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I opened my purse and pulled out the red velvet pouch. “I’d like to get these cleaned, if I could.” I handed him the pouch. “And the post on one of them needs some looking after.”
He gently opened it and slid out the earrings, my pride and joy. “My, they are even more lovely every time I see them.”
“Thank you.” They were the best pair of diamond earrings I would ever own, eight total carats of beautiful brilliance.
He held them up for a closer inspection. “Yes, I see. I can have these ready for you after lunch, if that’s acceptable.”
I nodded. “Perfect. I’ll be by around one.” That would give me time to pick up Murphy and also get to the gym before returning. I’d been told some cats liked car rides. Murphy was not among them, as the long scratch on my arm proved.
Once I’d gotten him to the groomer’s this morning, his mood had changed, as it always did. He loved the attention. Now I just needed a Star Trek transporter to get him there without having to load him into the car.
I bid Mr. Gisler goodbye and sucked down half my mocha on the way back to the car.
As I started the engine, the radio came alive with Frank Sinatra singing “That’s Life.” His tune could be my theme song, a reminder to never give up.
First, there had been Damien’s arrest, followed by the ridicule and shame, and then the divorce. Now I finally had my name back. Once I sold the house and left this city, I could reclaim my future, in a place where the Winterbourne stigma wouldn’t follow me. Natalie Winterbourne’s life was over, but Natalie Spencer’s was ahead of me. I could feel it.
Like a sign of things to come, the road bent left, and the sun beat in through the windshield, lifting my spirits. I turned the music up high.
The drive home went quickly in light mid-day traffic, with fewer crazies than normal on the road.
I turned the corner onto my street, and there they were: two police cars and three black SUVs in front of my house.
I pulled up to the garage and climbed out of the car with my battle-face on. I’d had enough of these searches already. They’d been here only last week, for Christ’s sake.
This one was different. Some of the windbreakers had US MARSHAL in bold yellow lettering on the back, in addition to the usual FBI jerks.
A uniformed cop held up his hand as I reached the walk. “Hold it, ma’am. You can’t go in.”
I started past him. “The hell I can’t. This is my house.” In the past, the only way to deal with these assholes had been at high volume.
He grabbed my arm. “Agent White,” he called.
I wrested my arm loose, but stopped where I was. The last thing I needed was some stupid cop tasering me in the back, on my own property.
One of the agents from last week trotted over. He flipped open his badge momentarily, as they all did. They could be dime-store replicas for all the time theydidn’tgive you to inspect them.
“Special Agent White,” he announced like it should mean something to me. “Mrs. Winterbourne, I’ll need your car keys.”
This had happened each time. They wanted to search the car as well as the house.
The key fob was still in my hand. I hadn’t stashed it in my purse yet. I handed it over with a huff. “It’s Spencer now, and how long is this going to take? I have to go pick up my cat.”
He pocketed the key. “Mrs. Winterbourne,” he said, intentionally trying to piss me off for sure. “This house and automobile, and all the contents, are being seized as products of a criminal enterprise.”
“That can’t be right,” I complained.
“For any questions about this forfeiture, you may contact the United States Attorney.” He offered me a business card.
I couldn’t be hearing this right.
He forced the card at me again.
I took it.Kirk Willey, Assistant United States Attorney, it read.
The agent pointed toward the street. “You need to step off the property now, Mrs. Winterbourne.”
With my legs shaking, and my breakfast threatening to come up, tears clouded my eyes. “But this is my house.”
“Not any longer,” Agent White said coldly. He moved his hand to the butt of his gun.
* * *
