Touch Of The White Tiger. Julie Beard

in the afternoon. That I’d even gotten in the door without injury was amazing enough. The tranquillity of my wide, somewhat decrepit north side street had been replaced by a block-party atmosphere.

      Television camera crews had staked out my two-flat. Neighbors from nearby redbrick apartment buildings had wandered out to see what was going on. I was shocked to see a young couple who looked like they belonged to the sons and daughters of the American Revolution holding signs that read, Down with the Retribution Movement.

      I didn’t realize I was part of a movement, I thought with a touch of irony as I shoved my way through a pack of reporters who swarmed around me like killer bees. One of them—Rob Keiser from Channel 3—was doing a live shot and I decided I’d better turn on the digivision system to see what he was saying.

      When I reached the top of my building’s inside stairwell and swung open the door to my living quarters, I shivered with relief. Thank God I was home. The bad news about being fast-tracked through the criminal justice system was that you could find yourself accused, charged and bonded out for an alleged crime before you knew what hit you. That was also the good news. At least I wasn’t going to rot in jail waiting for the rusty wheels of justice to churn.

      I saw a note on the living room coffee table from Lola. She and Mike had taken Lin to the Lincoln Park Zoo. My knees nearly buckled when I imagined having to tell them that I was now a murder suspect. But I couldn’t think about that now. I flipped on the digivision and a flat projection of the Channel 3 reporter appeared in the middle of the room.

      “I spoke earlier with Mayor Alvarez,” Keiser said, looking officious and concerned as he spoke directly to the camera, “and he admits using Angel Baker’s services for a prior retribution job. Here’s what he had to say.”

      The mayor appeared in what was obviously a prerecorded interview. “I hired Angel Baker a couple of years ago,” he said. He was a fit and vital man in his late fifties, but now he looked gaunt and grim. “I employed Angel Baker after my niece, Carmella, was raped. Her rapist was convicted, but only served two years because he was clever enough to leave no DNA evidence behind. I was frustrated by the lack of justice. This is a problem many victims must deal with.”

      I gasped, unable to believe the mayor had exposed his niece’s violation before the entire world. When he’d hired me, he had been so adamant that he wanted the rape and retribution to remain secret out of respect for Carmella’s privacy.

      “With all due respect, Mr. Mayor,” the reporter said, “that’s why the retribution profession came into existence. Victims want justice. Are you saying you will throw your support behind the Certified Retribution Specialists, even though their tactics are coming under increasing criticism from traditional law-enforcement groups?”

      Mayor Alvarez hesitated only a moment before replying, “No, I can no longer support the CRS profession. Not after the death of my son. We cannot tolerate any group, no matter how well-meaning, if it turns into a rogue force of assassins.”

      “Do you agree with prosecutors who say that Angel Baker was motivated by professional jealousy? She was allegedly envious that your son had passed her over when he hired Roy Leibman.”

      “I will not speculate on the matter, nor will I comment on the case until it’s settled.”

      “One last question, Mr. Mayor. If Angel Baker were here right now, what would you say to her?”

      Hatred filled the mayor’s brown, hooded eyes. “I have nothing to say to her. I hope I never have to see her again.”

      I flipped off the digivision with a remote control and sank down into a couch, burying my face in my hands. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take. But a little voice of logic inside my head wouldn’t allow me to wallow long in pity.

      “Something’s not right here,” I said, trying to jump-start my resolve with logic.

      The door flew open and Lin bounded in, her flip-flops slapping the blond wood floor. “Angel? Are you back?”

      “Lin!” I called out and threw open my arms. She ran into them, and I hugged her as hard as I dared. I didn’t want to scare her with the depth of my need for this particular hug.

      Lin was a petite seven-year-old, nimble and graceful, with bangs and shoulder-length hair as dark as night. Her lovely almond-shaped eyes always lit up when she saw me, which I considered the eighth wonder of the world.

      When Lin had first come to live here, she’d been understandably reserved, but she’d thawed a little with each passing day. And though it would probably take years for her to fully accept me as a mother, we’d bonded in new, unspoken ways during the past week.

      “I’m glad you’re back,” she said, beaming up at me with a resilient smile, minus one front baby tooth. “Was your trip productive?”

      I laughed to hear such a sophisticated word from her little mouth, but I quickly sobered and felt cold inside. How and when would I tell Lin that I was a murder suspect? After my disastrous interview with the Diva, I’d called Lola from P.S. #1 and told her my retribution job was over and that I’d decided to spend the night with Marco. I wasn’t prepared to admit to my ex-con mother that I, too, was now in trouble with the law. Lola had decided to tell Lin that I’d unexpectedly gone on an overnight trip.

      Lola, of all people, didn’t want Lin to think I was sleeping with a man. When I was a kid, I’d lost count of her lovers, but I couldn’t fault her for trying to be better at grandmothering than she’d been at motherhood.

      I pressed Lin’s head gently between my hands and positioned her for a loud, smacking kiss on the forehead. “Yes, my darling girl, I had a productive night.”

      Lola tromped up the stairs, fanning herself. Her frazzled red hair had obviously revolted in the late blast of summer heat. Her cheeks were flushed and, beneath her voluminous red polysynthe gown, her double-D breasts heaved in her bid for air.

      “Hello, Lola,” I said.

      “Honey, you got problems down there. Some idiot reporter just asked me if you’d ever threatened to kill anyone when you were growing up. I said, ‘Other than me? No.’” She laughed and I groaned.

      Lola was the only person I’d ever known who could catch her breath and expend it without pause at the same time. Suddenly remembering my alleged sleepover at Marco’s, she raised her brows with prudish disdain. “Did you enjoy your trip?”

      “It’s a long story,” I said, combing Lin’s silken black hair with my splayed fingers.

      “I have all the time in the world,” Lola replied as she headed for the couch. “Lin, honey, fetch Grandmama a glass of iced tea.”

      “Grandmama?” I repeated.

      She flopped down on the couch and leaned her head back so she could mouth at me: mind your own business. Nothing Lola did was my business, yet everything I did was hers. But now wasn’t the time to get in a mother-daughter spat.

      “What’s wrong with Grandmama?” Lola asked petulantly.

      I held up both hands in surrender. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

      “What is the matter, Baker?” Mike came up beside me.

      I hadn’t heard him coming up the stairs. His calm, accented words washed over me like warm, soothing water. “Oh, Mike, am I glad to see you.”

      I put my arms around him, craving his strength. He held himself upright and firm, yet I felt his affection in the light embrace he gave me in return. “What happened, Baker?”

      While Lola and Lin played cards in the living room, I joined Mike in his renovated coach house in the back of my garden. I ended up drinking an entire pot of green tea while I told him all that had happened. Fortunately, I had a twelve-foot wooden privacy fence around my oblong garden, so I didn’t have to worry about snooping reporters.

      Sitting on the futon on Mike’s floor, gazing at his small stone fish pond through the open French