An oil-burning delivery truck blasted past him as he stood on the curb. The thing was puking sooty exhaust that made Jim hold his breath as he headed for the Coffee Girl across the street from his townhouse complex.

As he entered the lot, Oscar Olsen pulled in on his equally roaring—but non-oil-burning—bike. The loud pipes dared anyone to come within yards of the huge motorcycle.

Most bounty hunters and PIs made great efforts to blend into the crowd. It increased the possibility of maintaining the element of surprise until the last minute. Good for sneaking up and gaining custody of the skip tracer. Not Double O. Nope. He made his way through the world larger than life. His stature, his personality, and his appearance. He was a big boy. No changing that, so he made it work for him. Instead of sneaking up on bail skippers, he walked straight on and intimidated the shit out of them.

But as with most things hard, O had a soft side. Jim had seen O's and that made the big man much less of a threat. Oh, he could still whip Jim seven ways in seven seconds, but Jim figured he wouldn't.

After O balanced his helmet on the handlebars, he stopped just shy of the door to wait for Jim.

"O! You're here," Sandy cooed as they entered. She rushed over and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"Morning, beautiful." His voice was smooth. The kind used in life insurance and Viagra commercials. The girls melted every time O started talking. Also a good tool to have on your side. A trusting voice made people comfortable, helped them let their guard down. His size quit being so intimidating as soon as he opened his mouth. Unless he wanted you to shake in your boots, then that deep booming voice was only slightly less frightening than your mom screaming your full name after discovering you broke her favorite lamp while throwing the football inside the house. Again.

They slid into the usual spot, corner booth in the rear of the restaurant. Jim sat with his back to the wall. O had no fear of putting his back to the world.

Sandy trotted up with the coffeepot. "Do me a favor, O." She ignored Jim.

O gave her a look with an overdramatic brow arch.

"Say, 'Beef. It's what's for dinner.'" She poured as she made the request.

Jim laughed. She was so cute. And he'd bet the contents of his wallet she'd get the big guy to do it too.

"What?"

With a quick slosh, she poured Jim's coffee. Maybe a half cup. Her attention barely left the big bounty hunter. "You know, that commercial Sam Elliott does? The one for the beef people. They showed a pretty steak and then you heard him say it."

O closed his eyes with a little headshake. Evidently, this was not the first time he'd heard the request. "Unfortunately, I do. And no."

"Oh, come on. Please." She looked back. The other morning-shift waitress had moved in close. She wore the same pretty pretty please look young girls achieved with ease.

"I told Lisa you sounded just like Sam Elliott. And she loves Sam Elliott." She clutched her hands over her heart. "Please."

O gave Jim a tepid look, as if this were all his fault. Maybe his silent chuckle wasn't helping anything. "I didn't ask you to say shit."

Sandy then pulled out the big guns, played dirty. She reached out and put her dainty little hand on O's tattooed arm. "Come on, Oscar, it's just one sentence." She'd used his first name. Like she was his little girl or baby sister. Her expectant face was more than either of them could refuse.

He growled. "If you promise not to utter that man's name around me ever again, I'll say it once. And never again."

"Yay." She set the coffeepot down and did a little dance. Lisa loomed closer.

"First Roadhouse, then that commercial came out, I thought I'd never get to speak again without people mentioning him or that ad." O sat up straight up. "Just once."

She nodded. Behind her Lisa mirrored the gesture. He cleared his throat. Took a long sip of the coffee. The girls were patiently waiting, but Jim thought Lisa was gonna bust if O didn't speak soon.

"Beef." He said it slow and with that Texas drawl Elliott had made a living off of. "It's what's for dinner."

Lisa clapped. Sandy squealed.

"And if you don't find me some real beef in this joint, I might just have to gnaw on you for protein."

She smacked his shoulder. "You're so sweet."

"Oh. My. God." Lisa rushed off as if to share her experience with the next person she encountered.

Jim didn't try to hide his mirth. Opened his mouth to speak, but—

"Not one fucking word from you, Bean."

"Not me."

"Now. Seriously. When is the pecker-head in the kitchen going to give up this green menu and start serving real food?"

Sandy rushed back over to retrieve her pot. "Maybe soon." She looked over her shoulder. Lisa no longer shadowed her. "Business has been really, really slow."

Jim pushed his already empty cup toward her. "So my regular business isn't enough to keep the place open?"

She gave him a little smirk and a wink. "Your tips sure aren't."

"Go on. Bring us something resembling breakfast," O said.

She sashayed off.

O looked at Jim. "I bet your tips are the only reason she can feed herself."

Jim shrugged. Sandy was one of the few women he did trust. Not that there was any kind of relationship there. She was a hardworking girl trying to make a living. That could be difficult in Vegas, and he couldn't bear to see the girl hit the streets to make her bills. He was known to leave a twenty or two on the table at times.

"She puts up with me almost every morning. Should get more than a couple bucks."

They sat quietly for a minute. O looked out the window at the passing traffic. It was a comfortable silence that comes from spending time with a guy. Time and danger made men comfortable with one another. And they'd shared both.

O took another drink. The action brought them back into conversation position. "You lookin' for some work?"

O often let Jim pick up some skips in his bounty hunter business for extra cash when things got slim in Jim's world. The offer usually came with the suggestion that if Jim advertised and had a better website, he might get more clients, or better-paying ones. But that was for a later conversation. Today Jim was the one with the offer.

"Nope. I want to hire you this time."

O's brows rose. "As in a bondsman? You get arrested and I didn't hear about it?"

"No." I got drugged and screwed by a serial killer and need your help finding the bitch. "My last client hired me to find her brother. Said he'd been into drugs."

"Sounds about normal for you."

"Well, that's where the normal ended. Turns out my client was only pretending to be the target's sister. She killed the target's sister and stole her identity."

"Oh?"

"I need the backup." Jim liked to work alone. But heading into unknown territory without backup was risky. And he might be lazy, but never intentionally stupid.

This was his burden. His problem. And sooner or later his night with Sophie might become pertinent to the investigation. But if he was going to tell anyone, O would be the guy. Still, he'd wait until that info was need-to-know. Sophie Evers was a grade-A whack job who made his usual list of clients seem like church ladies. Miller had been right. Having some backup with this bitch out there would be smart.

"With your help I'll find her faster. I got a young man and his elderly mother stashed in a safe house, along with her care worker."

"And a couple badges, I'd guess."

"Yep. Not ideal."

"Sounds interesting."

"We'd need to head to Dallas, today. I have a couple leads to work and a copy of an FBI file to decipher."

"How'd you get an FBI file?"

Jim shrugged.

O took a sip of his coffee. "Get to fight with the Feds too, then?"

"More than likely. Pretty female Fed."

"I'll be. This day is getting better."

"I can even pay you."

