"I wish I were more so. I should stop and notice things like beautiful sunsets more often. No, I take that back. I do notice sunsets, but only when they relate to what I'm writing. Most of the time, I get so focused I might as well be wearing blinders to nonessential details like the color of the sky the instant the sun goes down."

"Ah, but as a journalist, you appreciate the whole canvas. That's all that really matters. The ways you and I write are not that different-we both deal in details. It's just that most of mine are over-embellished to create a scene that doesn't really exist. I see it playing out in that little movie in my head, and I've got to describe it with enough details that the reader sees the same movie." He grinned. "Plus, fiction or fact, if you live down here, sunsets are hard to ignore."

"You should write something for the Chamber of Commerce. At least get them to put you on retainer."

"If my book sales dry up, I'll have that to fall back on." He laid down his fork. As much as he'd like to continue in a direction that would reveal more about her, he thought better of it. After all, she was a professional writer and had traveled all the way down here to learn about the tomb robberies. Not to go on a blind date.

"Back to Tamerlane. Interesting guy. He led his armies across western and central Asia, leaving the population decimated by systematic mass slaughter and genocide. And yet he managed to main tain a great appreciation for art and literature. He was a military genius who loved to play chess to improve his battlefield tactics."

Seneca washed down more fish with her margarita. "He does sound interesting, but I think tying him to Montezuma is farfetched. You mentioned two empty tombs. Who's the other?"

"I'm not sure it's related at all-just a notion. Do you remember a story in the news a month or so ago about some vandalism that occurred over in London in Westminster Abbey?"

"Actually, I do recall something about Queen Mary's grave being defaced. AKA Bloody Mary, same as the drink."

"Right, but I also heard that the drink originated with a waitress named Mary who worked at the Bucket of Blood Bar in Chicago. There are a lot of theories. But most everyone associates the name with Queen Mary. And for good reason. As a Catholic, Mary gained the nickname because of her persecution of Protestants during her five-year reign. A lot of people were burned at the stake, including a former Archbishop of Canterbury and a former Bishop of London. Oh, and here's an interesting side-story. When you were a kid, did you ever recite the nursery rhyme 'Mary, Mary, quite contrary'? That's our Mary, some say."

"So her grave was vandalized. What's the connection?"

"I've got a buddy at Scotland Yard that I use as a source from time to time for verifying my research. That was one of the calls I made today. I asked him for details on that event since it has to do with a tomb. Apparently, what was not released to the public for security reasons is that her tomb was broken into and the remains removed. The details weren't released to the public because of the outcry it could cause. If the authorities can't protect the tombs of the former queens of England in Westminster Abbey, how can they protect the United Kingdom?"

"So what really happened?"

"Mary shared a crypt with her half-sister, Queen Elizabeth I. Someone broke into the tomb and stole Mary's remains. They left Elizabeth's bones untouched."

Seneca ate in silence for a moment.

"I can't be certain there really is something to tie all these events together or if it's just my overactive imagination. After all, I write fiction for a living."

"I don't see a clear link between Tamerlane, Queen Mary, and Elizabeth Bathory. And where does Montezuma fit in?"

"I didn't make a connection at first, either. Then it occurred to me that besides their remains being stolen, there was one other common denominator."

Now it was Seneca who laid down her fork and waited for his point.

"They're all, in their own ways, mass murderers. Montezuma was responsible for sacrificing eighty thousand in a span of four days during the dedication of his temple. Tamerlane slaughtered close to seventeen million during his military campaigns. Elizabeth Bathory murdered over six hundred girls and young women. That earned her the title of the most prolific female serial killer of all time. And Queen Mary, well the number of her victims pales compared to the other three, but it's still impressive. She sent more than three hundred Protestants to be burned at the stake and will forever be known by her colorful nickname."

"You put Montezuma, Tamerlane, and Mary in the same category? They weren't serial killers like Bathory."

