ATTENTION: Stories marked with an * may contain material which would be better appreciated by those over 18. Parental Discretion is advised. This is your responsibility, not ours.



It was the kind of day when mild-mannered librarians finger their sharpened pencils, and consider stabbing the overdue-book offenders. Everyone felt edgy, their tempers rising with the mercury inside thermometers. Everyone everywhere. All over the city, the unusual heat had turned summer from an icebox to a God damn broiler.

I was going crazy. Going to die. I was certain of it. I hated this weather. Reminded me of too many things, too many places; kicking around sleazy border towns, tropical ports with Jack and Uncle Walter. Things I wanted to forget.

When we’d finally stopped in San Francisco, the City That Knows How was supposed to be just another port of call. But a week slipped into a month, became a year, five years. We were dry-docked here, and I felt relieved. The perpetual fog was one of the many things I welcomed. I liked the weather. And the chance to stow my gear long enough to call any place a home. Home for now anyway.

Sweat beaded on my skin and collected drip by drip until rivulets ran down my back. Everything was damp. I plucked at my white cotton blouse, which stuck to me, tried fanning in a little air. No help. Impossible. I couldn’t think. It was too damn hot.

Think about something else instead. That was the ticket. I leaned over my notes, then started typing up my report again. Clack. Tap-clack. The only thing I hated worse than this weather was typing. I struggled with a sentence, the spelling of another word. How did that rule go? "I" before "E" except after "C" … Forget it. The word still didn’t look right, but I couldn’t stop for it. Not now. I was getting my momentum. I was rolling now.

"… last seen Monday, August 29th at 03:00 on the corner of Market and Powell. The list of leading suspects as follows …" Clack. Clack. Tap-clackety-clack. KURKK. Damn. The keys of my Underwood typewriter were locked together like combatants, hovering over my page. I pried them apart, but snagged the ribbon. The ink smeared nastily on my sticky fingers. Hell.

I was wiping my fingers on a hanky when she walked in, announced by a puff of subtle Eau de Something, the expensive kind that comes in cut crystal bottles which cost more than my entire take for a year. She looked cool, elan and elegant; the kind of woman I always wanted to be and always resented. Her mink brown hair was Marcelled into perfect symmetric waves that withstood the heat. My bun sagged, the straggling bits of hair escaping from the weight of my bobby pins, and glued to the back of my neck.

Under a cunning hat and veil, the woman’s doe eyes were thickly lashed, her mouth a Cupid’s bow of feminine red, painted lush but not tart-like. "I’m looking for a detective. The concierge at my hotel recommended … your agency."

She nervously touched the lustrous pearls clustered at her ears and neck. The dull glint of old gold graced her ring finger and wrists. Smelled wealthy.

Positively reeked of old money. A client who could pay her bills. We could use someone like her. Business had been slower than an old boat to China.

Just in time, I remembered not to wipe my hands on my navy blue gabardine skirt.

It may be secondhand and serviceable, but even good material wouldn’t forgive ink stains. I hastily rubbed off the last bit of ink on my hanky, stuffed it into my drawer, and hoped that she didn’t see the evidence of my mishap with the typewriter. "And whom may I announce?"

The thin penciled lines of her eyebrows arched slightly at my drawing room "whom." "I’m Miss Lenoir. Madeline Lenoir. I need help."

"Then you’ve come to the right place, Miss." I reached across the desk, and pushed down the lever on the phone – one short, one long – our code for a real customer. Hopefully Uncle Walter was done sleeping off last night’s bender.

It was some time before he answered with a short gruff "Yes?"

"A Miss Lenoir to see you, sir."

"Send her in."

I listened hard. No extra taps that meant he needed more off-stage time to ready himself before I brought in the client. I got up from my chair, the wheels squeaking as it rolled back. I tugged down my skirt, hoped my shirt was still tucked into my waistband as I stepped around my old maple desk and grabbed my steno pad. My sensible gum soles slipped soundlessly over the parquet floor. How I longed for a pair of smart Italian pumps like hers. Couldn’t afford them. Probably break my fool neck wearing them. And I was already a tall Jane, didn’t need to top six feet with a pair of stiletto heels. But for once, just once, I wanted to walk with that little tap-tap across the parquet, that swaying announcement of feminine intentions.

Forget it, kid. Not an option. I was just a big galoot. A foolish one, half-dizzy with dreams. Like my father Jack. But what did dreams ever get for Jack? Nothing but trouble and a wooden kimono, the only thing in his life that was ever custom made. Dreams were for kids. Couldn’t afford that. There was only me and Uncle Walter now. I needed to keep my eyes on the ground. One of us had to. I walked towards the frosted glass door, twisted the knob, pushed the door open. "This way, then."

##

"I'm Walter Hunter. Please have a seat, Miss Lenoir." Uncle Walter gestured to a chair as he perched spryly on the corner of his desk. Amazing. Completely amazing. Once again, he looked like a debonair man of action, from the crisp white of his starched collar to his polished wingtips. His brown hair was neatly trimmed and pomaded, a touch of silver at both temples. There was no resemblance to the sorry moaning carcass I had hauled into bed with his shoes still on, a bucket by the floor just in case he decided to upchuck the eel juice he’d guzzled all night long.

So he must have found that eye-opener I’d left on the nightstand table. And the fist full of aspirins. They must have finally kicked in. Either that, or Uncle Walter was as good an actor as he claimed to be. "Just sit down, and tell me how we can help you. This is my secretary Nikita. You don’t mind if she takes notes while we talk? Of course you don’t."

The cushions of the over-stuffed chair hissed as Miss Lenoir settled back into it. Her manicured fingers, which matched the exact shade of her lips, fluttered helplessly like wounded birdlings before they landed in the nest of her lap. Big brown eyes darted about the room: taking in the low bookcase I’d forgotten to dust, a statuette of an elephant, the divan, a rubber plant. "Well, I … I hardly know where to begin. My sister’s led a very protected life. She has more money than sense really, and the moment my parents left for Europe, Adelle met a man, a charming man."

Yes, I knew the type. Sweet words, empty wallet. I’d been raised by one, if you could call it that. Poor Jack. Rest In Peace. He had done his best.

Uncle Walter said, "A smooth operator. Someone who’d easily turn a young girl’s head."

"Any impressionable girl. Any woman at all. He’s that kind of man. He could charm the fish from the seas, then leave them happy, gasping on the shore." Madeline Lenoir nodded, crossed her legs in a whisper of silk. "Adelle ran away with him. I was worried …"

"Yes," said Uncle Walter encouragingly, leaning forward so that his watch fob clinked lightly against the silver buttons of his waistcoat vest. "Go on."

"I couldn’t find Adelle. I looked everywhere. She seemed like to disappear from the face of the earth. Then just when I’d given up hope, she sent me a letter, general delivery, posted from here. I replied once, but she didn’t write back. I waited a whole week. I mailed another letter. Still no reply. I was at my wit’s end, didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t just wait at home. Do nothing. Wondering what had happened to her, what could be happening. So I sent Adelle a telegram, told her I was coming out here to see her." Miss Lenoir looked beseechingly at Uncle Walter. "I shouldn’t have done that, should I? Send the telegram?"

Uncle Walter lifted his shoulders in a little half-shrug before he unfolded his arms, let his hands rest, palms up, on top of his light wool trousers. "Six of one, half dozen of another. It’s hard to know. There’s no right answer to situations like this."

"But you must see how desperate I was."

Oh, brother. The helpless female routine. Next she was going to bat her eyelashes. She did. A quick fluttering of mink over the big brown eyes, glossy with unshed tears. This doll was a real pip. A genuine pip. I bit back my groan, my pencil digging a divot into my steno pad.

