Excerpt of What Are Friends For? by Patricia McLinn

"You were about two words short of giving the whole thing
away, you know that, Zeke?"

Without breaking stride Anton Zeekowsky looked down at
Peter Quincy, his best friend and VP of public relations,
as they followed a sunny corridor to his office.

"Sorry."

"Sorry? We've been preparing the launch of Z-Zap for
nearly a year. A year — and you almost gave it away to
that reporter. You're a loose cannon. God, I wish I could
stash you on a deserted island for the next few weeks. I
wonder if Elba's available."

What else could Zeke say, besides he was sorry? I forgot?
He didn't think that would go over any better, though
chances were good that Quince, who'd been his college
roommate, knew that's exactly what had happened.

Zeke's mind had been on the future. Working on new
problems, new challenges. He simply forgot Z-Zap was still
a secret. It seemed a long time ago that he'd had the idea
that became Z-Zap. And, to be totally honest, he wasn't
interested in the project anymore. It was done, solved,
completed. No more challenge.

He especially wasn't interested in the launch. Which
Quince also knew and also didn't want to hear.

"Can you slow down, Zeke? We already worked out today."
Quince heaved a gusty breath as Zeke slowed his
pace. "Next time I'm going to work for a boss who's not
six-five."

Zeke chuckled. Quince was six foot himself, and besides,
he'd always worked with him. Always would.

That thought triggered a vague memory. What was it his
assistant had said about Quince? Something about Zeke
paying attention to his VP for public relations' job
satisfaction or he'd be without a VP for public relations.
Brenda was often right about things like that, as she
never let him forget, but Quince would never leave.
Still...

"I am sorry about the interview," Zeke said.

"I know."
Quince had worked hard on the interview's setup, then had
unceremoniously yanked Zeke away and passed the reporter
over to Vanessa Irish, Zeke's partner. Vanessa was
brilliant with organization and finances, not to mention a
heck of a lot easier to look at, but for some reason
reporters wanted to talk to him. All Zeke wanted to do was
work on the next puzzle.

"If I screwed up and let it slip about Z-Zap, there'll be
another launch for you to orchestrate. Isn't Z-Pix coming
out...uh, soon?"

"October tenth, Zeke. October tenth." The way Quince said
it, Zeke knew he'd been told before. Quince continued,

"And there'll be more after that. So many that I'm
exhausted.

I wish you had a hobby or something so you couldn't be so
damned productive."

Quince sighed again, this one so deep and heartfelt, that
Zeke was reminded of Brenda's warning.

Zeke frowned as they turned into his office suite. Brenda
immediately stood and began spouting messages while she
and Quince trailed him into his office.

"...and the last item is from your hometown —"

"Throw it out."

"But —"

"From his hometown? What is it?" Quince asked. His
promotion antenna practically quivering, he took the paper
from Brenda.

"An invitation —" she started.

"To yet another reunion," Zeke cut in. "Come on back to
good old Drago High and relive those wonderful days when
you were a geeky outsider ridiculed by the student body.
No thanks."

"Doesn't your mother still live in Drago?" Quince asked
absently.

"Yeah. I can't pry her away. At least not permanently.
She'll visit, but just when I think I've persuaded her to
move here, she announces it's time to go back."

"He always makes her come here for visits, never goes home
to see her," Brenda volunteered.

"Thank you, Brenda," Zeke said with his best sarcasm.

"You can go now."

She shrugged, but didn't budge. "This isn't an invitation
to a reunion." Quince said, studying the page.

"Then route it to the foundation."

"It's not hitting you up for a donation, either. They're
inviting you to be Grand Marshal of the Drago Lilac
Festival parade, head judge of the Drago Lilac Queen
pageant and guest of honor at the Drago Lilac Festival
dance. Got a few lilacs in Drago?"

That sweet, spicy scent. Spring of senior year, standing a
block away from the parade route, well back from the
crowds along the curb waving at the bands and clowns and
floats. Something had drawn Zeke there, though he would
not stand at the curb and gawk with the rest of them. He'd
leaned against a tree, separate from the parade and the
crowd.

And then came the float he'd been waiting for — the one
with the Lilac Queen and her court. There were pale purple
and white flowers everywhere — he thought he could smell
them even from this distance. A flash of hair gleaming in
the sun, faces smiling, hands waving. Then it was gone.

Abruptly, Zeke realized he hadn't answered Quince. Brenda
was watching him with interest.

Quince was looking at the letter. "It's signed by Darcie
Barrett — Do you know her?"

Zeke felt a tug at his mouth. Darcie, sitting across the
chemistry lab table from him, grinning as she recited that
poem — again — until he was about to go nuts.

"Darcie was a friend." The only person in Drago he'd ever
thought of that way.

"Kept in touch?" Quince asked.

Zeke turned away, and picked up the mail Brenda had
opened. "No. She left town, too. She must have let them
use her name for this festival."

"How about Jennifer Truesdale?" Quince asked, shaking the
letter. "She signed along with Darcie Barrett. It says
they're co-chairs of —"

Zeke didn't look up. "You mean Jennifer Truesdale Stenner."