"Now you're just pulling my leg." He winked but sadly it wasn't too far a stretch.

Jim took a deep breath, unsure why telling O this seemed embarrassing. Probably because Sophie had shown him she could get to him. That he'd been stupid. He rarely repeated stupid.

"We're thinking this chick's killed around ten people, O. Some of the corpses have been scumbags and some are just regular civies. I'm invested in this. I fell for her lies, found her ultimate target, and served him right up to her. Almost left him to her too. I'm responsible. I've spent time with her. She's very good at being bad."

"Dang. You have the strangest shit come across your desk."

"Tell me about it. You in? I know you have a business to run here."

"I got people who can do my job while I'm gone. You could use someone working for you too. Then you wouldn't have to pull me away from picking up strays every time you need help."

"Build my business and hire someone reliable?" He mimicked the advice that O tossed his way every time they talked.

O rolled his eyes at Jim's sarcastic tone.

"That means I'd have to deal with that someone. I hate that someone already and I haven't even hired him yet."

"Why do you hate everyone?"

"I don't hate you."

O smiled. "Yet." He pointed a long, ringed finger at Jim. His late wife's name was tattooed along his knuckles. He'd lost her here, in Vegas, on their honeymoon. Traffickers grabbed her in a club, right under O's nose. He'd stayed to find the creeps, but only found a trail to a dead body.

"I'll be your Huckleberry … on one condition." O leaned back in the booth, his body language suddenly cocky. "Gun range."

Jim let his head hit the back of the booth. "I don't want a gun." He sounded like a whiney teenage boy being assigned chores.

"You need one. I'll help you."

Not the range. Anything but the range. It was bad enough he was feeling like a weak-ass punk after letting Sophie get him by the balls, now he had to prove to O he couldn't shoot for shit.

"I'll hire someone else."

"You really that afraid to shoot, man?"

"Not fear. I told you, I suck with a gun. You want me to carry a gun, give me a sawed-off shotgun. Hell, a grenade. Cuz anything that takes more skill than that, I'm useless."

"Grenades? That's subtle." O pulled a ten out of a beat-up leather wallet and tossed it onto the table. "Two hours. Scruffies."

Jim knew it. The outdoor range on the west side. "The food's not even here yet."

"No real food is ever gonna show up here." O stood and tapped the table. "Two hours."


Shrill lyrics reverberated around the car. Not that Sophie could understand the words to any of the tracks. It was in Italian. She knew the story the opera told without the actual words. A count kills his countess after an affair in the afternoon. Classical opera, full of death and tragedy. It had taken years to understand why it spoke to her at such an early age. The death, the tragedy, it all mimicked her childhood, her life.

The crap audio system in the late-model minivan was not designed for the tonal depth of the piece. Not many speakers were. But the intense harmonics and the riot of sharp voices battling deep emotion worked to calm her scattered thoughts.

That the pup slept through it amazed her. It was loud and obnoxious and she loved it. That affinity had started in high school. The music had made her foster parents insane. Anything to annoy them had become a fast favorite.

In the process, she'd acquired the taste for the bloodlust themes and desperation in what little of the lyrics she understood. The passion of the music always made her blood run hot.

Music was one of the few things Sophie felt a passion for. The rest of the entitled and commercialistic culture could cease to exist and she'd miss little of it. Everyone on the planet could dissolve and she'd miss no one. Well, no one but Daniel Kent Hodge. A therapist once told her those weren't real feelings, just a mere obsession. Fuck him. She felt them. Danny would too. Either way, the music fueled it and her.

After graduation, when she'd held a series of meaningless small jobs, classical music had helped her move up in the world. Escaping to it helped curtail her anger. She could disappear and the stress of working with the inane idiots at the Taco Hut would slip away.

In a way, it pushed her and was part of the plan on how to get out of the lifestyle she was doomed to live because her dumb whore of a mother had dumped her. It had been while lost in the frenzied notes and octaves that she decided she could use her body and her anger to rise above the carnage of her existence. She could work herself into a musical trance and think through her issues. It had helped her decide that taking out pimps and drug-dealing scum would be far more lucrative than selling pretzels or burritos at the mall.

A flash of blue caught her eye, followed by another, blaring for her acknowledgement. Fuck. She did not need this now. How long had the annoying cop been back there with his lights flashing at her? She glanced down. Apparently the music had worked its way from her brain to her right foot.

She turned down the music and considered just driving on. Her tool bag was in the floorboard on the passenger side. Close enough to reach out and snag her blade sitting snug in its sheath.

She slowed to pull over. Carla raised her little head from the seat next to her.

"Don't worry, sweet pea, it's just the stupid cops."

She fished for her current set of documents as the officer took his time to run the plates. She made sure the name was the one she wanted to present at the moment. No worries there. The van was registered to Eloise Fowler, Noblesville, Indiana.

She waited.

The cop stayed in the car.

Checking her plates shouldn't take that long.

Time passed, but Sophie didn't worry, nor would the ice job intimidate her. She glanced at the clock on the dash. Five minutes since she'd come to a halt. If he was looking for any sign of criminal activity, he'd find none. She was getting peeved.

Finally the silver door on the squad car opened. Sophie let the window down as a young officer stood. A small, round female approached. The woman tugged her black slacks up by the utility belt. Different to see a female officer alone at night. Sophie assumed another cruiser was close by in case of trouble.

"License and registration, ma'am."

Sophie shoved the required documents toward the window, sighing loud enough to show her displeasure at the interruption of her travels. And the bitch cop had the nerve to closely examine the license as if she suspected a forgery. There was nothing to suspect. The minivan was bought and paid for with cash at Herb's Used Cars last month by Eloise Fowler. Registered in the same name. Insurance carried by Eloise Fowler. Driver's license with Sophie's picture read Eloise Fowler.

And her van wasn't suspicious either. They were near the Yosemite National Park. Several duffle bags and a cooler occupied the back, and a puppy happily riding by her side made for a great cover. A camping adventure. Nothing out of sorts, nothing to see here.

"You realize you were going twenty miles per hour over the limit, Ms. Fowler?"

"Of course I do. The speedometer is directly in front of my face. Any moron who tries to tell you they don't know they're speeding is lying."

Sophie didn't look away from Carla to see the cop's reaction to the frank comment. She was in a hurry and wanted to get the ticket and move on. She didn't care. Nothing would be on her record, no need to pay whatever fine might come along with such a grievous disrespect for California speed laws.

She glanced at the out-of-shape woman. Her collar rode high on a squat neck. No sign of an Adam's apple moving as she preached the cops' sermon.

"That's considered reckless driving. I can't let this one go. That far over, you're facing a loss of driving privileges. Probably going to lose this license for at least six months."

Sophie sat silent as the policewoman waited for an elaborate lie. The plea for a warning ticket. Sophie checked her nails.