Client. Paying client. I repeated the chant to myself, imagined all those sweet C-bills lined up in her handbag. Food. Rent. Another month away from the soup line.

Miss Lenoir moistened her lips. "I don’t know what to do, where to turn. So I went to the post office, and waited until dark. Adelle didn’t come to pick up her mail. I waited the next morning. Still no Adelle. But he came."

"He?" I said.

Madeline Lenoir threw me a quick startled glance as if I’d jumped out of a corner and said "boo." Secretaries. We were those invisible people that made the world run. Quietly. Efficiently. "Oh my. Yes. Him. I asked about Adelle. He said she didn’t want to see me, didn’t want to see anybody. I didn’t believe that. Couldn’t believe it. He was very insistent, frightening. I wanted to run away, but I couldn’t. I had to stay. Adelle is my sister. I’d do anything for her. Anything. I said I’d meet him. Later this evening. At the hotel. The hotel at eight. Maybe Adelle will come too. Maybe he only wants more money. I don’t care. I’ll do it. I want Adelle. I …" Miss Lenoir broke off, her hand flying to her mouth as the office door opened.

A middle-aged man walked in, took a step back when he saw us, removing his hat when he saw Miss Lenoir. "Well, hello-o-o-o there."

"It’s all right, Greg. Come in," said Uncle Walter with his usual friendly tone, a tone that completely disguised his long dislike. "Miss Lenoir, this is Mister Hillinger, my … partner."

Greg strode over to the desk with the quick shuffle of a short-legged man trying to look confident. His cheap brown suit barely concealed his belly. He made a vaguely polite gesture with his hat as his eyes wandered over Miss Lenoir’s legs, appraised her jewelry.

Uncle Walter said, "Miss Lenoir is looking for her sister, who ran off with a man. They’ve arranged a meeting tonight. Maybe the sister will show. Maybe not. But Miss Lenoir wants us to get her sister away from him, and send her home. Is that right?"

"Yes," whispered Miss Lenoir, eyes downcast so that all I could see was her hat and her brown curls. Gloved hands clutched her purse.

"Any chance he could gum up the works by marrying your sister? You know. Make it legit and everything?" Behind the folds and jowls of his basset-hound face, Greg’s eyes lit with unhealthy interest as he surveyed Miss Lenoir one more time. His mouth pursed into a silent whistle. I scowled at him, but Greg ignored my warning as he always did.

Miss Lenoir shook her head, still looking down at her lap. Her fingers worried the clasp of her purse. "No. Not likely. He has a wife. And a child. In France."

"They always do," I murmured, unable to help myself. "Although usually not in France. No wonder she had to run off with him. Well, it’s a common enough story. And it sounds pretty simple. Real eggs in the cake."

"Yes," agreed Uncle Walter. "Miss Lenoir, if you can persuade your sister to come home with you, so much the better. If not, we’ll just tail this guy back to the hotel, and … arrange matters for you."

"Arrange?" Her eyes flew up, wide with alarm. "Oh, but you must be careful. He’s quiet, but dangerous. Very dangerous. A violent man, you can tell."

Come on, sister. This wasn’t going to be a tea dance. Manners first. Gloves on. This wasn’t that kind of business. We expected Capital-T Trouble. All fifteen rounds, down to the count. It was our bread and butter. Then I remembered the stack of bills, stamped Final Notice, due at the first of the month. "What does he look like?" I asked, gritting my teeth. "Young? Old?"

"Early thirties. Youngish, but a man of power. Tall, broad-shoulders. Brown hair. Thick eyebrows, green eyes … and a marked cleft in his chin. Handsome. As handsome as sin itself."

"That’s helpful," I said. "What about his build? Thin, medium, heavy?"

"Oh." She bit her lip, considering. "Medium build, I suppose. Compact, not bulky. Moves like an athlete. Graceful but fast, powerful. He was wearing a navy-blue suit and a dark hat when I saw him this morning. Well turned out."

"A gent. Or being kept like a gent. Occupation?" asked Uncle Walter.

Startled, she glanced at all of us, one after the other. Helpless, as if the question caught her straight on and unawares, like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car. "I don’t know. I don’t have any idea."

Uncle Walter said, "All right, Miss Lenoir, we’ll have a man there …"

"I’ll see to it myself. Personally," broke in Hillinger, jerking his thumb to his chest. "You won’t have to worry about a thing, Miss Lenoir. You’ll be safe as houses. We’ll see this set right."

"Thank you. Oh, thank you. I can’t tell you … what this means. Here. I’ll write down his name and address." Her fingers shook as she took the pencil from me and jotted down the information with a quick flourish. Then she fumbled with the clasp of the purse before it unsnapped, releasing more perfume, expensive mints. She pulled out a crisp dollar bill, handed it Hillinger. Uncle Walter and Greg shared a cool look. There was an uncomfortable pause. Miss Lenoir flushed, then put another bill on the desk. "Will that do?"

Hillinger’s grin revealed a chipped eyetooth. The one I had given him. He rubbed his chin, nodded. "That will do just fine. I think our business together will conclude quite nicely … Satisfaction guaranteed."

##

Her anxiety beat at me like the frantic flapping of a butterfly trying to escape but not knowing where the window was yet. Each second – more desperate, less helpful. I murmured all kinds of meaningless reassurances as I escorted Miss Lenoir out of the office into the corridor. When I returned to the inner office, Greg held the money up to the light, then rubbed his fingers over it, checking the rag. He snapped it sharp, whistled long and low. "One hundred bucks. They’re genuine article. And they had brothers in her bag. One big family. Come to visit. Us."

I snatched the money from Greg and Uncle Walter, and pocketed it in my skirt before either of them had a chance to blow it in a speakeasy. Bills first. Booze later.

"What do you think of our Miss Lenoir?" asked Walter.

Greg laughed loudly, his head thrown back like a donkey braying, lips drawn all the way over his back teeth. "That’s one sweet tomato. Real sweet."

"You’re a married man," I said sharply.

"Doesn’t stop some women," replied Greg with an easy lift of a shoulder. "Some women – real women – don’t care about a little technicality like marriage. When there’s chemistry – BAM!" His fist socked solidly into the other palm like a fastball to mitt, straight into the strike zone. "That’s it, doll. There’s no stopping real gen-u-ine chemistry. No stopping anybody. Besides, what’s marriage? Three hots and a warm cot. Sure, it’s convenient. But every now and then, I get a hankering for something sweet. Maybe you saw her first, Walter, but I spoke up first. To the winner …"

"Goes the spoils," I finished. "Just make sure the spoils don’t get spoiled. Don’t queer the set-up. We need this dough. Be careful, Greg."

"I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself … And her."

"Well, you might need some help," said Uncle Walter.

"Help? No dice. I know everything I need to know. It’s all up here." Greg tapped his temple, then grinned suddenly. "And down south. If you know what I mean."

"Oh really? Don’t get them confused, pal. Don’t start thinking with your …"

Uncle Walter slid off the edge of the desk, grabbed my arm, squeezed hard before I could say more, something irreversible. "Sugar, let's not get sore. Stick to the point. We’re all professionals here. Tell Greg what he needs to know." We exchanged a look. "I don’t mind. Honest."

But it’s our case. I swallowed my protest, tore off a page from the pad too roughly so that the curly bits of paper flew everywhere. "I don’t care what you say, Greg. You’ll need this. It’s the info. Miss Lenoir’s man is staying at the Saint Francis. And the man’s name is …" Once more, I squinted down at her writing, elegantly unreadable like a watermark on fancy pants stationery. The first letter. That looked like a M. "His name is Michael. Michael Samuelle."

##

Something buzzed in my ear. I swatted at it, but the sound continued. Loud. Obnoxious. Persistent.

