Deal to Die For by Les Standiford

portable phone had begun to chirp and Deal handed it dazedly to Driscoll. He pushed away from the window, moving like a man in a dream toward the door.
    He was out into the hallway then, had made it to the head of the stairs as Isabel, halfway up the flight, caught sight of him. “
Papi
!” she cried, her face lighting up.
    She took the rest of the stairs two at a time, throwing herself into Deal’s arms. He pulled her close to him, closing his eyes, breathing in the smell of her—the tingle of cool air, woolen tang of fur from the new coat she wore, little girl flesh basted in ice cream—savoring for a moment her precious weight in his arms. It was all he cared about for that instant, never mind that Driscoll had thought him crazy, Driscoll whose voice even now carried out into the hallway as he explained to the police operator: “No ma’am. It was a mistake. No. He
found
the car. That’s right…”
    Never mind, for that one moment, that he was going to have to open his eyes back to the world and wrestle with all its demons. For in that one instant he had his daughter back, squealing in his arms, dribbling pink ice cream down his neck and back—and for the brief eternity that it lasted, it was all that mattered.
    Finally, though, he had to give it up, let the moment pass, set her down, let her run her carefree way inside to Mrs. Suarez, dispenser of milk and cookies, of care and all things good. He had to turn then, face this woman who came unsteadily up the stairs toward him, tottering on the impossible heels, her mouth moving askew beneath the lipstick caked crookedly there.
    “Hello, sailor,” she said, smiling as she clutched the handrail for support.
    “Janice,” Deal said, feeling his heart clench inside him. “Oh, Janice,” and his woe filled the hallway to the brim.

Chapter 10
    Paige, who rarely used alcohol, had a drink while the plane was still onthe ground, another before dinner, a split of wine with the pasta she barely tasted, a brandy afterward. By the time the plane landed, she was reeling.
    She moved unsteadily down the broad concourse of the Fort Lauderdale airport, sensing the onset of a headache with the potential to blossom into a full-blown screamer. Her legs felt flaccid and heavy beneath her, as if she’d disembarked on a planet with stronger gravity.
    She scanned the faces of the small crowd lining the concourse exit, not really expecting to see her sister’s among them, but unable to keep herself from hoping. She’d phoned ahead, left her flight numbers and itinerary on Barbara’s machine, left a message about her message at the restaurant where Barbara worked.
    But despite all that, there was no familiar face as she walked out into the lobby. That was all right, she reasoned, it was nearly midnight. Barbara would be at the hospital, or somewhere doing something important. She couldn’t expect her sister to drop everything and rush to the airport, could she? Not when they hadn’t exchanged a dozen words in the past several years, the most recent phone call discounted.
    Paige had swung away from the knot of people gathered on the other side of the metal detectors, headed toward an escalator labeled “Baggage Claim—Ground Transportation,” when she noticed the man with the sign.
    “ NUBBLEMAN ” was the name scrawled in Magic Marker on a piece of cardboard, and at first she paid no attention. The man who held it was short and thin, and wore a chauffeur’s uniform that engulfed him, too large by a couple of sizes. He held the sign in one hand and consulted something in his other palm, scanning it and the departing passengers with intensity.
    Paige had almost reached the escalators when he caught up with her. “Miss Nubbleman,” he said, thrusting the sign in her way.
    She turned, noticing that he was Latino, that his mustache and sideburns were peppered with gray, that even his hat seemed too big to stay on straight. He was holding a facsimile of a still picture the studio