"But hey, no excuses, no argument. I like that."

"I don't give a shit what you like. I have places to be. Can you cut the chit-chat and let's get this over with?" She shooed her with a wiggle of the fingers.

"Don't antagonize me, Ms. Fowler." The cop hitched up her belt again and Sophie caught her checking to see that her weapon was at the ready.

For an instant Sophie's fingers itched to take the challenge. Who could kill faster on this deserted bit of highway? She was at a distinct disadvantage sitting in the van. But the cop was fat and several years older than when she'd passed the physical requirements of the training academy. Sophie was fit. Strong. And smart.

If she irritated the bitch cop enough, the officer would have Sophie step out of the car. Advantage was definitely on Sophie's side then. She would have the upper hand in close combat. The element of surprise alone was a winning factor. The completely unexpected ability to turn from belligerent speeder to killer in an instant. This cop would never see it coming. Sophie could disarm her, and then kill her with ease. Who did she think she was dealing with anyway?

"There's no law that says I have to be nice to you, is there?" She didn't give the officer a chance to respond because she knew very well she was right. "Are we done?"

She looked the cop directly in the eye, showing no fear, no intimidation.

The officer shoved her citation through the window. "I'll see you in court. There is a law that says that."

Sophie smiled at the woman, genuinely pleased, knowing she would not be going to court. "Thank you very much."

"Slow down." The cop handed her the license before walking back toward her cruiser. Sophie could go after her and slit that short little neck in an instant. But she had other, more pressing things to attend to.


The door to Scruffies looked more like the entrance to a strip club than a firing range. Screaming red neon confirmed the establishment was, in fact, open. There were fliers and posters plastered over the entire surface of the glass door, blocking any view of the interior. He'd not been here before. Jim had not stepped into a range since college, when he was getting ready to join the cadets at Quantico.

He'd sucked. Not in the missing the center mass of the body-shaped target by a few inches kind of sucked. No. He missed the entire body-shaped target almost every time he pulled that trigger. Not long into training, he got frustrated. He'd stood in that booth and looked down the range with his ego in full control. No way he was going to be the worst shot in the class. Not him. He'd mastered so many other things in life with ease. The fact that weaponry hadn't come naturally worked his nerves like a dull knife on a thick rope, slow and fraying.

Instead of reasoning out the bad aim, his move was to use a gorilla grip on the gun, the idea being he could manhandle the weapon into improved targeting. Sounded good at the time. The instructor had given Jim nothing but disapproving looks, which only fueled Jim's overreaction to the situation. Arrogant and mean, the retired trooper was probably doing these classes to pay for alimony. For at least two ex-wives.

The last straw came on a Friday. He remembered it like a bad dream. Jim had fired. His tight grip pushed his aim so low, he shot the inside of the range booth.

The slug ricocheted backward at an angle, which took it dangerously close to the thigh of the asshat instructor. The man had to jump out of the way of a .40-caliber slug. It wasn't really that close. Given the mouth breather's goal was to make everyone around him feel small and stupid, he used the accident as expected.

He'd roughly extracted the weapon from Jim's shocked, shaking grip, followed by a teardown fit for a teenager who'd taken his father's car keys. Then to make the scene complete, the instructor had tossed the gun dramatically into a case and told Jim a five-year-old could outshoot him. Although true, the public slur pulled at his ego. Insult to injury. The rest of the class was looking on, most trying to stifle their amusement. Not to save Jim any embarrassment, but to keep the instructor's attention away from their own shortcomings.

Mortified, Jim went straight to the karate studio and signed up for classes. He'd taken them as a kid and figured accidentally killing a man with your bare hands was a little less likely than with a gun. Intentionally … well, that was another story.

With a deep breath to suck down his memories and his ego, Jim stepped inside Scruffies. O stood at the counter. He'd signed them in. Jim gave over his license for their records. Muted gunfire echoed throughout the building. Through the thick glass behind the counter he saw a couple of guys and women were already on the range. He'd hoped for a more private lesson.

O turned and headed back for the door.

"You forget something?"

"Nope. We're shooting on the outdoor range. It's around the far side of the property." O used his body to push the door open but didn't wait for Jim to follow. He had to rush to catch up as O started up his Tahoe. Jim hopped in the passenger seat. "I thought we'd be less claustrophobic out here."

O was right. The outside range was a picnic table under a carport shelter with a long, waist-high bench along one side to hold the weapons. Their shooting alley was far enough away from two other shooters that he didn't need to worry about anyone but O seeing the fiasco to come.

O pulled out four twenty-five-round boxes.

"Don't need too much ammo. If I haven't sent you running for cover by the time we finish one box of that, I'm buying lunch."

"You're buying lunch anyway. What time do you want to head to the airport?" O shoved a magazine into the gun and pulled the slide to load the chamber.

"Three."

The big man held the gun in his palm. "You get any real instruction?"

"Does an old trooper yelling at me for two days count?"

"Yeah. Here. Loaded five. Keep it pointed downrange, please."

Jim took it. "So you have seen me shoot." Cool metal was slippery in his sweating hand.

"It's just good practice. Finger off the trigger too. Keep it that way till you have the legal right to shoot and the intention to do so. No walking around dark houses with your damned finger on the trigger. Cat might jump out at you and you shoot your partner in the ass." O demonstrated, keeping his finger pointed up the barrel but very close to the trigger.

Jim mimicked the finger position. It was comfortable.

"Now shoot."

Jim turned his attention to the targets. They weren't the paper silhouettes that he'd used in the indoor range. Still body-shaped, these were metal and dangled from posts like hammered steel hangmen.

Jim took a deep breath. "This won't be pretty." He held the gun up with both hands in the grip he was taught. His finger slid to the trigger. He squeezed slow. He didn't want to hear it. His jaw hurt from his clenched teeth. After what seemed like a day too long, the gun went off. No sound of metal. He looked at O.

"Try again."

Jim repeated the same action. Still no sound of metal on metal. Hopeless.

"You shoot like a girl."

"Fuck you."

O moved close and shadowed Jim's stance. "You were all leaned back with your hips forward. Looks like a pregnant woman, all belly out. And you anticipated the bang, making you lean even farther back."

"Did I?"

"Yeah. Could you even see the target when you pulled the trigger?"

Jim thought about it. No. Crap, that was embarrassing.

Never told the old trooper he'd lost sight of the target. But he now realized what he was doing. Same thing with the baseball as a boy. The pitcher would let go of that hard ball and Jim's eyes snapped shut knowing it was flying uncontrolled at his head. Not to mention he was trying to force as much power to the bat as possible. No need to cover his inadequacies with O, the man had already seen many of them.

"I think I closed my eyes."

