I didn't see how Miriam would have anything to gain from Sanjay's death, at least from a financial point of view. As far as I knew, she was losing her job. But was she really going to be replaced by Olivia Riggs, the blonde I found crying in the ladies' room at the Seabreeze Inn?

Miriam had been dismissive of Olivia and claimed she was delusional. Who was telling the truth? I wished I'd thought to get Olivia's address. It would be good to catch up with her again, and I regretted the missed opportunity. She might have been able to tell me what Miriam had really thought about Sanjay.

I found myself drawing a circle around Miriam's name. Then I put little stars around it. I was really just doodling, the way I used to do when I was talking with a particularly difficult patient. The patient thought I was writing down every word that came out of his or her mouth, but really, I was just drawing as a way to center myself. I found it calming to make some sketches and turned my chair at an angle so the patient couldn't see my scribbles.

Miriam was still a possibility. Revenge would be the motive. Though who would want to face a murder charge just to settle a score?

I put an asterisk next to Miriam's name and drew a line on the page, connecting her with Lenore Cooper, who was number three on my list. Lenore had every reason to be furious with Sanjay, but still, what would she gain from his death? Her books weren't selling well while he was alive, and unless she wrote a juicy tell-all, she probably wouldn't gain a penny from his death.

My thoughts drifted to Kathryn Sinclair. She flatly believed that Sanjay had almost killed her daughter. She had every reason to be angry with him, and she'd told me at the memorial service that she was glad he was dead. You can't get more specific than that. She was number four on the list. The problem was, I didn't really have any new information on her.

All I knew was that she was very angry.

Still, did she have what it took to be a killer? I thought of the perfectly coiffed hair, the designer clothes, and the professionally bleached teeth. Not to mention the thousand-dollar Ferragamo shoes. For some reason, I couldn't imagine anyone with expensive shoes and a French manicure murdering someone, which is probably a personal idiosyncrasy on my part.

I remembered a case in Houston, Texas. Clara Harris caught her husband cheating and confronted him with his mistress in the parking lot of a hotel. She ran him over three times with her Mercedes, killing him.

So even well-dressed women can be killers. And usually the motive is money or revenge. I put a big question mark near Kathryn Sinclair's name.

Of course, there was also her daughter, Sarah, whom I hadn't met yet. If anyone had the right to be angry, Sarah certainly did. She'd been hospitalized because of Team Sanjay's insensitivity to her medical condition. She might have died because of their carelessness.

But somehow I pictured her as a rather timid, powerless person, probably not able to murder anyone. Maybe it was time to track her down. I wondered whether Kathryn would give me her daughter's contact information, and I was afraid that she might not. I wondered how Sanjay's death had affected her. It sounded like she'd been traumatized by the dreadful encounter group, and maybe she'd be unwilling to talk about Sanjay. She might feel like she was being victimized all over again, forced to relive unhappy memories.

After a cup of peppermint tea and another half hour of musing, I decided to hit the sack. I still was no closer to solving Sanjay's murder, and I could only hope that Travis Carter would be the break I needed. He certainly had motive, but did he have means and opportunity? That remained to be seen.

Early the next morning, I checked in with Vera Mae, who insisted that she was holding down the fort at WYME and there was no need for me to hurry back. She told me that Cyrus was rerunning some of my most popular shows and that several listeners had sent me cards and flowers. I checked my voice mail. A few messages from Nick, but nothing that couldn't wait for another day. I caught myself thinking about Rafe Martino and was oddly disappointed that I hadn't heard from the hunky detective. No news is good news, right? What was wrong with me? Could it be that I actually missed seeing him? Just thinking about his s.e.xy smile and smoldering eyes gave me a little buzz inside that warmed me clear down to my toes.

I gave myself a mental shake. The last thing I needed right now was Rafe Martino. He would only be a distraction, and for all I knew, the next time I saw him, he might be slipping handcuffs on Lark.

"Delete, delete," I muttered. That's a thought-stopping technique I used to teach to my obsessive clients. It's a way of banishing an intrusive thought or image, and unlike many psychological interventions, this one actually works. Bingo. In an instant, Rafe's face disappeared.

I left a quick message at the condo for Lark, and then threw on a vintage Lily Pulitzer and sandals. The clock was ticking and I needed to track down Travis before the DA decided to convene a grand jury to indict Lark. All they had to go on was circ.u.mstantial evidence, but from what Nick had told me, that might be enough.

The thought sent a chill through me.

