he went to the store. Just to pick up some milk and break. That was over an hour ago. I called the store, and he never showed up," she said, breathing hard.

It never occurred to me to doubt this. Of course, Celia would know the people at the store, and they would know Nathan. That was so Orange Grove-y.

"I'm sure he's fine, Aunt Celia. He probably stopped off to do something else, and?—"

"He's gone! Something happened to him. I have that terrible feeling in my throat, December. I just know something happened. It's almost ten o'clock at night. He never, ever drives at night," she said, practically shrieking.

Having my personal rib cage twinge, I didn't question Aunt Celia's bad throat feeling. It ran in the family. Plus, I knew that Nathan never drove at night. He had pretty bad astigmatism and had a hard time seeing clearly with oncoming headlights in his eyes.

Jake walked into my office, and I waved him over and held the phone so we could both hear. "Celia, did you try his cell phone?"

"He left it here. He was only going two miles away to the store. Oh, December, help me!"

Jake leaned over and spoke into the phone. "Mrs. Judson? Celia? It's Jake Brody. I'm going to come over right now and drive the road between your house and the store, all right? I want you to stay calm and stay right there, in case he comes home."

"Jake? You're right, I should do that. I'll go right now," she said.

"No!" Jake and I shouted simultaneously.

"Aunt Celia, you're too upset, and your astigmatism isn't much better than Uncle Nathan's. We'd hate for you to get in an accident while we're out looking for him," I said.

"Celia, you stay right where you are. I will come get you first, and you can ride along with me. How is that?" Jake said, voice firm but more gentle than I'd ever heard.

"Oh, Jake, that would be wonderful. Please hurry. I'll get ready right now."

I hung up and took a long breath.

Jake put a hand on my shoulder. "Are you okay, Vaughn?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure how much more I can take. If Uncle Nathan has been in an accident, I'm going to ask them to put me in the hospital bed next to his. Maybe we can share a morphine drip." The searing pain in my chest at the thought of Uncle Nathan in a hospital bed almost knocked me down.

"Come with me," he said.

"No, there's not room in your car. I'll be right behind you. In fact, I'll start at the store and work my way toward the house while you pick up Aunt Celia," I said, grabbing my purse. We ran out the door, but the phone rang again.

"That might be Aunt Celia, about Nathan," I said. I ran back to pick it up. "Is he okay?"

There was a silence.

Then a raspy voice that sounded a lot like my sinus stalker came on the line. "Tell your client that he needs to take the five million if you want your uncle to live to write another book. We know Brody is there with you. Get him out. If you tell him anything, your uncle dies."

Jake looked at me, inquiring. It took every atom of willpower I'd ever had to keep my face calm. I held the phone away from my ear a little and forced a smile. "No, Jake. It's one of my pro bono clients. I have to take this; she's in trouble. I'll be on my way in five minutes."

He nodded. "Nathan will be okay, December. Don't worry." Then he strode off down the hall. After I heard the door close, I put the phone back to my ear. "He's gone. What do you want? Where is my uncle? Is he all right?"

"Shut up, bitch. I'm the one asking the questions this time."

I waited, but there was only more silence. "Well, go ahead."

"Go ahead, what?" he snarled.

"Ask the questions," I said, trying not to scream.

"What questions?"

Oh, God. My uncle's life is in the hands of the stupidest criminal in recorded history.

"You said . . . oh, forget that. Tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it. Please don't hurt my uncle. He's only a harmless old man. Please," I said, tears rolling down my face.

"Here's the deal. You get Deaver to accept that five million dollars. Then you bring the signed settlement papers to us at Sarah Greenberg's boat at the marina. If you call the police, we'll kill Nathan. If you call anybody else, or tell anybody else, we'll kill Nathan. If you bring anybody with you, we'll kill Nathan, and then we'll kill you."

He laughed, and ice skittered across my skull from the sound of it. "And after we kill Nathan, and you, we'll go after Nathan's wife. You got me?"

"I got you," I whispered, knees buckling. "I understand perfectly."