"Hell yeah, you did. And to compensate for that you're gonna automatically point that gun almost straight down." O demonstrated, his hips pushed forward, his gun arm pointed down and his eyes closed.

"Fucking does look like a pregnant girl."

"Don't say that too loud. There's plenty of girls around here who shoot better than the both of us. Now, try again. Lean those shoulders forward. Relax. Point the dangerous part forward and aim. Use that finger pointing forward as a guide. Forget the sights. Point at what you want to hit. Take a smooth breath and pull that trigger. Keep your eyes open and on the target."

Jim changed his stance. It felt better. He pulled the trigger. Felt the sweet spot, concentrated on keeping his eyes on the center of the human-shaped metal plate he was pointing at. The blast made his ears ring even through the earplugs, but he managed to keep his eyes open.

Clank. Metal. Hit.

He looked at O. "You look more surprised than me."

O chuckled and fired off five quick rounds. Each hit. Center mass.

Jim lifted the gun, sighted, and fired the remaining two rounds in his magazine.

"Still low and to the left, but that's just a problem with anticipating. You'll get past that." O handed him a box of fifty rounds. "Five at a time. Reassess. I'll make comments."

O leaned back on the picnic table and lit a huge cigar.

Jim slapped in the reloaded magazine. Checked his stance. Took a smooth breath and squeezed as he let the breath out. Very zen. Clank! Clank! Miss. Clank! Clank!

"Not bad for a guy who said he can't shoot. All you needed was an instructor with half a brain."

"Good thing I have one of those." Jim looked up from reloading. "You're lucky to have half a brain."

"Shut up and shoot. Need to be at Ely's in an hour. He says he's got something on our whack job."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. And he's got us some toys for the trip."


Annie circled Jim's legs as he sat at Ely's table. The cat was desperate for his attention. So much so that she jumped up and perched contently in his lap. He ran his fingers though her long, silky fur. Not a luxury he experienced very often. The cat loved to be close, but touching was usually a deal breaker. She doled out that kind of intimacy in small sweet moments. Jim needed to spend some time at home.

When Ely tossed the blue folder in front of Jim, Annie fled the area and returned to watching them from her normal spot on the top level of the countertop.

"How'd you get a copy of this?" the techie asked.

Jim shrugged. "Contacts."

"But this is actual FBI paperwork."

"It's a copy."

"No, dude. This is original sin, right here." Ely bit his lower lip.

Crap. "Evidently it got mixed up with the copy."

Ely tapped the folder. His thin frame was made thinner by black fatigues and a black tank. When he turned around, the back arm openings let some of his scars show. Scars from months of being a POW. Remnants of horror stories that must come to him in the night.

His right forearm was tatted up with an odd pattern of old and new ink. Each little thing meant something to the wiry vet. Jim never presumed to ask about any of it, but sometimes when Ely was stoned, and they were alone, he told some stories. Jim always listened. Never asked for elaboration. He'd let the guy go into heavy details, even when they made Jim thank whatever lucky stars there were that his own misery and pain was not what Ely had lived through.

Jim feared he wouldn't have made it through something like being beat with bamboo until blood ran down the backs of his legs, staining the dirt floor under numb knees. And Ely still cared about people. Jim rarely did. Didn't trust. Even getting close to O and Ely had been hard.

"Hope your source can cover his or her ass, man."

"He can." Jim hoped. He'd call to give Miller a heads up. If they needed to make a trade, he'd make it happen before leaving for Dallas.

O lit up. With all the pot smoke in the house a little bit of cigar smoke wouldn't hurt anything.

"That secondhand is going to shorten my life, you know?" Jim waved his hand to usher cigar smoke out of his face.

O puffed out. "You smoke sometimes. Anyhow, that's not going to be your downfall, Bean."

"No?"

"Nope. Your solitude."

"I'm dying of solitude?" That was prime.

"Yep. You care about nothing. No one. You got nothing to lose. It makes you a good investigator, would have made you a great soldier, but it's gonna get you killed. Last time we were in on something together, you jumped off the roof of a two-story building."

"And?"

Ely nodded. Not like he had any more personal connections than Jim did.

"Moving so fast, you're gonna breeze past that line in the sand one day. The one you shouldn't cross. You'll go too far. And you'll do it without thinking twice. Why? Cuz you got no one to worry over you." O sucked in a draw, closed his mouth, his cheeks puffed from holding it.

O was mostly right. But Jim figured even if he had someone these days, he'd still call all the shots the same. "I got you guys. And Annie."

Ely nodded, his whole upper body moving with his head as if grooving to some beat Jim and O would never be able to hear.

"Just consider going on a date."

"A date?" With flowers and good night kiss pressure? No thanks. He'd stick to the strippers and one-night stands.

Like in Texas with Sophie. That was how he would have to file that event in his head. Just a drunken misadventure. An image of her straddled over him made his stomach turn. "We got a case here or we gonna continue with this joke of a love life intervention?"

"Have to have a love life to intervene in it." O took another puff and leaned his head back so the exhale billowed straight overhead.

The smoke danced around the weird Circus-Circus act sculptures hung above.

"What do you think, Ely?" Jim asked.

"Of the folder? Bitch don't like anyone and has no conscience."

O laughed. "No shit." He leaned forward. "What's her plan, though? It can't be to kill Hodge. Too much drama for that. She's clearing a path of bodies to get to him. There's got to be a motive here we're not seeing."

"Agreed." Jim stood and paced toward the front door. "She could have killed Dan back when she slashed his old girlfriend. And again when she got his buckle bunny."

"They ever have a real relationship?"

Jim turned back to the guys. "Nah. He said she was too young. He was in high school, she was in middle. I'm guessing the attraction was probably all in her head, even back then."

O shrugged. "So she loved him and he didn't return the favor. Since she's diced up pimps for money, I'd think unrequited love would be a killing offense."

Ely opened the file. Pointed at the pics of dead men and women staring up at him. "If these are all hers, she's changed her technique as time has passed."

"If?"

"Yeah. I mean other than the girlfriends, the first two crimes were pimps. In those days not a lot of care was taken if a dirt bag, drug-dealing pimp with a two-foot rap sheet got offed. Clumsy evidence collection at best. Couldn't pin those on her without a confession, is my guess. The next two or three aren't much better. Wasn't until she moved uptown that her vics got middle class enough to have the crime scenes well documented and collected."

"We have to get moving." O mashed his cigar into a tray. He looked remiss at leaving a good half of it behind. "Flight's in a couple hours. Can you keep looking for something in that file, Ely, something we're not seeing?"

"Yep. Have just the tool for opening the mind."

O snorted. "I bet you do. Maybe you can give us a good place to start?"

"Of course. Get that file back to Miller," Ely said.

"Why'd you ask where I got it if you knew?" Jim asked.