After a light breakfast of coffee and croissants, Mom and I hit the road once more, headed south for Sanjay, Ltd. We zipped through the historical section of South Beach, past the big hotels and Calle Ocho, until we found ourselves on a wide avenue lined with stately palms. This was the Robb Report version of South Beach, a place filled with pricey real estate, fabulous yachts, and expensive cars. Old money, new money--it didn't matter. It took big bucks to live here.

I spotted a sprawling Spanish-style mansion just ahead of us, complete with a red tile roof, a creamy white stucco exterior, and ma.s.ses of expensive landscaping. An underground sprinkling system kept the gra.s.s lush and green in the Florida heat. A couple of bored-looking flamingos were hanging out on a pond dotted with water lilies, and there was a tennis court planted next to the house. It was a blisteringly hot day, and the court was empty. I doubted Sanjay played much tennis, remembering that sizable gut lurking underneath those white robes.

Was this even the right place? There wasn't a corporate logo anywhere, but the GPS system confirmed it. This dazzling mansion, looking like something straight out of the set of Miami Vice, was the headquarters for Sanjay, Ltd.

But how to get inside? Those elaborate Graceland-style gates looked like they could withstand a horde of rampaging Visigoths. All I had going for me was Mom and my elderly Honda.

I was pondering my next move when a golden opportunity dropped into my lap. A FedEx truck pulled around and stopped at the black wrought-iron gates. After a moment, the driver leaned out the window and said something into a squawk box mounted on a wooden pole.

"Go!" Mom urged. The moment the gates swung open, the FedEx truck barreled through and I zipped in right after him, just inches away from his rear b.u.mper. The gates swung closed slowly behind us. So far, so good.

I realized I was holding my breath and let it out in a soft whoosh. We were inside the Sanjay compound!

No alarm sounded, so I a.s.sumed no one had spotted us. We were safe for the moment. I pulled up behind a giant pink hibiscus bush on a little side path leading to the swimming pool on the left wing of the house. The mansion was still in sight, but I felt confident we were hidden from anyone peeking out the front windows.

I cut off the engine and watched silently, waiting.

Mom raised her eyebrows. "What's going on? What's the problem?" She was whispering, even though there was no one to hear us.

"Let's see if he gets inside or if he just leaves the package at the front door."

As if on cue, the heavy double doors swung open and a pet.i.te blonde accepted the FedEx package and signed for it. I watched while the driver got back in the van, gunned the engine, and spun down the driveway. I craned my neck to watch. The gigantic gates swung open for him, and he pa.s.sed through.

"Well?" Mom asked.

"I'm thinking," I told her. Actually, I was stumped. How to get inside?

"Well, so am I," she said tartly. With that, she yanked open her car door and swung her legs outside. She reached behind her for her tote bag, which was lying on the seat.

"What do you think you're doing? Where are you going?" I hissed. She ignored me, so I jumped out of the car, too, hurrying to catch up with her. She was moving at a good clip along a narrow path made of oyster sh.e.l.ls that led past a small pool cabana to the main house.

She turned around to smile at me. "Why, I'm going inside the mansion, dear. I would think that would be obvious."

Chapter 26.

Before I knew what was happening, Mom had reached the mansion and was rapping smartly on the mission-style front door with the bra.s.s handle.

"Mom, what are you doing?"

She put her finger to her lips. "Shh. Let me handle this." My heart was in my throat when the door suddenly swung open and one of Team Sanjay's goons was framed in the doorway, staring at us. He had a shaved head and some vine-leaf tats winding around his neck and was wearing a black Team Sanjay T-shirt that showed off his ripped biceps. The guy was buff and dangerous looking. His arms were too long for his body, giving him a vaguely simian appearance. If he recognized me from my attempt to b.u.t.t into Sanjay's workshop at the Seabreeze Inn, he gave no sign.

"Whaddaya want?" he growled.

Before he could react, Mom pushed past him into the enormous marble foyer. "FedEx!" Her tone was crisp. "We have a rush delivery."

"FedEx?" It took a few seconds for the synapses in his brain to connect, and then suspicion registered in his beady dark eyes. "They were just here."

"Yes, I know; we couldn't get back in past the gate, and we have an urgent delivery for a Mr. Travis Carter. Our colleague left it in the truck by mistake. Very sorry about this." To my amazement, she produced a FedEx envelope from behind her back and pretended to be scrutinizing the address on the front.