"Yes, but they're all mass murderers, no matter how you look at it. Different motivations, but the result was the same."

"But with Montezuma, you have to consider the culture and the times."

Matt sipped his margarita and peered over the salted rim at her. "You have to take that into consideration for all four, not just Montezuma. In each case, they were driven by what they believed to be righteous and justified. It doesn't matter what we think is just and right."

"This could be my next story. If I follow-up on this, it might allow me to keep tracking down Daniel's murderer or murderers? I won't rest until I've done that." She looked away, toward the water for a moment, then back at Matt. "That's what keeps me going. It's the only reason I get up in the morning-to nail whoever killed Daniel." Seneca swept her hair back as if recomposing. "So, I can present all four of these mass murderers to my editor and pose the same philosophical question we just discussed."

Matt was impressed with her determination.

"I could equate it with today's world leaders, tyrants, and fringe zealots. This would make sense-at least from a feature story standpoint."

"Certainly has possibilities."

"Sorry. So much for talking. Our food is getting cold. Let's eat."

Some time later, with their empty plates collected, the waiter returned, and Matt insisted on signing the check. Afterward he stood and went to Seneca, holding the back of her chair as she got up.

"Thanks for making the trek down here and keeping me company," he said. "I hoped you might find these empty tomb stories as interesting as I do. I plan to make use of it in my next book."

"You may not realize it, but after the disaster in Mexico, you might have just given me a huge boost. The trip was well worth it. And I got to meet a new friend. Could I call you if I need any more info?"

"It would be my pleasure." As they stepped into the parking lot, he hoped she would call him, especially once she had healed from her recent tragedy. He would have pursued seeing her again, but the timing was wrong. At least he would offer to take her on the promised boat ride.

"You up for that spin out on the water? On a night like this it really is quite wonderful when the bay is lit only by the stars. It's a little windy but we can tuck in behind a mangrove island so we don't rock so much."

"That would be lovely, Matt, but-" Seneca came to a sudden halt. "You've got to be kidding me. Jesus Christ, why won't he just butt out?"

"What is it? What's the matter?"

Seneca didn't answer. Instead she marched over to the Mercedes SUV with the orange fog lamps.

THE MEETING 1981, WASHINGTON, DC.

"No MATTER WHAT THEY say, it isn't true I flew that." The crowd roared with laughter as Ronald Reagan pointed to the Wright Brothers' plane.

Groves watched the president from the side of the stage, fifty feet away. Reagan ran his hand down the front of his heavily starched white shirt from throat to abdomen. Maybe the new president was more comfortable in boots and jeans rather than white tie and tails, Groves thought. He looked down at his own glossy black, patent leather shoes and razor-creased tux, and longed for boots and spurs, too. Even with all the success they had both experienced, the simple fact was they were just cowboys at heart.

President and Mrs. Reagan waved to the packed crowd of party goers gathered inside the National Air and Space Museum-one of nine inaugural balls spread across the nation's capital.

Reagan is almost giddy, Groves thought. And he should be. A few hours earlier, he became the fortieth president of the United States, and a short time later received word that the fifty-two American hostages held by Iran for the past 444 days had been freed. It was a great day for Ronald Reagan and America.

Groves knew the president's schedule called for him to stay ten or fifteen minutes at each event, and by all indications, he was preparing to leave. With a proud Nancy on his arm, Reagan, still waving, turned to exit in Groves's direction. Surrounded by a contingent of Secret Service, the group started moving as the hall erupted in thunderous applause and cheers while the orchestra played a rousing "Hail to the Chief."

Accompanied by a half-dozen of his own security personnel, Groves watched as a White House aide moved toward Reagan. Getting his attention, the aide leaned in close and spoke into Reagan's ear. The president gave him a nod of acknowledgment and continued waving to the crowd. When the presidential party finally arrived at the stage exit, they halted. The president broke away and strode over to Groves.

"William, I'm so pleased you came." Reagan extended his hand.

"How could I say no, Mr. President?"