"Two ways that could have gone down—Miller or maybe you seduced it off Lady Fed." Ely's grin was lopsided. Suspicious.

No way. She was smart, successful, and beautiful. Everything he would love in a chick, but he'd never get past the fact she was an agent and Jim was a slob with a drinking habit. "Hardly."

They both eyed him.

"How'd you two know about Lady Fed anyway?"

The pair shrugged, neither doing a particularly good job of faking their innocence. Fucking Miller. Maybe Jim should keep that blue folder and let Miller deal with the consequences.

"See, I knew there was a woman for you." O winked. "Classy agent lady?"

Not a chance. No Feds for him.

Ely slid a yellow folder to Jim. "Made extra copies." He met Jim's eyes. No humor. Then glanced to the folder and back. It took all of two seconds to know what Ely was thinking about. Jim had forgotten to take his own rap sheet out of the file. Lady Fed had pulled his records. Records that should have been sealed.

His palms itched to hit someone. Not that he was hiding his past from Ely, but few knew he'd faced all those inflammatory charges and had changed his name. Seemed that number was growing. Miller, O, Lady Fed, and now Ely. If Ely gave him the pity face, Jim was gonna punch it.

"I think you need a woman who don't keep the clock running, Bean," Ely said. So it was the hookers and not Jim's history he was all bashful over. Surprising.

"The day you can keep a girl, call me. I'll consider it. Until then …"

"I have a girlfriend." Ely gave them a smug look and headed to the back end of the building. He stopped to twist the tumbler of the combo lock on his closet.

Jim called it the Toy Room. He'd only seen it a couple times, but he knew there was shit in there from both world wars. Real stuff. Fun stuff. He had the latest state-of-the-art techno-warfare munitions as well. Things Jim was sure Lady Fed would love to know were residing with a stoned, batty ex-Marine. Jim loved looking at the old shit.

"New girlfriend? Do tell." O followed him in.

Jim trailed. He sucked in a deep breath, loving the smell of gun oil and black powder. Now that he had figured out the basics of his shooting problems, maybe he should consider getting his own handgun.

He picked up a good-sized one, maybe a 9mm. Could have been a 40-cal. He had no real clue.

"She works at the Mellow Man pizza place downtown. Old hippy. Skinny. Pretty eyes."

Sounded about right for Ely. Someone from his era was a good thing. Might understand the PTSD and all the scars. Jim checked the gun to feel its weight in his palm. Felt light.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Bean," O warned. "You need a lot more practice before you start waving those things around. A few plinks at a target does not a marksman make."

Jim turned the gun over. Inspected the other side. "Thinking about it doesn't hurt anyone."

O pushed the muzzle away from the open room. "Unless you let loose a panic round or something and put a hole in good old Ely here. Whatever would his girlfriend do?"

Ely snickered. "She'd likely move on to the next guy with a big … bag."

"Is that the kind of relationship you want?" Jim wasn't sure why he asked that. Ely was a grown man. And shit if he wasn't experienced, but Jim still worried someone might take advantage of his generous nature. Last thing the vet needed was some chick cleaning him out.

"She's all yours when you want it, dude."

Jim put the gun down. "Only kind of bag I have carries groceries. Your girl probably won't like that."

Ely laughed and bobbed his head towards the gun. "The piece, I meant, not my piece." Ely dug in a box filled with shipping peanuts. He pulled out a smaller black plastic case. "New tracking device. Comes with a phone app. If you can get it in a purse or briefcase, you can track right to the object."

Problem with that was purses and briefcases got left behind. But it was better than the big magnet trackers Jim stuck on car undercarriages.

Ely took a couple small boxes off a shelf. "Earwigs. Set of four. I got a few more flash-bangs if you want them, but not sure the airline will let you carry them on. More than three ounces."

"No shit." O took the electronics. "I'll hook up with a bounty hunter I shared some info with in Mesquite. He'll take care of anything we need beyond my sidearm."

"Don't think we'll need too many toys, O. It's like we're hunting a ghost. We don't find her, there's nothing to shoot at. It's unlikely she's back in Texas."

"She could be anywhere."

"Girl's gotta have a home base." Ely led them out of the closet, making sure the thing was locked up tight before he stopped and put his hands on his hips, staring up at the eagle hanging over the upstairs railing like a gargoyle on steroids. "She has a plan, she wants that Hodge boy. She's got somewhere ready to accommodate the dude. Whether it's for loving or killing, that's your worry—the nest."


"Hope you got the insurance." O got out of the car and stretched his legs. The trip from the airport had taken near forty-five minutes.

Jim pushed the button on the fob but also double-checked the handle to ensure that it wasn't opening. Not that any door locks made were going to help. This was the kind of neighborhood where if a person found themselves there accidentally, by wrong turn or bad GPS, they snapped the locks shut as they drove. They prayed to whatever god they pleased that they hit all the lights green until they could get back on the freeway. When they had to stop, they kept their eyes forward, wondering if the kids on the corner were going to hijack the car. Even the streetlights sagged in depression as they hung over dirty, narrow streets.

"I did. Good thing you wanted to leave most of the equipment in the hotel room."

Jim turned back down the street they'd driven up. They'd passed the address.

It looked vacant. Graffiti-painted plywood covered the only window on the first floor. As they approached the smoky glass door, a small boy ducked through the opening. He glanced at the pair with a surprised look but kept to his intended path without much change in pace. He must have figured them for cops. Or thugs. Either way, he wanted no part of them.

The door was perpetually a foot and half open. Jammed. Jim found it incredibly hard to pull it the rest of the way. It creaked as if the metal would snap.

Inside the dusty stone foyer was a bank of mailboxes and an intercom system. Some names were still taped beside dingy red buttons. But the case holding the intercom system had long since been pried from the wall and twisted wiring hung exposed and dead. "We need 4B."

Neither even tried for the elevator.

Only four flights. Shouldn't be too bad, Jim figured. Wrong. The urine stench was only slightly overpowered by the smell of molded ceiling tiles. Random clothing, paper, and a few broken needles littered each of the landings. They moved at a steady pace. O had not unholstered his gun, but his hand rode on the grip as he eased up the steps, keeping to the outside wall. His attention stayed a flight higher than his feet.

Jim ducked close behind. Military formation for two guys who'd never worn a uniform. Different kind of training for their type.

The door to the fourth floor was closed. Jim wasn't exactly afraid as O pushed it open, but he'd sure rather be sneaking through a cheap Vegas hotel over this rundown housing project any day.

"Feels dead in here," O whispered. He seemed just as spooked. Not scared. Hyper alert.

The matted hallway carpet felt lumpy under Jim's feet. Maybe it had been green at one point, but it was now so dust-coated it looked gray in most areas. The first door they passed had a tin letter H hanging crooked under the peephole.

"B's at the other end of the hall," O said over his shoulder.

