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expensive.
    And just how much did she want to invest in Billie Eagan?
    She’d been having second thoughts since volunteering to post the woman’s bail. That was one thing, since the money would be returned to her. But offering to take on the expense of a private investigator was something else. That had been a strictly emotional response to the situation, she had finally acknowledged to herself as she had lain awake the night before, questioning her sanity. She’d wanted to do what she thought her mother would have done under the circumstances to help her friend. However, as Regan had said, Lorna had only Billie’s word that she and Mary Beth had been friends. What were the chances Billie was playing on Lorna’s sympathy? She had never been what one might consider an upright citizen. For all Lorna knew, Billie could have fabricated the whole friendship story to get Lorna on her side, where she could take advantage of her. Like by having Lorna post bail to get her out of prison.
    Well, she’d deal with that later. Right now, she hadn’t paid anyone anything, so no harm, no foul. Besides, at the moment, she had a client waiting for his monthly accounts receivable number, and she had another hour’s worth of work before she could send it to him. She pushed Billie Eagan from her mind, and went back to work.
    She finished the receivables and went on to the payables report for the same company, pausing only to heat up a frozen pizza, which she ate sitting on the front porch. At one point, Brad Walker’s wife, Liz, passed by—at least, Lorna had been pretty sure it was Liz—but she hadn’t stopped and hadn’t returned Lorna’s wave. Maybe it hadn’t been her.
    Lorna was still working when the doorbell rang at two-fifteen, startling her. She hadn’t realized how late it was.
    The man standing on the front porch was tall—almost a foot taller than Lorna’s five feet six inches—and sported a baseball cap over curly blond hair. He wore dark glasses, and a beige T-shirt over deeply tanned arms, and cut-off denims over legs that were long and muscular. She knew he had to be the PI, but wished she could see the look on her face. She’d been expecting Barnaby Jones. What she got was more like a fair-haired Magnum, PI.
    “Mr. Dawson?” She opened the inside door, leaving the screen door locked. Just in case.
    “It’s T.J., yes. You’re Lorna Stiles?”
    “Yes. Come in.” She opened the screen door and he stepped into the foyer and pretty much filled it. She took a step back unconsciously. The man looked as if he was feeling the heat as much as she was. “We can talk in here, or out on the porch. It might be cooler out there, though.”
    “Then the porch gets my vote.”
    “Can I get you something cold to drink first? Iced tea?”
    “That would be great, thanks.”
    He followed her into the kitchen, and on her way past the window she looked into the driveway where he’d parked his car under the magnolia—a taupey-colored convertible, the top down. It was exactly the car she’d expect a man who looked like he did to drive.
    “What is that?” she asked, pointing out the window.
    “Crossfire.”
    “It’s lovely.”
    “Lovely is just one of its attributes.”
    “Fast?”
    “Sure.” He grinned. “What’s the point of having a slow sports car?”
    “True.”
    “So, tell me about your friend,” he asked as she took a glass from the cupboard.
    “It’s a long story.” She opened the freezer for ice cubes, which she popped into the glass.
    “Start at the beginning. That’s what I’m here for.”
    “Are we on the clock?” She reached into the refrigerator and took out the pitcher of tea she’d made earlier, and filled the glass. “Because I might have some reservations about this.”
    “The clock doesn’t start ticking until I decide if I want to take the case, so you can give me the long version. And it will be strictly up to you, if you want to think about it a little more, or if you decide