"Mr. Groves," Nancy Reagan said as she joined her husband.

The president pumped Groves's hand. "You're the spitting image of your father." He turned to Nancy. "How long ago did we last see his dad? Had to be twenty or so years ago when we had Billy out to the ranch. Boy, time sure passes quickly, especially when you get to be my age." The president stared at William for a moment then shook his head and uttered a small amused chuckle. "The resemblance is uncanny."

"I hear that a lot."

"Won't you join us?" Mrs. Reagan asked. "It's going to be quite a night."

"I wish I could, but I'm afraid I have some other commitments."

"Then let's plan on you visiting Nancy and me at the White House real soon."

"It would be my honor."

"I intend to hold you to it." Reagan turned to the group of supporters standing a few feet away. "Take a good look, my friends. You rarely get a chance to see one of the great American entrepreneurs, William Groves the Third."

As the supporters seemed to realize who Reagan referred to, they broke into applause. The wall of camera flashes became blinding.

Reagan shook Groves's hand once more. "Thanks again for coming, William."

Like the rush of a great wind, Ronald and Nancy Reagan, along with their aides and the Secret Service, swept out of the hall.

As a group of reporters sprang toward Groves, his personal security surrounded him and started moving in the opposite direction of the president's party toward an exit corridor. When it became obvious that they would not have access to the billionaire who was becoming more and more a recluse, the press spun an about-face and hustled to catch up with the presidential party.

A few moments later, Groves and his men emerged into an underground parking garage. Waiting for him was a black limousine, its motor running and an assistant standing beside the open side door.

As Groves approached, he smelled the cloth that the assistant had saturated with rubbing alcohol and held out for him. This had become a ritual over the last several years. When in public, Groves avoided touching doorknobs or shaking hands with people, but when he had to, those acts were followed by serious hand cleansing. He couldn't afford to become debilitated with a sickness that would make his life miserable but never kill him.

Groves took the cloth and scrubbed his hands with it before dropping it in the disposal bag also provided by his assistant. "What's this?" Groves said as the man handed him an envelope. "The gentleman insisted I give it to you."

Groves tore open the envelope and read the embossed script on the business card. Javier Scarrow, Spiritualist. Expert on Mexican Culture and Antiquity.

"Don't know him." Groves flipped the card over. As he read the handwritten message, a surge charged through his body like an electrical current. His legs suddenly felt feeble, barely strong enough to hold him up. Groves wiped his perspiring brow, feeling almost like the time he awoke to find himself buried alive in the mountains of Northern Sonora. It was hard to breathe.

His voice was charred with unexpected dryness. "Where is this man?"

The assistant motioned in the direction to Groves's right. He turned to see a tall man in a suit and overcoat standing near the entrance to an elevator. He had a dark complexion and a closecropped mustache and beard. His hair was as black and gleaming as his obsidian eyes. In an instant, Groves recognized the face-a face he had gazed upon so many years ago inside the Apache treasure cave.

KILLER WHALE 2012, FLORIDA KEYS.

SENECA SMACKED HER PALMS on the hood of the Mercedes SUV. The parking lot light shone through the windshield revealing that there was nobody inside.

"All right, where the hell are you?" She turned in a circle raising her arms in the air. "I know it's your car. Why can't you just leave me alone instead of lurking out there in the shadows, you sonof-a-bitch. What did you do, skulk in the dark like some kind of stalker and watch me eat? I don't want anything to do with you. Is that so hard to understand?"

Winded and shaking, she stomped back toward Matt.

"You all right?" His face bore an expression of complete confusion.

"Sorry. I know you must think I'm a lunatic. I'm just so furious." She heaved out a sigh. "It's my father. Well, not exactly-not a father I ever knew. Long story. I don't want to bore you." She looked back. "That's his car over there."

Two couples leaving the restaurant stopped to stare in Seneca's direction.