"Of course."

The next door stood open. Jim glanced in. Empty. Single abandoned chair sat under the far window.

Jim could hear a TV. Game show. Family Feud maybe. It was coming from another open door, third to the right. The next door they passed was broken and hanging crooked on the bottom hinge. O scanned the inside before passing.

He pictured a tiptoeing cartoon character stopping and bobbing his head around every corner just waiting for the bandit to jump out. "This place must have been condemned years ago."

O was still whispering. "If there's a TV, there's power here."

They made it to 4B. The door was closed. Jim tried the handle. "My bet … No one's been here in years."

Before O could reply, the door swung open. An elderly black woman in a bright yellow floor-length evening gown stood before them as if she were expecting them. Her face was made up like a teenager ready for a prom date, her long gray hair twisted in a sloppy braid on the top of her head.

"Well. Early. I like it." She motioned for them to enter.

"I'm Jim Bean. A private investigator from Las Vegas—"

"Vegas!" She spun in place. The dress flared at the bottom, making her look like a flower. Her big feet were covered by tattered gold sneakers. "I danced on the main stage at the Flamingo in '62. Eight straight weeks."

"We're looking to see if anyone here remembers a Kiko Henry," O said as she sashayed up to him.

"You are a big one, aren't you? In my day, young man, I would be inclined to explore all that creamy white skin of yours." She motioned up and down his torso and tilted her head.

"Kiko?"

"Hmm … " She turned and glanced at two pictures on the wall. Both family portraits. Could be hers, could have been there before she decided to squat in this apartment.

"That the boy that got himself sliced up about ten years back?"

"I think it was seven."

"Bah," she scoffed. "If memory serves, he was one of the hustlers. Selling smack to the kids 'round here and the boy had the girls coming and going. Got cut up one night. Died in his skivvies." She looked out the dirty window. The TV was plugged into a big extension cord that was affixed to the wall and ran out the window.

Jim glanced out. Smiled.

The cord stretched to the building next door and connected to another extension that ran to the roof. Four or five other cords zigzagged back and forth across the alley. That was the power. He almost asked her how she managed to get water but decided he didn't want to know. She was living on three outlets on an extension cord.

Instead he asked, "You ever know any of his girls?"

"Me?" She clutched the rhinestones at her chest. "No, sir. I been keeping my mouth shut and my eyes on my own business for a long time. Keeps me alive, it does." Her nose scrunched up. "Why the cops digging into Kiko's mess anyway? Dead black man in this neighborhood is no big deal today, much less a dead pimp from seven years ago."

"We're not cops." O almost stiffened at the accusation.

"You said you was an investigator."

"Private investigators," Jim said. "We're looking for one of his old girls. Her family is wanting her back." Lie.

"Well. You have a rough row to hoe, brother." She patted O on the tummy, leaving her bony hand there. "Ooh. You want to hang around and see what an old lady can still do?"

"You still got that in you?" O winked. His charm worked even on the old and insane.

"Not sure. That's why I asked. But I'll give it my best." She cackled. Her eyes sparked with life. She seemed content with her place in this rundown, empty building.

Jim backed toward the door. "You okay in this apartment, ma'am?"

"Been okay in this building for twenty-six years. I moved over here to this side of the hall after the power died."

"So you were across the hall when Kiko lived in this apartment?"

"Yeah. They cleaned the blood up good and then another couple tenants come and gone before I slipped in."

Jim fished the picture of Dan and Sophie out and held it for her to see. "This girl." He tapped the picture. "You remember her?"

She strained to look at it. "If I seen her, I don't recall."

It'd been worth a try.

"Most of his girls were white and young. Boy was bad news. Lord forgive me for saying it out loud, but I shed no tears when he got cut."

"Not sure anyone did, ma'am." O bowed a bit. "We'll be on our way then. Lovely to have met you, my flower."

She curtsied, holding out the ratty old gown as if in royal court.

They closed the door behind them and left her humming to herself.

"Her smile was ruined by those rotted teeth, but it still put off the warmth of the sun."

Jim stopped to look at O, confused. That poor woman was living off the grid and barely making it day to day. She was clearly broke. Somehow, O had been lightened by her.

A slamming door echoed in the corridor. Jim jumped. Good thing O hadn't noticed.

"Quit your grinning, lover boy, and put your hand back on your sidearm. Besides an aging showgirl, we have no idea what other surprises lurk in places like this."


Carla trotted off the porch as fast as her little legs would carry her.

"Don't go off too far. That drive wore me out. I don't want to be chasing you."

Sophie went in and rummaged through her quaint kitchen cabinets with the carved wood trim and found an odd glass bowl that didn't match the rest of the set. All the furniture and the kitchen trappings had come with the purchase of the cabin. The woman who'd designed the look had done a nice job. Some kitschy mountain cabin decor graced the place, but not so much it was cliché.

She ran the water for a moment before filling the bowl. She'd been gone for a while and didn't want crud from the old pipes in the bowl. Carla barked at something and Sophie headed out to see what the pup had found. She sat down on the top of the few steps leading down from the porch and looked out to the lake.

It was a perfect house. The secluded little log cabin had been a jewel to find. Foreclosure, so she got it cheap. Maybe that isolation had added to the reason it was on the market so long. Too far off the beaten path for most, but it was tailor-made for her. Quiet.

"Carla."

The dog looked up from whatever she was sniffing at the edge of the lake.

"Come here."

As if she'd been responding to Sophie all her little life, the creature turned and pranced right to her.

"Good girl."

Happily, Carla took the attention for a moment, but her desire to explore took over soon enough. Sophie understood. Her first time here, she'd walked every inch of the area, memorizing the downed trees, the masses of dense bushes tucked here and there, and exactly how far it was before she could see another cabin. More than far enough for what she needed.

She kicked her shoes off and walked barefoot to the bench through the tall grass below. Her cell rang. Her work cell. She'd only turned it back on once she'd entered California.

"Successful trip, I trust?" Dave wanted numbers right off the bat. She had to physically shake her head to remember what little sales work she had done on this trip. She'd been gone five weeks. Dave gave her the perfect amount of freedom, but he would want something to show for her time. She worked on commission, so he didn't care how long it took to woo the hospital administrators to buy their system. But, it'd been a week since she'd even checked in.

"How's three out of five sound?" Along with two dead bodies. Brings me to a grand total of fourteen, but Dave wasn't interested in those stats. The schitzoid swing from sales professional to dirty cabbie was harsh, but the sales calls had paid off. So had the cabbie job, for that matter.

"You are the man. Umm … woman. Which three?" Dave's excitement was really cute.

"Desert Springs, Sunrise, and Valley."

He'd hired her to sell software systems to hospitals without much of a background check. Changing your identity was hell on the resume. But the car salesmen turned software marketing VP had said his gut told him she was a beast.