"Beat it," I mumbled, rolling my pillow over my head. "Go ‘way. Now." Then awareness hit me like a splash of cold water right in the kisser. I jolted awake. Jeez. The phone. I fumbled in the dark for the ringing menace, and accidentally tipped over the stand. Caught it in time. Found the ear-piece as I shoved the strands of hair away from my mouth, half sat up, leaned towards the telephone receiver. " ‘Lo?" I cleared the cobwebs away from my throat. "Hello?" I repeated, feeling slow and stupid with sleepiness. "Yeah, hello, Mack. Hell of a time to call." I squinted at my clock. The hands pointed to three in the morning. "What is it?"

"You better get down here. It’s Hillinger." Business stamped out all the usual teasing in his smooth baritone.

I scratched my head, yawned. "What is it this time? Drunk and disorderly? Why wake me up? Let him sleep it off in the joint for a change. Teach him a lesson. He could use a good lesson."

Except for the line crackling, there was complete silence. Then Mack laughed shortly, without a trace of humor.

I sat up, wrapped my blanket around me. Tight. "What is it? Bad?"

"Bad as can be. Hillinger won’t be needing any lessons any more. He’s caught the big one this time. The Big Sleep. So you and Walter better come down. Stockton and Bush. Careful, Nikita. You hear me?"

"But what …" Mack hung up before I could finish saying anything more. I held the phone for a moment as if hoping that he’d say something else, some tag, like this was just another one of his fool tricks. But I didn’t hear any last minute denials. Only the drone of the dial tone. I jammed the ear-piece back on to the phone, swung my feet over the side of the bed, then buried my face into my hands.

Damn. The truth sank in. Hillinger had been a horse’s ass, but he’d been useful in his own way, had been willing to go along with our cock-eyed set-up. It would be a lot of trouble to find someone else. Most guys wouldn’t work with a lady detective, no matter how swift or smart. The better I got, the worse it was.

Sometimes I wished I was just another dame with more accessories than brains. That wasn't me. Killed me to pretend otherwise. Uncle Walter always said I was born before my time. But my time was now. And now … Now, we’d have to start all over again. Once we had buried our dead.

I stood up, pushed the bed back into the sofa, leaned backwards, stretching. I shambled across the living room where I slept, careful to make a lot of warning noise along the way to Uncle Walter’s bedroom.

I lifted my fist, but the door opened quickly before I had a chance to knock. "Lani?"

She glided over the threshold into the hallway, then shut the door just as quickly behind her, the up-draft ruffling through her long black hair. Lani clutched the front of her red dressing gown, a single finger poised over her lips. Then she took my hand. Even though I towered over her, she pulled me down the hall and into the kitchen as if I didn’t outweigh her by a couple of stone. "Sorry to wake you."

Lani tilted her head up to look at me, and laughed quietly. "Don’t worry. I’m a light sleeper, yeah. I couldn’t stay in the business if I slept heavy. I have to be ready whenever the law wants to dance with me, you know. That is, when they're not drinking with me." Her almond eyes tipped further with amusement.

"Yeah, you're a business woman. You got to keep one step ahead. Make sure they don't tread on your toes." Lani ran one of the biggest bootleg operations behind her twenty-four hour Chinese laundry. A ticket for two shirts, no starch, could buy you two bottles of the best bourbon in town. "I need to speak with Uncle Walter. It’s important."

"The phone call. It’s bad, yeah? A death. I can see it in your eyes." Her singsong cadence washed over me like the warm waters of her island home, and soothed my nerves as it always did. Her calmness was a balm. She flipped on the light, and we both pretended to ignore the roaches skittering furtively across the linoleum. Lani belted her robe, then folded her arms. "Who is it, Nikita?

"Hillinger."

"Ah ... That one. So his luck finally ran out. The way he acted. Long overdue for a fall. I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner. Go get dressed. You'll need some tea, yeah?"

"No time."

"There's always time. First things first. The dead aren't going anywhere." She picked up the kettle from the stove, and turned to the sink with the natural loose-limbed grace of a dancer. Lani yanked the faucet. Water thrummed into the kettle. She always moved as if to some silent music that only she could hear.

"Go on. I'll see to Walter."

##

When I returned to the kitchen, it smelled warm and fragrant, kind of homey and pleasant despite the linoleum peeling up at one corner of the floor, the fading flowers on the wallpaper. Lani pushed a handless cup across the kitchen table towards me. "Drink."

Obediently I sipped, tasted the flowers, the tea hitting my stomach, warming me inside. "Just curious. Leaves say anything this time?" I asked off-hand.

"Thought you didn't believe in that kind of thing."

"I don't."

"They say you'll meet a mysterious stranger ..."

I laughed. "I'm always meeting strangers. Some stranger than most ..."

"Who will change your life forever."

"Don't know why I bother to ask. You always say the same thing."

Lani's slender finger tapped the side of the teapot. "But this time, it's real."

"Hmmm. If you say so. So where's Walter?" My hands soaked in the warmth through the thick porcelain cup.

"Still sawing up logs. I could wake him up, but he'd be worse than useless to you right now. He'd hold you up. I'm sorry, Nikita."

"No problem. Thanks for the tea." I set my cup down on the table. Flipped open my Lady Colt, checked for ammo, closed it shut again with a quick snap of my wrist. Then I reached inside my trench coat, and returned it to the special holster Uncle Walter had customized for my eighteenth birthday.

A single vertical line formed between Lani's eyebrows. "Will you need that?"

"Why?" I gave my trench coat a tug so that no bulges could be seen. "You're the one who said a lady should never leave the house unprepared. You taught me how to shoot."

Lani smiled sadly. "It's true. I'm a hypocrite. I promised I wouldn't fuss. But here you are, and ... Well, it's different seeing you weapon up. I could call one of the boys. Extra muscle could be handy."

"No, I can do this. I've been doing this for awhile. I never knew when I could count on Jack, and Uncle Walter ... sometimes, it's the same when the hooch hits him hard." I flushed, remembering Lani's line of business, not wanting to offend her. "Some men can hold their liquor ..."

"...And other men are held by it," finished Lani quietly. "I try to help him. I've tried very hard."

"I know you have. I'm not blaming you. I'd never do that. It's just that ..." I shrugged. What else was there to say? "I wish things were different. But they're not. It falls on me. It always has. So I'm used to running solo. I'll be okay."

"Yes, that's what you know. But that's not how it has to be. You don't have to be alone. Not any more. Let me help out. Is it the bills? I'm flush. Think of it as a loan. No interest. We're family, yeah? Family helps each other."

I shook my head. "This isn't about money."

"Pride then."

"No, I'm too practical for that. Only the rich can afford pride. It's about Hillinger, see? It doesn't matter if I hated his guts. He was our partner. I'm obligated." I squeezed her fine-boned hand. "You already help more than you know. You're the closest thing I have to a mom. A mom couldn't do more."

"A mom wouldn't let you do this. Shouldn't."

We walked out of the kitchen into the hallway, then stopped near the front door. Lani took my hat from the coat-rack and handed to me. I tugged it on, sweeping the hairnet underneath it, adjusting the brim. She pointed her finger down, drew a circle. I turned around slowly. "Well?"

Lani straightened my tie, then brushed her palm against my cheek before kissing it. "You'll do," she said at last, opening the front door for me. "You'll do just fine. Now take care. And when you see Mack, remind him about Sunday."

"All right I'll try." The door closed behind me. I left the apartment, carrying her kiss like a talisman.

##

Death was never pretty, seldom dignified. Hillinger was no exception. I gently tipped his head to one side, then closed the lids over his sightless eyes. "No marks on his head. Wasn't conked first. Overcoat's still buttoned up. Burns on the front. And powder. Whoever did this was up close." Bricks poked through the cracked cement, and dug into my knees. Rolling back on my heels, I straightened up, shook out my trouser legs, brushed the dirt from my knees.

