Hot Contact. Susan Crosby

witnesses to cooperate. You know that.”

      “Yeah, and you’re taking it out on everyone here. When you walked in just now, that’s the most civil any of us has seen you for months. You don’t think the captain hasn’t noticed? I’m saving your hide here. You start vacation tomorrow.”

      Desperation slammed into him. His lungs froze. If he didn’t have work, he wouldn’t survive. The constant burning in his gut would only get worse. He didn’t want to think about what it would do to his insomnia.

      “Two weeks,” Joe countered. Maybe he could tolerate two weeks.

      “Four. And if anyone sees you at the site of the Leventhal shooting or hears you’re trying to contact a witness, you won’t have a desk to come back to.”

      Joe knew Morgan was right. Something had to change. But staying away from the job wasn’t the solution. Legally they couldn’t force him to use his vacation time, either.

      “You know I can’t leave town,” he said. It was as close to begging as he would get.

      “Maybe that’s exactly what you need,” the lieutenant said, his voice not as gritty. “How long has it been since you went away? Since you went on a date, even? I know you’ve been through hell, but take the time and be grateful for it. Clear your head. Take back your life.”

      “Or don’t come back?”

      Morgan crossed his arms. “I want the case file and notes on my desk before you leave tonight.”

      Joe was thirty-nine years old and an eighteen-year veteran of the LAPD. He knew a dismissal when he heard one. He also knew not to argue with the boss, especially one who thought he was doing you a favor.

      “Who’ll take over on Leventhal?”

      “Mendes.”

      Joe tried not to wince. “He’s green.”

      “As green as you were seven years ago. You solved your share of cases from the beginning.”

      Joe stayed at his desk for an hour organizing his notes. No one would call him at home with questions, even if he didn’t include every detail he knew, but he covered all the bases regardless. Mendes knew most everything anyway.

      Everyone but the lieutenant was gone by the time Joe put the folder on Morgan’s desk.

      “Thanks,” he said. “See you after Thanksgiving.”

      Joe nodded, started to leave then turned back. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth. At least Morgan knew he hadn’t slacked off, that he’d continued to give his best to the job, even when he wasn’t coping well with the frustration of dead ends. And life.

      “Call me with me a progress report now and then,” Morgan said.

      “Yeah.” He left, the effort to walk almost more than he could manage. Now what? Go home and face the demanding trick-or-treaters? It would be easier to scrape dried, splattered eggs off his house.

      Go to the Blue Zoo and forget himself in the booze and shoptalk? Given his mood, he’d probably end up in a fight.

      He made his way to his car. On the passenger seat was an invitation he’d been carrying around for a couple of weeks. He picked it up. A costume party thrown by Scott Simons, his training officer after graduation from the academy. When Scott retired twelve years ago, he became a lawyer and had built a reputation for winning tough criminal cases. The Halloween party was at his house in Santa Monica and would start in an hour.

      Costume and mask required. Joe drummed his fingers on his steering wheel. He wasn’t a costume kind of guy. But if he went to Scott’s party he would be among strangers mostly, hot-shot lawyers and a celebrity client or two. He’d be anonymous, but not alone. It was better than the alternatives, especially staying home and drinking himself into oblivion, which was the last thing his stomach needed.

      Take back your life. Lieutenant Morgan’s words jabbed him.

      He tossed the invitation onto the seat, started the engine and pulled out of his parking spot. He couldn’t believe he was asking himself this question, but where could he find a decent costume at six o’clock on Halloween night? Something a little more original than a George W. Bush mask. Something without a ruffled shirt or that required him to say, “Yeah, baby,” all night.

      Surreal, Joe thought, shaking his head. Utterly surreal. He would’ve laughed—had it been the least bit funny.

      The party was in full swing, the music loud and the party goers boisterous—exactly the kind of gathering that Arianna Alvarado loved. Crowds and noise were an invigorating change from her relatively quiet work life. She sipped her martini, appreciating the bite of the gin, then drew a green olive into her mouth and chewed it. “You’re sure he’s not coming?” she asked the man standing next to her.

      “I told you it was a long shot at best,” Scott Simons answered. They stood in the foyer as Scott greeted arriving guests. “If he can’t wear jeans and boots, he’s not going to show.”

      “Add a western shirt and a Stetson, and you’ve got a classic,” Arianna pointed out.

      “But still a costume.”

      Arianna shrugged her agreement. “He didn’t say no, though?”

      “If he were coming, he would’ve called.”

      Disappointment twisted a knot in her anticipation, choking it off.

      Scott welcomed a couple dressed as pro wrestlers then pointed them toward the bar. “Why don’t you just call him at the P.D.?” he asked Arianna.

      “It doesn’t suit my purposes.”

      He turned to her, his brows raised, a smile flickering. “So you weren’t telling me the truth when you asked me to include him on the guest list. It’s personal, not business.”

      “It’s business, in a personal way,” she offered, along with a smile. The business was her own.

      “He likes beautiful women. He would like you a lot, Arianna.”

      “Flatterer,” she said in return. She didn’t want Detective Joe Vicente of the LAPD to like her, however. The one time they’d met, last December, she’d felt a pull toward him that seemed reciprocated, but he hadn’t followed up on it. Neither had she. Mutual attraction. Mutual reluctance. She’d been glad then. He would’ve been hard to say no to, but she definitely would’ve said no.

      “Have I told you how stunning you look in that flamenco costume?” Scott eyed the large red rose tucked behind her ear in her low-coiled hair. He winked. “I wouldn’t mind a private performance.”

      She gave him a sultry look—or she hoped it was sultry, but she was wearing a mask, so she wasn’t sure he could tell. She knew he had no interest in a private performance; he had a beautiful wife whom he adored. But Arianna raised an arm anyway, assumed a classic dance pose and clicked her castanets above her head. Her ruffled skirt brushed her knees in front and her ankles in back. She’d wanted to draw Detective Vicente’s attention tonight. A wasted effort now.

      With a laugh she tugged on Scott’s long white barrister’s wig then walked away, wandering out to the backyard bar by the pool, stopping here and there to talk with other guests as she went. She had the bartender add another toothpick full of olives to the drink she would baby all evening, then went in search of a quiet spot to consider her next move. How could she get Joe Vicente’s unofficial help?

      She moved along a path around the pool, past the cabana and into a dense profusion of fragrant vegetation, following the sound of trickling water to its source—a rock waterfall in a hidden grotto, humid and verdant.

      She stopped when she saw a man dressed in black standing next to the falls, lost in his own world, a tall, lean man with dark hair, wearing high boots, snug pants, loosely flowing shirt and a dashing hat, tipped forward rakishly. A mask hid half his face. Zorro. He carried himself well, his