She'd laughed at how right he really was. After several horrid interviews, she'd taken his confidence as a motivator. What's it hurt him? Job was pure commission. If she failed it would only cost him a little training time. He'd made his money back in spades. In less than a year she was getting all the big leads and was assigned the best territories.

There was one more thing Dave wanted to hear. "Duke left a message today too."

"And? You're killing me, Maria."

"It's a go. Two point five, Dave. The entire network—hospital, outpatient, heart center, and medical facilities. Tech guys will be busy until next Halloween. I'll send you the specs and orders soon."

Carla came back up and jumped on her. Sophie didn't feel like being Maria at the moment, but that was the price she paid. A few minutes on this call and a full day's work tomorrow and she'd be set for a while.

"Damn. I'll need another project manager for that one. Nice work. You beat everyone's numbers again. One more and you'll have the record. Your bonus should be enough to buy a house."

"Already did." She laughed. "Gotta walk the dog. I'll email you tomorrow." She paced into the house and down the little hall.

"When did you get a dog?"

Carla had followed.

"Found her in Vegas and decided to keep her."

"Cute. Bring her when you come in. And when might that be?"

She stopped in front of a closed door and placed her palm on the wood. "Think I'm off to Dallas in a day or two. Want to follow up with Baylor. That COO is not happy with the system they have at all, but he's hesitating because it's only a year old and he dumped a wad into it. I think I can talk him over the hurdles if I keep at him."

"Great. You need anything from me?"

She patted the wood. "Not a thing. I'm all good."

"You sound … cheerful."

Sophie chuckled. "I guess I had better stop that, hadn't I?"

"No. That's not what I meant. I mean it's good to hear you sound so cheerful."

"Bye, Dave."

He huffed. "Later."

She disconnected the call and pushed open the door. Carla stood in the doorway.

"This is Danny's room."

There was a bed with hand and leg shackles like the hospitals use, several blankets folded neatly at the foot. A small beside table sat alongside it. The lighting was wall mounted so it couldn't be used as a weapon. She'd put two chairs in the room. One was a small plastic one for her to sit next to him and help him though his illness and she'd bought a more comfortable rocker so she could watch him as he slept.

Carla rushed to the bed and jumped on it.

"We must be patient, it may take him a while to come to love us again. Well, me. To love me again. But we will be a happy family."

You're gonna fuck this up.

The condescending tone grated Sophie's ears.

She was not. And this time she would ignore that voice and not play into her hate. Maybe she actually was cheerful. She was only a few days away from being with Danny, it didn't matter.

You better not wait too long. What if they move him?

Taunting.

What if that crappy van you picked out breaks down?

Criticizing.

What if you run out of drugs?

Undermining.

Sophie slammed open the closet door as the volume in her head reached a screeching crescendo. She ran her finger over boxes and tubes, checked the supplies off the mental list she'd memorized over a year ago. It was all in order. Drugs, bandages, plastic sheeting, bottled water, and men's necessities, all purchased months before. She had thought of everything. It would be fine, if she didn't fuck it up. How long should she wait for the cops on protection duty to get complacent? "Two days? Three?"

Carla yapped.

"Three days."


"It's past my dinner time." O rubbed the back of his neck with a white bandana and then shoved it back in his pocket.

Even after dark it was over 80 out and the humidity levels had to be topping out over 90 percent. They'd been walking around the known hangouts of the local working girls for a couple hours. It was close to ten and Jim's stomach was churning too. But that came with the territory. You kept at it until your leads were all gone. And there were still girls out there.

"You really think one of these girls is going to have been on the street that long? Long life for a pro." O looked over another girl they were approaching.

Most looked closer to twelve than thirty. "You're probably right, but we don't have much more to go on."

"There was a Mexican joint a couple blocks back. I say we get some enchiladas and a margarita. I think better on a full stomach." O turned without waiting for Jim's reply. Guess that was an order and not a request.

"Don't we all?" Jim followed.

He'd asked at least fifteen girls about Sophie. Shoved her picture under their noses telling them her mother wanted her home. Most could have cared less whose face was printed on that paper. They had their own sob story and no one was looking for them. No progress. Didn't even get a hunch one of them was lying to him. It had been too long since Sophie walked this dirty mile of concrete.

Tomorrow, come daylight, they'd visit the next crime scene in the file. Ely said it was in an abandoned warehouse. No electricity. Known area for gang activity. Jim was beginning to doubt any of the old crime scenes were going to give them much on where Sophie might be now. But all they had was the FBI file. He needed to retrace Sophie's steps.

The waitress seated them and handed them menus. O ordered two margaritas, on the rocks, with salt. She went on her way. The menu was similar to every little Mexican joint in the world. Jim knew what to order without looking. He studied the picture instead. Sophie looked happy. Dan was smiling too, but his eyes didn't reflect her joy. He was a teenage boy with a kid stuck to him like a shadow.

The waitress put down the drinks. O ordered his chicken enchiladas. Jim dropped the picture. "Speedy with beans."

"Chicken or beef, sir?"

"Beef."

"Is that Beth?" She pointed at the picture of Sophie and Dan.

"You know her?" Jim held the picture out for the woman to take. She was in her late thirties, maybe early forties. Old enough to have been around.

"Yeah. She comes in a lot. Well, she used to. I haven't seen her in years." She shrugged. "She got a big-time job and moved outta the ghetto."

"We're trying to find her for her mother." Jim made sure he made eye contact with the woman. Softened his face. "Do you know where she went to work?"

"Not sure. It's been a while."

He nodded, not wanting to pressure her. The memory could be a temperamental thing. He was in no hurry, he had tacos and margaritas to enjoy while she thought on it.

O spoke up. "We think she changed her name too. You know what last name she was using back then?"

"Girls do that around here." She looked down. "You know she was working the streets then. Getting a real job was a big deal. She was so excited." The waitress tapped her pencil to her lip. "Stratford … or maybe Stafford."

Nice. Something to go on. A good lead from an unexpected source. He loved his job. Not that this case was really his job, was it? His job here was to make amends for his colossal fuckup of bringing Sophie to Dan's doorstep.

"I'll get you waters too." She left.

"You are a lucky bastard."

Jim half laughed. "Not me, bro. My luck is all bad. Remember, it was my luck that got me into this."

She rushed back over. "Stanton. Elizabeth Stanton." She looked quite pleased with herself. "I remember her pretty good. She would come here before going out for the night. She'd buy extra food. We thought she was feeding some of the homeless folks that lived under the overpass. Or maybe some of the other girls. I talked to her a lot. So did the old manager. But he's long gone."

Jim did not to think of Sophie as a saint delivering food to the helpless. She was a bat-shit crazy killer. Psycho. Maybe she was nice to people to get what she wanted. Stands to reason she was helping these people to get something from them.