"Close all right. Practically close enough to kiss," commented Mack.

"Anyone see anything?"

"Of course not. If they did, their mouths are sealed shut." His broad forehead creased with puzzlement. He tipped back his hat, scratched his black curls, then reached down and rubbed his long jaw. "Hundred smackeroo's still in Hillinger's wallet. Not a robbery. Was he doing a job?"

"Not bad for a copper. You're cute when you think hard." I stepped back, avoiding the pool of dark liquid which seeped under Hillinger. The laundry hanging on the fire escapes flapped like uneasy ghosts over the alley as if they waited to escort Greg to his obvious destination. Faces peered through the windows. Carefully I breathed through my mouth so I wouldn't gag on the bitter smell of old beer and urine; or thick coppery blood as it congealed.

Mack stood next to me. Even though I was tall, he topped me by a good six inches. Slate gray eyes glinted with a stubbornness I knew and dreaded. "Come on, darlin'. Was he tailing someone?"

"Yeah."

"Who?"

"A guy. Michael Samuelle."

"And?"

"Listen, Mack, don't push me. I don't gab about my clients. You know that." I scouted the scene, Mack huffing behind me like a caboose. No footprints. No weapons. Clean. Not a damn clue. Needed a phone. Fast. I started walking to the mouth of the alley, where a crowd was held off by a couple of beat cops.

"Give me a break."

"Client confidentiality."

"Screw that." He grabbed my arm, turned me around.

"Christopher Luke MacConnell, get your paws off me. Now. Or I'll use those moves your mother taught me. I could flip you when you were a shrimp. I could do it now. In front of your men, lieutenant detective. You hear me?"

His mouth twisted into the willful mischievous smile that hadn't changed since childhood. "I hear you all right, darlin'." His baritone deepened, turned silky.

"Are you daring me? I love dares."

"Mack." I shifted my weight, preparing for my next move, but he let go suddenly. Much to my relief.

He held up his hands, palms out. "Okay, okay. I'm a peace officer. I'm supposed to keep the peace. Not disturb it."

"Since when?" I snorted, folding my arms. He looked innocently at me. The big phony. "Oh. All right. Samuelle's staying at the Saint Francis. But that's all I'm telling you."

"For now," Mack called out as I walked away.

I reached the end of the alley, nodded an acknowledgement to the uniform. Wheeled around at the last moment. "Hey, Mack!"

"Yeah?" he said hopefully.

"You better call your mom. Dinner Sunday. Don't forget this time."

He scowled, shooed me away. "Ah, go on. Beat it. Get outta here."

I hunched my shoulders as I sidestepped a gawker. Recognized a few of the newshawks. Damn press had already sniffed us out. Suddenly a bulb flashed, highlighting the curious faces of the bystanders so that they stood starkly in relief against the night. A reversed negative of the crowd for half a second. But just long enough.

Long enough to see our mark. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a tall man with brown hair, green eyes. But when I scanned the block, I couldn't find him again. Maybe I'd been wrong. Darkness changed colors, dimensions. Shadows lengthened people, made them seem taller than they really were.

Maybe I just wanted to see this Michael Samuelle. Wanted to dream up an easy suspect. Collar him for Mack. For myself. Bury my dead tonight. Tie up the case in a bow, and be done with it.

But wishing never made it so. It was never that simple. Worse, it was a waste of time. Time I didn't have. Shrugging, I walked fast, head down, turned the block. Wadded newspaper tumbled past me and down the quiet street, which was far away from the illicit gambling joints and the Oriental night clubs.

Everything seemed still. It was the peaceful quiet of late night melting into pre-dawn. A pause. On the cusp of a new day. My favorite time. Nothing certain, everything possible. Then I heard it - the quick soft scrape of a leather shoe against pavement. Not my cheap gum sole. I stopped, listened. Glanced around. Nothing. Not a damn thing. The fine hairs stirred on the back of my neck. Jeez. Getting the jitters. Now I was imagining things. Things going bump in the night.

##

I felt like a blind woman driving a go-cart downhill. No brakes. No sense of direction. Just accelerating my way to hell without any control. Hillinger was dead. Miss Lenoir had checked out of her hotel this morning. And no Monsieur Samuelle had ever registered at the Saint Francis.

Case closed. So much for our financial recovery. Damn. I was going to have borrow dough from Lani after all. If only I had a decent lead on this case. Nope. I was dreaming again. There was no case. The whole story about the sister and this charming stranger was all a bunch of hooey. Only the two C-bills were real. And Hillinger's death.

Sighing, I inserted a blank sheet of paper into my typewriter, cranked the platton until there was a nice even one inch margin on the top. Back to my missing dog report. My fingers poised, ready. Too bad Samuelle hadn't been real. Just another ghost we'd been chasing. Clack. Tap. Tappety-tap.

I was concentrating hard, trying to find just the right diplomatic phrase, when the latch clicked and someone entered our outer office. Expensive leather soles scuffed across the floor. "Hello."

I glanced up from my typing. My fingers froze over the keys as I looked into his green eyes for the first time. I knew him even though I'd never seen him before. Recognized him as if I'd known him all my life. It was him.

The blood drained from my face, my pulse racing a little faster. The shock. It had to be. Why else would I feel this way? He was real after all. Very real. I felt aware of him in a way I'd never been before about any man. All my senses were electrified, hyperacute, ramped to the nth degree so that the world seemed almost unbearable. Colors brighter, smells sharper, the softest sound - a shout. I needed to jump out of my skin; knowing that even if I did, I would still never find peace again. Nothing would ever be the same.

Handsome as sin. Madeline Lenoir hadn't done him justice. What was handsome? Something pleasing to the feminine eye. But this. This touched more than just my eye. I was miserably aware. Felt flushed everywhere. In the strangest places. Madeline's description had seemed ordinary, but there was nothing ordinary about this man. His hair wasn't just nondescript brown. It was rich burnt sienna, highlights of auburn here and there. Its short, slightly wavy cut framed a face that could have been carved by Michaelangelo: the defined nose set over thin symmetric lips, cleft chin, all classically proportioned. Strong shoulders filled out his navy-blue suit, which required no padding. The tailored cut accentuated his trim waist, slimmer hips. A bow-tie and the crisply folded handkerchief in his front pocket might have made another man look like a nance. But not him. It was unmistakable. I felt it. Deep in my core. There was nothing fey about him.

He doffed his hat, holding it in one hand, as he walked towards me with the predatory grace of one of the greater carnivores. Young but powerful. Yes. I could see his quiet power, feel it with every measured step.

His leg muscles flickered and stretched through his trousers. I tried hard not to gape like a complete idiot. My throat suddenly dried to sand, all my snappy rejoinders desiccated to soundless wisps. Managed to inhale, and push out the words rattling around my throat. "May I help you?" My voice sounded raspy but it couldn't be helped. At least I hadn't been struck dumb permanently. Not this time.

His gloved hand reached across the desk, handed me a cream-colored calling card. I knew his name before I read it on the card, before he even said anything. How could I not know it? The earth had shifted beneath my feet. Thank God I was sitting down, or else I might have stumbled and made even a bigger fool of myself.

"Mister Michael Samuelle to see Mister Hunter on a matter of business." His voice was slightly accented, quiet but commanding in a way that pulled at me. "I'm Nikita, his secretary."

He looked blandly at me, then at my typewriter as if to say "but of course you are. That is obvious and unimportant." It was exactly the kind of arrogant disinterest that never failed to irritate me. It only felt worse because I wanted him to notice. Not regard me like I was a ink blotter or something else slightly less functional. I reached for the intercom button. "I'll see if Mister Hunter is available."

