The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Arthur Conan Doyle

      “This is your last warning. If you violate your restraining order one more time, you’re a dead man, Drummond.”

      He set his jaw tight and for a minute I was afraid he was too mean and stubborn to know what was good for him. I smelled his fear, though.

      “Understand?” I let go of him and stood, dusting myself off. “You have to leave town. Tonight. Any CRS who catches you harassing Janet can kill you. Legally. You understand?”

      He closed his eyes and licked sweat from his upper lip. Then he nodded in surrender. “Yeah.”

      “Good.” This would be the last time I saw this poor excuse for a human being. Maybe Judge Gibson had done this town some good after all.

      Chapter 3

      Blast from the Past

      I grabbed my daily newspaper, which had been tossed into the boxwood outside my front door. Then I hurried upstairs and found Detective Marco flipping through my index of music. I had a big collection of classical files, as well as contemporary artists. He seemed fascinated by my choices. His thoughtful concentration surprised me.

      I glanced around. Lola was gone. She’d probably slipped out the back door, which was just as well. I didn’t need her complicating matters. I took a moment to study the cop. He’d taken off his coat—a retro double-breasted linen sport coat dating back to the turn of the century. He even had on suspenders. They pinched his starched-white shirt and clung to a waistband that tightly fit his narrow waist. His olive skin above the collar attested to what I could assume, given his name, was an Italian heritage.

      “So you like Morbun Four,” he said without turning.

      “It’s a good group. What of it?”

      He glanced over his shoulder. “Ms. Baker, this isn’t an interrogation. Relax.”

      I forced myself to take a breath. I didn’t let any man close enough to find out what kind of music I liked, much less what perfume I wore. Which was none. I’d rather be down at headquarters asking for a lawyer.

      “I thought you went to the store for sugar?” There was a smug gleam in his eyes.

      “The sugar shelf was empty. I got a newspaper instead.” I tossed it onto the coffee table, headlines faceup. “It looks like Chicago’s finest still haven’t found the twelve Chinese orphans who were stolen from the Mongolian Mob. People think they can sell kids like cattle.”

      He glanced at the newspaper and back at the music files. “Is that the paper I saw outside your front door?”

      “I thought you said this wasn’t an interrogation. What do you want, Marco? Ask your questions and get out. On second thought, just get out now.”

      His intense focus shifted from the files to me and he cracked a smile. “Having a bad day?”

      “Not particularly. All my days are bad. I like them that way. I know what to expect when I wake up in the morning.”

      He studied me a moment with a perceptiveness that confirmed my original suspicion. This was no ordinary cop. Finally he turned from my music collection and faced me. “If I told you Mayor Alvarez sent me, would that make you feel better?”

      My stomach hit the floor. “No, but it would convince me to let you stay and—what did you call it?—chat.”

      “That’s right.”

      “You thirsty?”

      He nodded. “Sure. The mayor told me you weren’t as scary as you tried to appear. Guess he was right.”

      “Isn’t he sweet. Did Alvarez really send you?”

      Detective Marco shrugged strong shoulders he’d probably been born with. I resented him more by the minute. I didn’t need some prissy-dick, Brooks-Brothers-police-academy graduate in here pulling rank. What concerned me the most was how he’d found out about my connection to Mayor Ramon Alvarez. I’d done a top-secret retribution job for the mayor, which had been set up by my foster father. I didn’t think anyone but the three of us knew about it.

      I went to the sideboard. “What do you want, Detective?”

      “Alcohol straight up.”

      I poured him a neat glass of classic Vivante—a tasteless liquor that took on any flavor that the imbiber thought about. If you couldn’t make up your mind, the taste would change with every swallow—rum one sip, brandy the next. And you never had a hangover from mixing drinks. I put the glass on the edge of the sideboard.

      “So let me guess. Did I rough up an informant of yours?”

      He retrieved his drink as I poured one for myself. When he was just inches away, I inhaled, expecting nauseating cologne. I smelled nothing, but felt a twinge of closeness. He was one of those men who used his personal skills to conduct his professional duty. A dangerous habit.

      As he retreated with his glass, I realized we were having a four-way conversation. There were words. And then there was the unspoken energy between us. It had been a long time since that had happened to me. I’d spent so much time with AutoMates I’d nearly forgotten how to handle subtext with a human male.

      “I heard you were direct,” he said at last.

      “Thank you.”

      “I’m not sure it was meant as a compliment.”

      “Really?” I shrugged. “Imagine that. Have a seat.”

      I motioned to the brown leather couch and overstuffed chair by the empty marble fireplace. I’d never spent one iota of time worrying about decor. My apartment was furnished with a collection of hand-me-downs. Seeing it through Marco’s eyes, it struck me as terribly masculine and not very fitting for a woman. Marco would probably be more comfortable in my foster sister’s apartment. It was feminine, like her, with colors like peach and lilac. She had silky hair, high heels for every occasion and seductive reticence. In other words, she was my antithesis.

      He settled at one end of the couch and I sank into the nearby armchair. As he leisurely sipped his Vivante, he took in every detail of my apartment and not in the surly, suspicious way of an everyday patrolman. Not even in the cool, jaded way of a seasoned detective. He was more like an art appraiser—scanning ancient plaster walls, my black-and-white framed photographs, the white-brick fireplace that had been painted over a million times, the hardwood floor scuffed by my myriad boots.

      Suddenly, I wanted him out of here. “You’re not a regular detective, are you?”

      “No, I’m not. I worked in psy-ops for five years.”

      Psychological operations. He was a frickin’ shrink. No wonder he gave me the heebie-jeebies.

      “Two years ago I went back to the academy to enter a new program designed to streamline the training of solo detectives to replace those killed by the mobs. I graduated yesterday.”

      And today he was at my door. This was getting worse by the minute. “Why did you decide to switch from being a shrink to a gumshoe?”

      He looked at me with those dark-lashed eyes of his. “You don’t want to know.”

      Goose bumps spread over my arms. He was gunning for me. But why? I didn’t think it had anything to do with Alvarez. The mayor’s nine-year-old niece had been molested. The guy got off because he’d been smart enough to leave no DNA. After the trial, I’d found him and brought him to the mayor’s brother for a little justice. That was the end of my involvement. I had a feeling Detective Marco had done some research on me and mentioned the Alvarez case simply to get in the door.

      “Let’s cut to the chase, Marco. Is this about the Gibson Warrants?”

      His mouth twisted with irony and he took a drink, watching me as he sipped, then said, “No, that’s not why I came. But, since you mentioned it, I’m head of the Fraternal Order of City Police