I peered over her shoulder to read the writing. The envelope was blank.

"Mr. Travis Carter, of Sanjay, Limited. And I'll need a signature."

"Okay, I'll take it up to him." The thug reached for the envelope, but Mom was too quick for him and clasped it to her chest.

"Oh, sorry, this has to be delivered personally. Company rules. It's a highly sensitive doc.u.ment, and our instructions are to deliver it only to Mr. Carter." She raised her eyebrows and stared him down. "If we can't deliver it to him directly, I'm ordered to take it back to the truck. And that means the addressee will have to drive all the way down to our main office in Miami to pick it up. Is Mr. Carter here?"

The goon glanced over his shoulder at the stairwell leading to the second floor. "Yeah, but, I just told you--"

"Then, no problem. We'll just find our way upstairs and give it to him. You can go back to whatever you were doing." Her tone was imperious, very Leona Helmsley. "We know the way. We've made deliveries here many times before. You must be new to the organization." A clever touch. Put goon guy on the defensive. A not-so-subtle put-down.

I was stunned, impressed as always by Mom's quick thinking. All her theatre training had paid off in ways I never could have predicted.

He looked puzzled but quickly went back on the offensive. "Hey, you're not wearing a FedEx uniform," he said, pointing accusingly to her. "And neither are you," he said, whirling around to confront me. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I'd been hiding behind Mom, hoping we could both make a quick getaway if things turned sour.

"Well, of course not. It's dress-down Friday," she said gaily, trotting up a wide, sweeping staircase that looked like it belonged in Tara, the mansion in Gone with the Wind. "We'll just be a sec."

"Today ain't Friday."

I thought for a moment, but as usual, Mom was quicker. "It's a leap year."

"Huh?"

And with that, we barreled up the stairs to the second floor, ready to confront the unsuspecting Travis Carter.

"Quite an operation," Mom muttered, hurrying past reception areas, media rooms, and what looked like a suite of offices. The place was a labyrinth, buzzing with people, and Mom's Ferragamos were tapping a brisk staccato on the pink marble floor. I was trotting along at her heels like a dutiful border collie, eyes front and center.

"Where are we going?" I looked around worriedly, expecting to be stopped at any moment.

"I have no idea," she hissed, "but just keep walking fast, and look confident." She stopped to nod and smile at a harried young blonde in a black suit who was carrying a giant file box. "h.e.l.looo!" Mom said gaily. The girl gave her a quick nod and turned down a corridor to a door marked PUBLICITY AND PROMOTIONS.

"That was nice," I said admiringly. "She didn't try to stop us."

"Of course not. You just have to look confident, Maggie; that's the secret. Look like you belong here. You can pretend you're playing a part, if that helps."

"I'll try to," I muttered. I flashed a nod and a smile at three young men who were walking toward us, deep in a conversation about stock options. They barely glanced at me and certainly didn't challenge me, so maybe Mom was right after all.

"Where can Travis be?" Mom said, looking at the maze of corridors. "I'd like to meet with him alone. At least we have the element of surprise. But I'm not sure where to start."

"That goon downstairs will come looking for us any second, Mom. What if he calls upstairs to Travis and says we insisted on making the delivery ourselves? Travis will be on the lookout for us. He'll know we're up to something."

Mom smiled and patted my arm. "You worry too much, dear. Far too much. And you would think that in your line of work, you would know how to deal with stress--" Mom broke off suddenly and pulled me into an alcove. "Isn't that Travis?" she whispered. "Quick, get out the photo."

I caught a glimpse of tall young man in a tailored suit zipping into a room marked SANJAY GINGII. PRIVATE. NO ADMITTANCE. I pulled a wrinkled publicity photo of Travis Carter out of my purse. I had ripped it out of Sanjay's conference brochure. "I think so," I said. "But how can we go in there? It says no admittance."

"And you think that's going to stop us? Here's what we're going to do. We're going to wait thirty seconds and then storm the inner sanctum."

I took a deep breath. "Why thirty seconds?"

"To give him enough time to get into trouble. Who knows what he's he doing, poking around Sanjay's private office? Mark my words: He's up to no good." I had to smile. Mom seemed to forget that we were the intruders here and could be arrested for trespa.s.sing. She checked her watch, and then we remained absolutely still, huddling in the alcove. "Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Okay, time to roll, Maggie!"

Mom pushed opened the door marked PRIVATE, and we found a very surprised-looking Travis Carter scowling at us.