"Please do. It's urgent. Urgent business."

##

Samuelle sat with the confidence of a king holding state. He looked damn dignified even though his knees stuck up a little too high, his butt perched too low in our interview chair, which was designed to put the client at a slight disadvantage. He didn't betray a single hint of discomfort. Didn't fidget. "I am here on an inquiry. I have reason to believe ... that a certain figurine has come into your possession."

"And what exactly would that be?" Uncle Walter's genial grin contradicted his sharp eyes.

"A trifle that has been mislaid. A toy ... A turn-of-the-century French doll. Porcelain head, kid leather body. Very ..." He waved one hand in loop-de-loops as if pantomiming lace and bows, unable to come up with the appropriate word. "Frou-frou," he finished at last.

"Fancy dress? A fancy doll? The kind given to rich little princesses?" I asked.

Samuelle slanted his head in agreement. "Just so. On behalf of my employer, I am prepared to pay a substantial amount for its recovery. Say ... five thousand dollars."

Uncle Walter and I exchanged a look. I clenched my pencil, pad. Hard before the trembling gave me away. "Five thousand! You could buy a lot of Kewpie dolls for five thousand bucks. I'm curious. Why such a big price tag for a doll just twenty years old? What's so special about this doll? It's not even an antique."

A faint smile lifted Samuelle's mouth at one corner before it quickly faded. "Not an antique," he said quietly. "But nevertheless valuable to my employer. He is a collector of sorts. And this doll has certain sentimental value. He would like it back ... What is the phrase? No questions asked." Samuelle spoke with a quiet confidence that I envied. Did he know that we'd been trailing him for Madeline Lenoir? He must. A gutsy move - to turn around and confront us on our territory. A real cool customer.

Damn. I didn't want to find more things to admire. Where was I? I glanced down at my notes, then realized that I was engraving the pad instead of just writing, my pencil lead worn to a nub. This was getting out of hand. Humiliating. Brakes on, girl. Brakes on now.

Uncle Walter sat forward. "But we don't know ..."

"... how sincere you are," I interrupted. "Anyone could walk in and start throwing around these who-zit's." I held up Samuelle's calling card. "Anyone could print these. It don't mean a thing."

One thick brown eyebrow arched. "I see. You need convincing. A retainer then. Would a hundred dollars do?"

"No. But two hundred would do nicely," I replied. He withdrew a wallet from some secret pocket inside his coat, and removed the bills with an economic gesture so quick that it almost seemed as if he performed some sleight of hand. When my fingers closed around the weight of his money, I allowed a smile for the first time since he walked into our office. "Now this is the kind of calling card that gets our attention. Now we can talk business. Just curious about a couple of things. You said something about the doll being mislaid. 'Mislaid' covers a lot of ground, could be open to misinterpretation, legal or otherwise. Possession, they say, is nine-tenth's of the law. The rest is a matter of muscle ... and opportunity. Now the way I hear it, there seems to be some disagreement. Who's the real owner?"

"My employer. There is no way to prove it, of course. But it is the truth. Naturally."

"Naturally," I murmured. How convenient.

Samuelle's eyes were cool green pools of patience; placid, still, deep. What lay at the bottom was anyone's guess. He stared at Uncle Walter, ignored me. Finally he asked, "Do you have the doll?"

"No," answered Uncle Walter.

"But we know how to get it," I replied quickly. "Piece of cake." And prayed that it was true. "You've got yourself a deal."

"Good. I shall hope for good news by tomorrow. Shall we say noon? You can reach me at the Regent Hotel. Thank you, Mister Hunter." He stood up from the chair with one powerful move. Put his hat back on, shook Uncle Walter's hand.

Then he turned to me, held my fingers. Even through his dove-gray gloves, I could feel the incredible heat of his hand. Touch to touch. Palm to palm. He smelled of soap, lavender and pepper. Clean and masculine. Delicious.

Michael Samuelle seemed to be reading my eyes, then lingered on my lips for longer than was polite. A slow flush crept up my neck, stained my cheeks so that I had to glance downwards, unable to hold up against his intense scrutiny. I found myself looking straight at the silver buttons on his waistcoat, then realized how they jumped quickly and flashed as if his breathing was fast and erratic as mine. Before I could consider the matter further, he bowed over my hand, his breath caressing my skin, his lips almost grazing my fingertips for the barest of seconds. "Enchanté, mademoiselle."

##

"Well, get a load of that. A gent. A real top dollar gent. What do you think, Nikita?"

Uncle Walter repeated his question twice before I looked at him. He whistled low. "Don't tell me you fell for all that Frenchie stuff."

"Me?!" I straightened up. Tried to look insulted. Knew that it was true. But it wasn't the French that had bowled me over. It had been him. Michael Samuelle. He had left the room ten minutes ago, but the potent after-effects lingered, worse than a Monday hangover. "Nah. Are you kidding? Cut me a break. I fell for his two hundred bucks. That's what. Now we can pay off the phone and utilities."

"So who do you believe? Miss Lenoir? Or this Samuelle stiff?"

"Neither. I don't trust either of them. I'll work Miss Lenoir. We have ways to track her down, Uncle Walter. Find out some answers. She never mentioned this doll before."

"What? Don't be a bunny. That plan doesn't make any sense. We need to work the man/woman angle. To a point. You should take Samuelle. Mister Enchanté." Uncle Walter chuckled. "That was swell. Should have seen yourself. You were stumped stupid. You haven't looked like that since Mack rigged that pail of honey over your shower one day." Uncle Walter hit his knee.

"Hardy-har-har. Yeah. A real load of laughs."

"A bucket of them!" He guffawed harder. The baboon. I was stuck with the pair of them - both baboons. The big childish kind. I still suspected that he'd helped Mack set up the pail. The delicate rig had Uncle Walter's signature written all over it. It had taken two days to wash out all the honey, an entire month before I didn't smell it everywhere any more. I still couldn't eat honey.

I counted to ten, then twenty. "Look, Uncle Walter, I don't think that's is a good idea. I don't want Samuelle. I'll take Lenoir instead."

He shook his head. Grinned. "Scared?"

"Of what?"

"That's the question, sugar. That's the real question."

##

The next afternoon, strange unpleasant smells were leaking into the apartment from Uncle Walter's workshop. I knocked on his door, took a deep breath, held it, and then cautiously opened the door. I had learned my lesson after the last explosion.

Uncle Walter hunched over his table as he dabbed a liquid on to a cloth, then held it over the white-blue flame of his Bunsen burner. POOF. The room suddenly smelled like sulfur.

"Damn it." He dropped the cloth on to the work bench, and whipped a lid over the flames. When he carefully lifted the lid again, gray smoke eked out and rose, its long tail and cloud looking like an accusing finger which pointed at my hapless inventor/uncle. He picked up the cloth, pulled it out lengthwise. It was his shirt. He inspected the damage, poked a finger through the hole where part of his collar used to be.

"Turning lead into gold? Or is it your new spot remover?" I tried to fan the fumes away from my face. My eyes watered from the stink.

He grinned. "Yeah. Stain's gone."

"So's the shirt. Let me guess. Was it lipstick?"

Nodding, Uncle Walter reached into an insulated container with a pair of chopsticks and pulled out a steaming piece of opaque white rock. "Let's try this stuff. Cool. Real cool. Solid carbon dioxide at minus seventy centigrade." He rubbed it against a perfect pucker print, frowned. "Huh. Fading a little. Solvent evaporates, leaving no stain. Nice. Probably needs a high pressure system to work better. I wonder ... Well, better not rig it tonight. Lani will slay me if I'm late again." Regretfully, he dropped the rock back into the container, closed the lid, then picked up the bottle and dabbed some more solution on the shirt front.

