All Shots

with an emphasis on wood. The couch and chairs were upholstered in terra-cotta canvas, with one wall painted in the same shade and the others in basic academic-community white. Because he traveled to exotic places, I expected to see the kind of travel-trophy artwork that I’d learned never to admire aloud lest I have to listen yet again to “Oh, we found it at a little stall in the marketplace in Nairobi” or “We picked it up on our last trip to Belize” or “It was a special gift from a tribal chief in Senegal.” Here, there wasn’t so much as a single African mask. It occurred to me that the stripped-down decor might have more to do with Zach Ho’s asthma than with his aesthetic preferences.
    The beautiful Harley had been squeezed into the parking area next to the bright blue hybrid. Seated on the couch was the man I was still struggling to think of as Al. He wore a light blue button-down shirt and chinos, civilian gear rather than motorcycle-undercover leather, and his dark hair was now as short as Holly Winter’s—an L.L.Bean Moses with a fresh haircut. Holly sat next to him. Little and bony, she looked half his size. She’d softened her boxy beige-linen look by adding a patterned scarf, and she was wearing lipstick that hinted at red. Now that I’d finally seen Zach Ho, I understood his effect on her. Indeed, I understood why the mention of his name made Mellie preen and why he’d succeeded in picking up women at a natural-foods supermarket, of all places. He was gorgeous. No, he was more than gorgeous: he was a Harley-Davidson Screamin’ Eagle Ultra Classic Electra Glide in human form. All on their own, my hands flew up and fluffed my hair, and I wished that instead of just substituting cords and a good sweater for my jeans and sweatshirt, I’d worn... a dress! Stockings. High heels. That I can’t walk in high heels and don’t even own a pair bothered me not at all. I could practically feel myself gliding smoothly across Zach Ho’s polished hardwood floor in those sexy heels without groaning about the pain in my toes and, miraculously, without tripping. Six feet tall, he had dark hair, dark eyes, and skin of Polynesian gold. Even when he wasn’t speaking, you could practically hear that smooth, powerful Harley engine purring in his chest.
    “Thank you for inviting me,” I said breathlessly. “I’m, uh, happy to meet you. Hi, Al. Holly. I hope I’m not late.”
    “I just got here,” Al said.
    “I can’t apologize enough,” said Zach Ho. “Everything you’ve all been through. It’s because of my crappy judgment.”
    “What were you supposed to do?” Holly demanded more sharply than she probably intended. “Cancel your trip to Africa? Renege?”
    “No. But...”
    Al said, “Look, let’s fill in some missing pieces here. I’m the one who’s in a position to get that started.”
    “Good,” I said. “First of all, who was she? And how did she get mixed up with Grant? And Calvin?”
    “Holly Winter. She and Grant met in—”
    Holly interrupted him. “Arizona. I reached her father. Holly was living with him, and she met Graham Grant. He was staying in the same trailer park.”
    “Her name must’ve rung bells with Grant,” I said. “He must’ve recognized my name. We’d met at a dog show, and I write about dogs.”
    “What is there to write?” Holly demanded.
    “I don’t think that you really want me to answer that question.” I felt sure that she’d Googled me and knew precisely what I wrote. “The background on Grant is that he was in Illinois, and he got in trouble there. Money, drugs. His marriage broke up, and he took off. He abandoned his dogs. The people who rescued them thought that he’d left all of them, but he actually took one with him. The blue malamute. Streak. And he went to the Southwest. Arizona. Where he met Holly Winter. But how did they end up in Maine?”
    “Calvin and Grant were Army buddies,” Al said. “But the real reason Grant wanted to go to Maine was business. He’d been shipping methamphetamine there, and he knew there was a market. Or a potential market. In Arizona, he was smalltime. The big meth labs were nearby. California, the Southwest, Mexico. Calvin owned a hunting camp he let Grant use. A shack, basically. This is in Washington County, northwest of Machias. He and Holly showed up there last spring. She hated it. That’s according to Calvin. He can talk a little. Not for too long at any one time, but he’s doing okay.