"Hey, what are you two doing in here? This is a private office!" I saw him glance toward the phone on the gleaming rosewood desk and wondered whether he was going to call Security.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Mom said, pretending to be a dotty Miss Marple. She kept one hand on the doork.n.o.b while taking a quick look around the room. "We're looking for Media Relations. We must have taken a wrong turn."

"Media Relations?" His tone softened, but his brows were still knotted with suspicion.

"Yes, that lovely girl with the blond hair told us to come up here. I forget her name, but she was wearing a black suit, quite stylish. She's pretty enough to be a fashion model."

"That would be Marissa." Travis relaxed a little and leaned against the desk. His eyes were watchful, though, and I knew he was still wary.

"Yes, Marissa," Mom said, brightening. "Such a helpful young woman. Quite an a.s.set to your organization, I'd say."

"So you're here to do an interview? I didn't see anything scheduled on the calendar. I'm Travis Carter, by the way." He didn't offer to shake hands; instead he flipped open his BlackBerry. Again, his eyes darted to the phone. My heart was doing a quickstep and my palms felt sweaty. Before we knew it, we'd be deposited outside, next to the flamingos lounging in the lily pond. I just knew it.

"It looks like you're packing up to leave," Mom said sweetly. She pointed to some large cardboard boxes filled with Sanjay memorabilia, plaques, trophies, and giant-size photos of Sanjay with politicians and heads of state. There was even a photo of Sanjay with Mother Teresa, feeding small children in India. The man was shameless!

Mom picked up a framed photograph and glanced at it. "Very nice," she said politely before Travis yanked it out of her hands and stuffed it back in the box. He closed the lid on the box to discourage further snooping.

"I'm taking a position somewhere else." His tone was flat and his expression gave away nothing. He stood in front of the desk, arms crossed in front of him, eyes shuttered. Defensive body language, I noticed. The man was clearly hiding something, but what?

"So you're leaving the organization for good? That's very interesting." She looked at me and raised her eyebrows. "We won't quote you on that, if you don't want us to."

"Who are you exactly?" Travis eased himself into a leather swivel chair and motioned us to a couple of lavender upholstered armchairs. Mom settled herself in as if she was ready for a long chat. I perched on the edge of the chair, ready to bolt if Travis went for the phone.

"I'm with WYME," I said slowly. "I'm a radio talk show host. Sanjay visited my show the day he . . . uh . . . transitioned."

"The radio shrink! I knew you looked familiar." He turned to Mom. "And you are--"

"Her a.s.sistant," Mom said quickly. She flashed a bright smile. "I'm a little puzzled about something. You're leaving the organization, but you're taking Sanjay's personal belongings with you? Are you planning to sell them on eBay?" She shook her head in mock bewilderment and gave a little chuckle. Travis wasn't amused.

"Is it really any of your business what I do?"

"Oh, it's the journalist in me," she said, touching her hand to her heart. "We just love a good mystery. And of course, Maggie is a psychologist, and so naturally she's fascinated by human behavior."

"Well, you'll have to figure out another mystery, because there's nothing out of order going on here. I'm only taking what belongs to me." There was a granite edge in his voice, and he stood up. "Now, if you don't mind, I'll have to ask you to excuse me. The Media Relations office is the second corridor on the right. I can call Marissa to accompany you, if you like."

"Oh, that won't be necessary." I leapt of my seat like a performing otter at Sea World. "We can find it. So sorry for taking up your time. Good luck with your next move, whatever it is."

Travis gave me a curt nod and walked to the door. He opened it wide and stood there watching as we pa.s.sed through. Mom couldn't resist giving him a flirty little wave, and we found ourselves alone in the corridor. I figured they might have video surveillance, so we headed for the media relations office, just as he had instructed.

"Now what?" I whispered.

Just then the goon from downstairs rounded the corner and spotted us.

"You're still here!" He hurried toward us, practically oozing testosterone from every pore in his beefy body. "I knew you two were up to something!"

I looked at Mom. "Now what?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Uh-oh. Now we make tracks. Let's. .h.i.t it, Maggie!"

With that, she slipped off her Ferragamos and we raced down the wide staircase all the way to the front door. We didn't even break stride as we galloped down the front steps and made a beeline to my car. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a vintage Phantom Rolls leaving the compound. It was nosing up to the front gate, the engine giving a satisfied purr, pale lemon paintwork dazzling in the bright sunlight.

I quickly unlocked my Honda with the remote and we threw ourselves inside.