"Then I can guess whose lipstick. Madeline Lenoir."

"All in the line of duty." He sighed. "Got to get the stains out before Lani sees this, and has my guts for garters."

"Well, we can't have that. I like your guts where they are. Try white vinegar." I took the shirt away from him before he held it over the open flame again.

"Yeah, but I got to test out this new formula. Think of all those two-timing Tom, Dick, and Harry's out there. We could make a mint if I ever get this lipstick remover perfected."

"Mmm hmm. Just keep growing the oyster fruit. Lani's right. Prohibition's going to end, and when liquor's legal again, the market will bottom. Fizzle out. She'll need another line of business besides selling bootleg booze. Fake gems sound like a good racket. Find a way to crank out those pearls, and we'll be sitting pretty."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You're worried about those pearls? You go check them out." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, where the small glass dishes were lined up neatly. "The jeweler's loupe is in the drawer. I've got other things to worry about right now. Like removing the evidence before Lani sees it."

I rummaged through Uncle Walter's shelf of chemicals, found the bottle of acetic acid, uncorked it. The room began to smell like we were dyeing Easter Eggs. Got to serious work. "Jeez. There's lipstick all over the place."

"I'm getting too old for this kind of thing. That Madeline Lenoir has more moves than a Greek wrestler."

"Maybe it's her other profession. Did you pin her down?"

Uncle Walter grunted. "You bet. At great personal sacrifice, I might add. Hope it's worth it."

"Find anything out?" I said, scrubbing hard.

"Sure did, sugar. Your dad wasn't the only one that inherited the Hunter charm. She works for this guy - the Ice Man."

"The Ice Man? Never heard of him. Better run it by Lani. And Mack. Mack knows everybody, remembers everything."

"Our Miss Lenoir admitted there was a doll. Confirmed Samuelle's make. But she wouldn't say much else. They don't have it now. She'll get her mitts on it soon. Real soon."

"Hmm. Two groups, same doll. All this fuss. Must be some doll."

"Must be. There's a big meet later tonight with the Ice Man." Uncle Walter slapped his palm against the bench. "Damn. Promised Lani I'd take her to the Geary tonight. Some new play. By Molly-hay."

"Molière. A comedy. A classic."

"Classically boring. Not like a good boxing match. In the ring, head to head. POW. Now that's what I call excitement. Not people prancing around in wigs, using ten-dollar words you need a dictionary to understand." He pretended to snore.

"You Philistine. I wish I was going. I could use a couple of laughs. But tell you what. I'll shadow Lenoir instead."

"Thanks, sugar. Any luck with Samuelle?"

"No." I scrubbed the shirt harder, wishing I could remove these feelings as easily as the lipstick. In private, in my little daydreams, I called him "Michael." I was dizzy with it. It was foolish. Dangerous.

"No? What do you mean? No luck? Or no meeting? Did you see him at all?"

Ulp. Hadn't felt like this since I'd been caught playing hooky from school when Jack had one of his rare pious attacks of parenting. They never lasted, and either he'd get over it or I'd find a trickier way around it. I'm self taught. And a damn quick learner in the school of life.

Instead of answering Uncle Walter, I leaned over, inspected the shirt closer for any teeny spot. Wouldn't do to be sloppy. Finally I said, "Rescheduled. Didn't have anything new to tell him."

"So?"

"So I had a bunch of bills to pay. They were going to cut off our phone. Kick us out of the office."

"And are you ever planning on seeing Samuelle? Or are you still trying to find something nice to wear? Hair looks a little different today." He pretended to sniff. "New perfume?"

"You know I don't wear that girly stuff. I never did. All right, all right. I'll get on it."

"You better. We could sure use the cash, sugar."

I threw the shirt at him.

##

A good shadow picks her time. In the end, it always comes down to timing. And this was the perfect time in the evening for tailing someone. The downtown going-home crush had finally ebbed, and the theater-and-dinner traffic was beginning to pick up. Just enough pedestrians to mingle with and hide. But not too crowded to lose sight of Madeline Lenoir with her shopping bag. An easy target. That screwy hat with a pointed cluster of feathers and a little veil. There couldn't be two of those hats in the world. It may be high fashion but it looked damn ugly to me.

Madeline Lenoir buzzed two short, two long before she used her key to enter the apartment building. Great. I knew this one well. Only one real way in, same way out. I crossed the street, ducked into an alley, which had a good view of the entrance and the fire escapes on the side of the building in case anyone decided to get creative. There. The second floor, far right. Curtains drawn back. My eyes were fixed on that window as I watched the silhouettes of Madeline Lenoir and a thin hawk-faced man meet in the middle of the room. As good as a shadow play. Better. I was going to get lucky. I could feel it in my bones. Tonight was going to be a good night's work. I leaned against a brick wall, was just settling into a comfortable position, when someone grabbed me from behind. A strong hand clamped over my mouth as I was yanked back against a hard chest. Bit my assailant. Only got a mouthful of kid leather and a good shaking for my efforts. I struggled against arms like iron girders, steeled with muscle and just as unyielding. Caught a hint of lavender-pepper. That aftershave. Only one man I knew wore that scent.

Michael Samuelle. Had Hillinger gone this way? Stupidly, quietly into the night? A lamb to the slaughter? Jeez. This guy was strong. Maybe Hillinger had submitted, but not me. Not a chance. Not tonight.

I slumped as if defeated. Just when his grip relaxed, I suddenly exploded into action: one move flowing into the other, all the hard hours of practice coming together and erasing any thought. A feint, twist. Using the power of my long strong legs to push off, wheel around, kick. Heard a few quiet grunts when my elbow connected here, my knee jolting a nerve point there. But Michael didn't yield. I struggled harder, felt his grip slip as I twisted so that his hands slid upwards and touched my abdomen, chest, upwards where I was softer and definitely not male. I heard him draw a quick harsh breath as if shocked by his discovery. For a brief instant, we both froze, his hands cupping me before they moved on.

I had always dreaded this moment. My cover blown to an assailant who seemed to be more than my match. My body tensed, mind raced; searching, hoping for any opportunity, something I could turn to my advantage. I only felt more determined.

Then something round jabbed into my back. A forty-five caliber something. His wide palm shoved my head backwards so that his voice calmly whispered into my ear. "Be still. Very still. Don't force me to use this. Nod if you understand." I obeyed. What else could I do?

##

"I am going to move my hand. No sounds, or ..." He pushed the gun into my back again.

A case of lead poisoning for me. A terminal case. I nodded vigorously, felt the leather glove slip away from my mouth. The vise grip on my arm whipped me around so that I faced him. Emerald eyes glowed in the dark like a cat's: predatory, cagey, surprise followed by controlled anger. Then a blink seemed to erase all the emotions.

"You!" he murmured, surveying my disheveled hairnet, the trousers peeking from below my trench coat, my hat which had rolled on to the ground. His lips thinned. "What are you doing here? In that scandalous outfit!"

"Just following my curiosity."

"What kind of secretary are you?"

"Not a very good one. Only forty words a minute."

"Go home. This is no game."

"Believe me, I know it. Following Miss Lenoir is no picnic. Can that dame shop! I thought they were going to have to pry her out of Gumps with the crowbar. How many hats can one woman need? Now be a good boy, and go away. Before you ruin my stake out."

He muttered something in French I couldn't translate. At last, he whispered, "I am never a good boy."

Never? His words ruffled me as if he'd run his finger up and down my spine. I swallowed hard.

"And I am not going away," he added.

"Okay, pal. Just don't crowd me. Don't get in my way."

"I will not get in your way. Because you are leaving. Now."

"Not a chance. If I bust out now, I'll give us away. One of their sentries will see me. There's one east, one west."