"I'm so sorry for pitching a fit in the middle of the parking lot and making an ass of myself in front of someone I just met who graciously paid for my dinner." She looked at Matt apologetically. "I'm really sorry." She gave him her most sincere smile. "I hope that boat ride invitation is still good?"

Seneca followed Matt's 911 Carrera, taking her own car. After several minutes his blinker flashed and they turned onto a street that ran parallel to a canal. At the end of the street, Matt braked, and a moment later a white wrought-iron gate in front of a house opened and automatic security floods flashed on. The actual living quarters of the house were elevated. Parking, storage, and a covered barbecue and patio were ground level.

Matt pulled his Porsche into the parking spot below the house and got out.

Seneca stared at the pale yellow house with its white shutters and metal roof. She loved the old Key West-style architecture. The floodlights revealed a wraparound veranda with a white railing.

She got out of her car and walked toward him. "I think I'm in the wrong part of the writing business."

"It's my sanctuary. I bought it several years ago when the bottom fell out of the real estate market. The owners were anxious to sell, so I got a steal of a deal. I never could have afforded it when the market was at its peak. It's my home, my office, my getaway. Come inside for a sec while I get the boat keys." He started up the steps with Seneca trailing.

"Here we are." Matt opened the door and ushered her into a great room with sliding glass doors stretching across the length of the opposite wall. They opened to the veranda at the rear of the house.

"Would you like anything to drink? And if you need to use the restroom, it's the door there to your left."

"I'm fine, thanks."

"I'll just be a minute. Have a seat."

Seneca sank slowly onto the leather sectional. Everything she saw was stylish but moderate by what she thought were most people's standards. There wasn't much furniture, just enough to be functional. Straight clean lines and a very masculine nautical theme. No clutter like her apartment. Daniel would have liked it.

As she observed the rest of the great room, one thing that most intrigued her was the horizontal wood paneling. It begged to be touched. Just as Seneca rose to go get a closer look, Matt reappeared.

"Ready?"

"Yep. Can I ask you a question first? What kind of wood is this? It's got so much character. I love the red stain in the grain."

"It's reclaimed pine from an old Vermont covered bridge. I had it put in after I bought the house. The only modification I've made." Matt ran his hand down the wall. "A little on the rough side, but..."

"I like it a lot."

"Me, too."

"Is it okay if I leave my purse?"

"Oh, sure. No need to lug it on the boat."

Matt led her down the back stairs and flipped on a couple of switches at the base. The backyard and dock burst into view. A jet ski sat atop the floating drive-on dock and a Boston Whaler was moored at the end of the pier.

"Sariel?" She noticed the lettering on the side. "Interesting name.

Matt held her hand as she stepped off the dock into the Whaler. "The main character in my series. She's an angel-literally. You've got a unique name. Is it a family name?"

"No. My mother was kind of a hippie. Well, not kind of. She was a full-blown hippie and women's rights activist. My name comes from the 1848 Seneca Falls Convention in New York and a reformer named Elizabeth Cady Stanton. My full name is Seneca Cady Hunt. And, FYI, Hunt is my mother's maiden name."

"I think it's great to have a name that means something."

A sliver of a crescent moon hung in the sky as Matt started the Whaler and slipped away from the dock. His house was at the mouth of the canal so it took only a few minutes to leave the "no wake" zone and head west into Florida Bay.

Matt accelerated the twin Mercury outboards. The boat porpoised for a second on the choppy water, then got up on plane. Soon they were racing across the dark water.

Seneca grew more relaxed, the tension gliding away, leaving her stalking father behind with the diminishing glow of the Upper Keys. There was nothing quite like being on the water, she thought. It put things in perspective. The splendid stillness and the absence of daily distractions.

"There's a cabin if you want to look around?" Matt had to yell over the wind and roar of the engines. "It's got a small galley and head. The berth sleeps two." He switched on the interior lights.

Seneca opened the hatch and peered inside. "Looks like you've got everything you need." She noticed the reduction in the boat's speed.