Got Your Number

shredded by a sharp instrument, and by someone with considerable strength. Or anger. The violated feeling that coursed through her reminded her of when her apartment had been rifled.
    I'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER, YOU FAKE.
    Frank Cape? She reached into her purse and put her finger on the trigger of her pepper-spray can, for comfort rather than purpose. Judging from the lack of footprints in the grass, he was probably long gone. Then she froze as heavy footsteps sounded behind her.
    "There you are."
    She wheeled and aimed the spray at Frank Cape's face, and instead hit Joe Capistrano square in the chest. The effects were instantaneous—he yowled and spun like a helicopter crashing. Roxann dropped the can and ran for the water hose, which she turned on him full force. He tore off the long-sleeved T-shirt and stood in the water stream, running his hands over the red areas of his torso again and again. All of that hair was good for something after all. Otherwise, he'd be nursing third-degree burns.
    He didn't talk, and since she wasn't exactly looking forward to the conversation, she concentrated on the task at hand, which was holding the hose and trying not to laugh.
    After a fifteen-minute shower, he yanked the hose away from her. "That's enough," he barked, then turned off the spigot and wound up the hose, muttering under his breath. His jeans were soaked and plastered to his legs—they had to weigh a ton.
    Roxann pressed her finger to her mouth. "I'm sorry."
    "Dammit, you should be. I feel like I've been barbecued."
    "I thought you were Cape."
    "Didn't anyone tell you to make damn sure where you're aiming that stuff before you hit the trigger?"
    "Didn't anyone tell you not to sneak up on people?"
    "I wasn't sneaking."
    "You were sneaking."
    "I wasn't sneaking."
    "Oh, yes, you were sneaking."
    He lifted both hands and slung off the water. "Forget it." Then he saw the van tires. "Cape?"
    "I assume so."
    He walked over and examined a slashed tire. "The poor thing might have committed suicide."
    "Funny. How did you know I was here?"
    "I called and you'd already left the courthouse, so I took a chance." He quirked an eyebrow. "You weren't fixin' to leave town, were you?"
    "No. Just wanted to get my things from the hotel and book a room."
    "You have a room."
    "And book a private room."
    "Look, about what happened between us, I'm sorry—"
    "I'm sorry, too," she cut in with a glib smile. "And we need never to talk about it again."
    He frowned. "I was going to say I'm sorry we were interrupted."
    Oh. "Well, considering I was taken from the hotel in handcuffs, so am I."
    He sighed and ran his hands through his auburn hair, displacing more water. "Do you think I could dry off before we continue our one long argument?"
    She dug her keys out of her purse. "I might have a towel in the van. I want to take a look inside anyway."
    Big mistake.
    The seats had been slashed, including the bench behind the driver's seat. The items from her box of mementos were strewn. She found the crushed box and slowly started putting things in as she found them—a keychain, a charm bracelet, the Magic 8 Ball. All of the personal items she kept stashed in the back had been ransacked and scattered—blankets to cover cold, fleeing bodies, nonperishable snacks to feed hungry little bellies, and her relic of a suitcase filled with disguise clothing. This was most apparent in the form of a blond wig that had been singled out and attached to the dashboard with a wicked-looking buck knife.
    A blond wig.
    They said Tammy had something on your cousin, was holding it over her head...something to do with a blond wig.
    Her lungs squeezed, and she gulped for air. It was all connected somehow, her past and her present.
    "What is it?" Capistrano demanded. "Roxann, what's wrong?"
    YOU FAKE. I'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER, YOU FAKE.

Chapter Twenty-eight

    IT WAS A PITIFUL collection of memories, Roxann decided, looking over the contents of the battered box jostling on her lap. She picked up the Magic 8 Ball and silently posed the question "Is my life a national disaster?" She turned over the toy.
    Yes, definitely.
    Capistrano thumped his hand on the steering wheel of the Dooley. "Dammit, Roxann, if you don't tell me what's wrong, I can't help you."
    "What's wrong? What isn't wrong?"
    "Something spooked you back there."
    "Isn't it enough to find Goldie destroyed?"
    "You named your van?"
    "You named your gun."
    He frowned. "All those clothes and wigs—do you use them when you move