Keeping his gun trained on me, Michael released me, and extended one arm towards the alley entrance. A small oval mirror protruded from the cuff of his sleeve.

"I have one of those too. Only mine has a telescoping handle. More compact. Easier to carry."

He ignored me. "There's a third man near the phone booth on the corner. Merde. Now I can't reach the fire escape." Michael looked at me almost accusingly, before he glanced away again, his eyes flickering as if he were reading a list of scenarios, assessing the risks, and deciding on a course of action.

"You don't need the fire escape. We can hear just fine where we are. I'll get my gizmo." I reached inside my lapel. His mouth tightened, aim adjusted. I froze. "All right, all right. Calm down. Don't get itchy. No wise tricks. Honest. I'm not going to damage you. I have five thousand bucks riding on your very good health. Got a gizmo that eavesdrops on people from far away, see? We could use it now. That is, if you'll let me get it without pumping me full of lead."

Michael gave a short business-like nod, lifting his gun to remind me. As if I needed a reminder. I pulled out the wallet-sized receiver, put the plug in my ear. "Uncle Walter stuck a miniaturized transmitter into Madeline Lenoir's hat. Like a wireless radio. Only smaller. The triode should work fine at this distance," I added confidently, wishing that the reception didn't crackle like lightning. So I exaggerated a little. Big deal. Krr. Krr. I turned down the volume, adjusted the tuning.

"Krrrr. Boat in soon...oon...oon." Contralto, faintly tinny. Must be Madeline, but without the fluttery feminine act she had pulled in our office. "... The Lido."

"Ah ... your import from Hong Kong. It better be authentic. You better not fail me this time...ime...ime." Must be the one called the Ice Man. His voice sounded cruelly sardonic, each word calculated to chill at sub-zero temperature. Chill and freeze somebody out.

"Of course ... Krrrr."

The sound was dropping. Had Madeline taken off the hat, perhaps walked away from the transmitter? I fiddled with the dial, stared at the window, trying to get a better clue, improve my pick up. Then long warm fingers brushed against my cheek, curved around my ear, and plucked the listening piece out of it. "Hey, pal. Give it over," I whispered, trying futilely to snatch it back.

No way. He was taller, his arms longer. Michael held it up to his ear, appearing to concentrate, listening hard. I jerked the wire, then tried shouldering him aside, but his grip was firm. He didn't budge. A goddam rock. This was hopeless. Since when was he running the show? I glanced up at the window, saw the shadows of Madeline and the Ice Man merge, then lower until I couldn't see them any more. A hand reached up. The draperies closed.

"What? What's happening? What are they saying?"

"Nothing. They are not ... speaking right now." Michael seemed a little embarrassed as he handed the ear plug back to me. Then he took out his mirror and checked the streets again. "Guards still there."

"Sure's a lot of muscle. Was that the Ice Man? A big operator. High overhead." Michael didn't reply. Grimly, he stepped back into the shadows, assumed a comfortable stance as if he was prepared to wait all night.

Fine. He was welcome to wait it out if that's what he wanted to do. As for me? Time to move on. Other fish to fry. I wasn't going to learn anything else with this stone mountain standing next to me, hovering, interfering. I took out my hair net and bobby pins, leaned my head to one side and finger-combed my hair. Then I bent over and started rolling up my trousers until they were well above my knees.

"What are you doing?" hissed Michael, his eyes skimming over my pointed toe, calf, to above my knee where the thigh begins to verge. His regard felt like a touch in places where no one had ever touched me before. Even though my body heated, I snapped my trench coat shut, wanting to hide, feeling confused. Michael suddenly looked away, his larynx bobbing.

I took an extra pair of shoes out of my trench coat pocket. Then I leaned against the brick wall, exchanged my wingtips for a pair of low-heeled flats, stuffed the old shoes back into my coat. I bent over, picked up my hat, and dusted it off against my arm. Re-shaped the brim with more of a slant. Put it back on my head. "They may be expecting you. But would they expect a woman? "Or a man and a woman together? We pretend we're a couple. Then we walk right past the guards and leave." Looking thoughtful, he took my hand and placed it on the crook of his elbow. Then he reached over, ran his fingers through my hair, mussing it up.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

"More realistic."

"What do you mean? You're tangling up my hair."

"You need to look ... like we made the most of our secret meeting place. Like you have been thoroughly kissed." He gave my hair one last twist as if he were tossing spaghetti.

"Okay, pal. That's it." I batted away his hand. "That's enough." Jeez. My hair must be one huge snarl. It was going to take a month to brush out this mess. "All right. Fair's fair." I reached up with my free hand and loosened his perfectly aligned silk tie, crumpled the crisp handkerchief in his front coat pocket as if we'd been pressed together real tight, enjoying our stolen clinch in the dark. "There."

Michael grunted. "Too far away. You are not a school girl going on a walk with her best friend." He jerked his elbow inwards and down so that I was pulled closer, practically hip to hip with him instead of loosely linked by our arms. His voice turned husky. "We must look ... more intimate. We are lovers."

"Pretending to be," I corrected.

"Of course. Just pretend."

Before we stepped out of the alley way into the street, I quickly glanced up at him. Could have sworn I saw him smile. But by the time we hit the sidewalk, his face smoothed once more.

##

Some surprises are pleasant. Others are not. We managed to sneak past the Ice Man's muscle, only to find that Michael's hotel room had been dumped and searched. Clothes tossed, mattress ripped apart. Even his toothpaste had been extruded into ribbons along the bathroom floor. Michael said nothing, just poked here and there through the disaster scene.

The room looked like the aftermath of a coked-up Hollywood orgy, the kind you always read about in the papers. The ones with champagne and chandelier-swinging. I stepped over an upturned drawer, its contents scattered across the plush Oriental carpet. Accidentally stubbed my toe on a Gideon's Bible. "Some party. You hide your wild side well."

"No, not at all. I am not a tidy person." Michael seemed completely calm while he packed a few things inside his valise, as if this happened to him every day. Maybe it did.

We left the hotel in a big haste. Took a side door on to the street. Walked fast but not fast enough to look suspicious. "We'll have to talk somewhere else. Whoever tossed your hotel room did a pretty thorough job of it. What were they looking for, Michael?"

"It doesn't matter. They didn't find anything."

"No secret papers?"

"No. I never write anything down. I must go. They could be watching this place. I need to disappear. Lose them." He still held my arm, pressed me closer to him.

"Hey. Not so close." I dug my elbow into him. "Next thing I know you'll be sucking up all my oxygen."

His mouth tugged at one corner. "Our cover," he murmured.

"Sure. That's your excuse. Just you wait," I muttered as we walked down the near-empty street. Passed by another couple who look as thought they were making a night of it, wearing their glad rags from one high-topping hot spot to the next. Then a sudden thought crossed my mind, and I snuffled a laugh. "You know what this looks like? You look like you're skipping out on a hotel bill. And from a ritzy joint, no less. Cheapskate. But a cheapskate with class. Real class. I admire that."

He huffed a breath. "Embarrassing, but necessary. I'll settle with them later."

"Well, don't tip them too much. The lock wasn't picked. Jam looked clean. Whoever got it into your room used a hotel key. Inside job."

Michael glanced at me, his eyebrows lifted. Then he nodded.

"So what's next? Need a place to flop? I know somewhere you could stay. We could talk there."

"Talk?" He looked impassively at me, but kept moving, practically dragging me along the sidewalk.

"Yeah. I talk. You talk. I tell you about the boat. You tell me about the doll. We collaborate. Put all our cards on the table."

"I do not think ... that is a good idea. I..." he broke off, turned so that his back was pressed against the wall of a building, mine to the street. He looked around me. Put one finger across my lips.