"It just says Jennifer Truesdale."

He snatched the paper from Quince. "Let me see that."
Quince let it go willingly. Zeke was aware of him moving
to the computer, bringing a large flat-panel screen on the
wall to life, but his attention was on the paper.

There it was, printed in black on white: Jennifer
Truesdale. No Stenner cluttering up the end.

Jennifer Truesdale had dumped Eric Stenner? The couple of
Drago High had split up? She was available?

Anton Zeekowsky, founder and owner of a technology company
that not only had weathered the dot-com bust but had come
out of it stronger, couldn't form any other coherent
thought. Zeke's brain short-circuited the way it had in
high school at the mention of Jennifer Truesdale when a
glimpse of her long blond hair and pouty lips could put
him out of commission for days.

"So, where is Drago?" Quince demanded, looking at a map of
Illinois on the wall screen.

"Southwest of Chicago," Zeke answered automatically.

"West of Kankakee, east of Peoria."

"And this Jennifer Truesdale?"

"Nobody."

Brenda harrumphed, hands on hips. "No matter who she is,
what you should be looking at is the other letter that
came in the envelope. It's from your mother. Asking you —
begging you — to accept the invitation and finally come
home for a visit. How you can treat that sweet woman this
way, I will never understand."

Before he could defend himself by reminding Brenda that he
brought his mother here to visit as often as she would
come, provided her with as many conveniences as she would
accept and called twice weekly, Quince crowed from behind
him.

Zeke turned and saw that Quince had zoomed in on the dot
on the map that was Drago, Illinois.

"I think we just found your Elba, Zeke." * * * "Keep your
hands up!"

"Officer —"

"Be quiet. Now, back up toward me. Slow...slow..." Darcie
Barrett eyed the figure inching backward across the
parking lot of the long-closed D-Shop discount store.
Broad shoulders tapered to narrow hips. A one-on-one
tussle might be a struggle if this guy was in as good
shape as he appeared to be. So she'd make sure it didn't
come to that.

Especially since she really should have waited for backup.
The driver had responded promptly to her patrol car's
flashing lights by pulling into the empty parking lot —
the dark, empty parking lot. That might indicate this
wasn't the armed and dangerous kidnapper, last seen
driving a sporty red or orange import car, possibly headed
west on Illinois Route 285. But if this was the car the
APB had come in about...

Maybe this guy thought he could pull something. Or talk
his way around her. All the while, a little girl could be
terrified or hurt, and this could be the scumball who knew
where. Maybe even in the car.

That thought had motivated Darcie to act quickly. She'd
given the dispatcher her location and the plate to run —
as soon as the computers came back up.And then she'd
started the drill to get the guy out of his car and under
her control. Slowly. Giving her backup time to get here,
because she was no hero.

She stayed behind her open car door, both for protection
and so she could give chase faster if he dove back into
his car and tried to make a run for it.

"Okay. That's far enough. Get on the ground. Face down."
He looked over his shoulder, squinting hard against the
glare of her headlights. The effort twisted his face into
a grimace exaggerated by the harsh lights and drastic
shadows. Why was he looking at her? Was he checking to see
if she was alone? "Officer, if you would —"

"On the ground! Now! Don't turn around!"

He'd started to turn more fully toward her. She sighted
her gun on him.

Maybe he saw that from the corner of his eye, because he
turned away from her and lowered himself to the ground
without another word.

"Spread your legs and put your arms out straight."

He complied.

She heard a siren coming nearer. The sound dipped, meaning
the car was going under the railroad viaduct at Main
Street. Another three blocks.

She should wait. Just a couple more minutes.

What if that little girl didn't have a couple more
minutes? She eased out from behind the car door and moved
quickly to his side, pulling out the cuffs as she put one
knee to his back. He grunted.

"Hands behind your back — now!"

She slapped the cuffs on him — one, two — and checked
them. Then she breathed. The siren cut off as her backup
pulled in front of the suspect's car to box it in.

"Okay, get up." She tugged at the cuffs, then backed away
so she could keep the gun on him without being so close he
could knock it away. "On the car — no, face the car."

"Got him," Benny said from off to her left.

"I'm going to pat you down," she told the driver. "Do you
have anything in your pockets I should know about? A gun?
Anything sharp? A needle?"

"Officer, if you would tell me —"

"Do you have anything in —"

"No."

She patted the front jeans pockets over narrow hips, found
nothing more than a key ring and nothing in the waistband.

Around to the back — a very firm back — where she pulled
out a wallet and put it on the trunk. Down the legs and
around the ankles. Nothing.

Darcie was starting to get a strange feeling about this
man. Another car came into the lot and stopped. The door
opened and she could hear the radio squawking.

"Okay, turn around."

A part of her she'd thought had sunk into permanent
hibernation noticed that the front was as good as the
back. He was tall — a good six inches above her five-ten —
and had the kind of face where even with part of it in
deep shadow, you could see the bones had been put together
well.

"Darcie!" Sarge called from the newly arrived car. "This
isn't the guy. They got him and the kid at a motel out on
I-55. The kid's okay."