"Listen, pal. This schtick isn't going to work. You Tarzan. Me Jane. I'm not the kind who swoons. You know ..."

Suddenly his hands scooped across my face to the back of my head, and he pulled me to him with a desperate abruptness that made my breath stop, my heart skitter. His mouth touched mine. Hot satin slipped along satin.

A brief taste.

A tease.

A sample leading to another, sliding back into something longer, something more. Some terrible hunger that doubled, trebled, grew into complete and utter famine. Now his lips felt as hard as they looked. Almost brutal. Demanding. His thumb stroking the angle of my jaw, then pressing against the corner of my mouth. I opened for him on a moan that couldn't have come from me. But it did.

That sound. Of need. A need so basic as air or food, shelter or sleep. A need I had never known before, never realized I'd been missing until now. And now I felt it, the ache, deep inside me swelling, welling up, filling me, swamping any common sense I claimed to possess. Then another moan, echoed by his, vibrating from his chest into mine.

He slanted his head, moved deeper, invaded my mouth. Overwhelmed me. Devoured. Gulped me up as though he wanted to swallow me whole. As though he wanted to do it all over again. And again.

My God. What was this? My hands ran over his back, up to his shoulders. I felt the soft superfine wool of his suit, and his hard muscles underneath, muscles that tensed, then trembled like a motor gunning, accelerating, ready to go. He kissed me again, and I kissed him back. Breath for breath. Stroke for stroke. We moved close, then a fraction closer.

Something brought me back to myself. A sound? The movement of his hands? I'm not sure what. But I finally opened my eyes, and saw that his were already opened. Not focused passionately on me despite the expert pressure of his lips, but looking past me. At the street. Then down the sidewalk. Finally he whispered, "They're gone."

That woke me up. Fast. "Oh." I fought the impulse to wipe my mouth as I stepped away from him, surprised by how wobbly my legs were. What had happened to my bones? I cleared my throat. "Good. That was ... Well. I hope we were convincing enough."

"Yes. I think so. Good job."

Just part of the cover. This is a case, girl. The sooner I remembered that, the better. I couldn't meet his eyes. Not yet. It was too humiliating. I turned around, surveyed the street. Everything seemed quiet again. No hired gun in sight. I was safe once more. Safe from everyone. Except from the man who stood next to me. He was the biggest danger of all.

I managed to say, "Shall we go?" Then glanced up at his face. His pupils were so wide that they almost eclipsed his irises, only a faint green rimming huge black circles. Dilated with surprised desire and the same yearning I recognized in me. Not just me. Not just him. But both of us, wanting. He wanted me as much as I wanted him. It made me dizzy.

As I stared into his eyes, my head spun and I felt as though I was pitching forward, pulled into something I couldn't control any longer. A vertigo where need spiraled into the center, and all rhyme or reason flew outwards. Away. I could fall into the depths of his gaze, and never return. I felt frightened, very frightened. It wasn't every day I kissed a murder suspect. And liked it. Too much.

##

"I don't know." As Seymour handed me the room key, his eyes blinked owlishly behind thick bottle-bottom glasses, his waifish face scrunched into the worry lines of an old man. He glanced uneasily at Michael once again. "I don't know if this is such a good idea."

"I'm sure it isn't. Now watch out, pal," I said, gently pushing Seymour's head out of the doorway and back into the hall. "Keep your cute little nose out of my business, and put it back where it belongs. Buried in your books or something."

"Or something," muttered Seymour. "I hope you know what you're doing, Nikita."

"Of course I do. Now scram." I shut the door. Pasted a confidant smile on my face while I turned to Michael, and suddenly threw him the key. He caught it with careless back-flip of his wrist as if plucking petals from a daisy. Real easy. Smooth. That put me on guard. Better remember that man's reflexes. "So what do you think? Will it do? Lani keeps this joint for her men. She calls it her family compound. Not the Regent Hotel, but at least it's tidier than your old place. And secure. No one gets in or out of this building without her say-so. You'll be safer than a virgin in a convent. No one will bother you here. Corner room, view of the street like you wanted."

The air smelled flat, stale, and faintly like pine trees from someone's housecleaning long ago. Michael dropped his valise on the ground. Looking puzzled, he scanned the one-room apartment, the open door to the bath, the kitchenette tucked in one wall. "Do I sleep on the floor?"

"Oh. There's a Murphy bed, I think." I walked to the large closet. Opened the double doors, pulled the bed down from the wall. I sat on the mattress, bounced up, down. "Not too bad. Pretty firm. You won't hurt your back."

He gave me a look that made me blush. Hastily I jumped off the bed, and pointed to the cupboard. "Seymour said everything you need is over there. Linen, I mean. Extra sheets, blankets, towels. Bathroom. Phone."

"Good." Michael yanked the knob of the closed door, checked the sturdiness of the deadbolt.

"Fire escape on the left in case of emergencies." I took off my coat and laid it over the back of a kitchen chair. Then I leaned one hip against the dinette table, watched him prowl around the room. I hated to admit it. The man was a pleasure to watch. Professionally, I mean. Whoever Michael was, he obviously knew what he was doing. "Kind of jumpy, aren't you? Do you always check out your room this way?"

"Habit." He lifted a painting to one side, looked behind it. "I always look first. I do not want to be charged for damages later. Or missing inventory. You can never be too careful." Michael walked over to the bathroom and swung the door back and forth as if checking the hinges. Then he entered the room, left the door open.

Was he trying to make me uncomfortable? Embarrass me into leaving? No such luck. I'd been raised by two men. Certain things weren't a mystery to me from the time I'd been a little squirt. Folding my arms, I called out, "Something's been bugging the hell out of me. Mind answering a question?" I waited but Michael didn't respond. The medicine cabinet creaked opened, then shut. I tried again. "Just curious. Did you bump off Hillinger?"

Tap. Tap. Wood banged dully. The sill rattled, then the double-hung window squeaked its protest as it opened. "Ah. Your late partner. No, I did not."

"Didn't think so. Greg was too much of a pro to tail someone into a blind alley with his weapon still holstered. Nah. I bet it was Madeline Lenoir. Bet Greg just licked his chops and followed her. Expecting a kiss, then POW. Right through the ticker. But you were there."

"Perhaps." A moment later, more squeaking, then the window thudded loudly as if forced past the last layered inch of paint and rust to bang against the sill again, shut at last.

"I saw you. In the crowd."

"Perhaps you did."

"Perhaps - nothing. I know I did. Did Lenoir do it?"

Michael returned to the bathroom door, and stepped over the threshold back into the room. He seemed to think for a moment, like he was wondering how much to tell, how far he could trust me. Then he nodded slowly. "I saw her coming out of the alley. She was setting me up for murder one."

"To get you out of the way. Eliminate you. Were you getting too close for comfort?"

His shoulders lifted with the emphatic Gallic shrug that said everything. And nothing.

"How close, Michael? Spill the beans."

He walked to the next window. Carefully parted the curtain, peeked through the crack. "Tell me the name of the boat."

"What's going on here? I can play blind for awhile, doing what I can on the fly. But I can't really help you unless you tell me what this is all about."

He didn't answer. Just stood at the window for a long time, peering to either side. Walked to the next one, and watched again. All I could see was the back of his navy blue suit.

"All right," I said, staring at his broad shoulders, willing him to turn around and look at me. But he didn't. Damn stubborn rock. "I'll tell you what I heard. Madeline and the Ice Man. They're expecting something to arrive on that boat. My guess is the doll."

Michael still didn't move, didn't say a thing. No emotion. No thank-you's. Jeez. I was overwhelmed by his enthusiastic response. A real cool customer. What would it take to break through that ice? To provoke a reaction, any reaction?