"That's great"—O looked at her nametag—"Alejandra." He, of course, used the perfect accent to make her name sing.

She beamed at him. "I'll put in the order for your food. It won't take too long."

"Thanks, love," O said to her as she departed, garnering a quick smile over her shoulder.

Jim was already texting Ely the name Elizabeth Stanton. "Do you get laid? I mean does that shit work?"

"I don't do it to get laid." O smirked. "But that is sometimes a side effect of being nice to women. You should try it." O tilted his head. "Maybe just being nice to anyone you're not in the process of trying to get information out of."

Wow. That was the same thought he'd just had about Sophie Evers. "Tried it once. Didn't suit me."

Jim saw her as soon as the door opened. Suit wearing, not sweating in the heat Special Agent Ava Webb. She made short work of scanning the room and finding his face. There was no hiding from her. He tucked the picture, which he'd left out to help with Alejandra's memories, into his pocket.

"Mr. Bean." She glanced at O and gave him a small head nod. Very professional. She dragged over a chair, positioned it at the end of the booth, and plopped down in it. Her legs crossed with grace. Her shoes were sexy, but very sensible.

"Join us," Jim said, none too friendly.

"Hello." O leaned toward her. "And who do we have here, Jim?" O stuck out his hand. "Oscar Olsen."

"Hello, Mr. Olsen. Or should I say Double O?" She let her gaze swing back to Jim for an instant before she took O's hand. "You have an interesting history."

She thinks she's so smart for knowing everything. Well, it was her job. It was also fucking irritating.

O didn't flinch. His background was a tragic, painful mess and he wasn't the slightest bit ticked off this lady Fee Bee knew his deets. "And you have beautiful eyes."

Jim, meanwhile, needed to make a visit to his anger-management class over the fact that his records were still available to her. He'd seen his sheet in that file. He wondered if Miss Know-It-All understood the ramifications of his arrest and exoneration. That he'd be in her shoes right now if that night, that lie, had never happened.

"I seem to be the only one without the pleasure of your acquaintance, Ms. …"

"Special Agent Ava Webb."

"Ahh. Lady Fed. Very nice to meet you." O exchanged an approving look with Jim. As if he had anything to do with her appearance or her presence at the table.

Jim had no worry that O would give her the information they'd just received, but little Miss Alejandra might just do so when she brought the food. Jim was not ready to share his boon with the FBI just yet. First on the scene gets the best info.

Webb leveled her steely gaze back on Jim. "I assume you're here investigating Sophie Evers?"

He glanced around the tacky restaurant with its dime store sombreros and brightly painted mural. "Just visiting Dallas. Lovely city." Most of it was. This particular area, not so much.

Damn, her eyes were green. Really green. Like his cat, Annie's, eyes. Green and deep and mischievous. Her hair was a normal brown but it seemed to be vibrant even pulled back in that tight-assed ponytail.

"I suggest you find a better area for your vacation needs, Mr. Bean. We have an active investigation to run and we don't need you muddying up the waters. We're recanvassing; you don't have to."

We. Her quiet suit of a partner must be around. Made sense.

Alejandra was coming with the food. O slid out of his side of the booth and excused himself with a brief word in the waitress's ear.

She set the plates out. "Would you like a menu, señora?"

"No, thank you." Agent Webb only gave the girl a fleeting glance before turning back to Jim.

He gave her his best surprised expression. "You ordering me out of city limits, Sheriff?"

She cracked a tiny smile. "I'm asking you to go back to Vegas and wait for word from us. We have this under control. Go play bodyguard there."

Ouch. "I think I like it around here. Considering moving down south."

"It's hot and humid and you won't like the locals." She stood. "I know your cop buddy must have shared something, or everything, from our file, Mr. Bean."

O folded himself back into the booth. "Call him Jim. He's not as bad as you think when you get to know him."

She didn't reply to O. "If you fuck this up, Detective Miller's ass is in hotter water than yours. This is our jurisdiction, and our investigation. Go home."

But it's my responsibility.

"You can't make me leave." Jim raised his brows, knowing the Feds could well make trouble for him, O, and Miller if they wanted to. But she couldn't make him go. She had no authority over him.

"I can have your investigator's license pulled. Stealing federal files is a serious offense."

He smiled at her. Well, she could probably do that. But it would take time. And if he solved this case before she got his license, what would she have to gain? "Do your worst, Agent Webb."

She marched away. Jim tried not to watch her go. He failed.

He turned back to O. "No way she can send us packing." But Jim did worry about her pressing charges on Miller for something like mishandling federal evidence.

"You have to go the hard way all the time, don't you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"That one? Out of all the women in Vegas, that's the one who heats up your tamale?" O took a big bite of enchilada.

"What are you talking about?"

He chuckled and dipped a chip. "You got the hots for her. Might as well take out a banner and fly it over the neighborhood, bro. It's written all over your body."

"Is not." Jim felt the lie on his lips. His luck sucked.


The margarita was harsh. Probably the cheap tequila. But it was cold and it contained a good amount of alcohol. Basic survival needs.

The food far surpassed his expectations. The hole in the wall in Dallas was as close to authentic Mexican as he could get without a passport. No sour cream, no corny uniforms or giant blow-up beer bottles. He was about to happily bite into his second taco when Special Agent Ava Webb marched right back in the restaurant. Toward him. She still looked good, but she didn't look happy.

"Miss me already?"

"Apparently." Webb kept her gaze steady. "I'm not exactly in a sharing mood. But I get why you're interested in helping Dan. And I get that there's no way you two are going to back off … Is there?"

Jim gave her a shrug. She only knew the half of his desire to get Sophie Evers. He wouldn't be enlightening her on the rest.

Her face briefly twisted into disgust before she spoke. "I just got a call from Vegas."

She didn't immediately elaborate. Jim's heart pounded. Her stern face was not helping. She'd make a great poker player.

"Cops found a body in the backyard behind the safe house, just outside the fence. The guy's throat was slit. My agent said it was messy. Probably unplanned and happened fast. ME just picked him up. Early guess on time of death was late last night. Dan and his mother are fine."

Jim's world tilted. "How'd she find them?"

Webb took the question as an invitation to sit. "Who knows?" She took a chip from the basket and bit off a tiny part of the triangle.

O pushed the salsa in her direction. "Miller moving them?"

Another safe house would be best. Unless she was hanging around to follow them to the new one. But why kill right there? Why not go on in and get Dan?

She took another chip and loaded it up. Jim should warn her he'd ordered the extra hot. He didn't. Let her play rough and tough.

She didn't pause to question the dip. Whatever. She bit down on the chip. No flinch. Didn't reach for water. O pushed his over just in case. Jim had thought about it but decided to make her sweat it out. Problem was, she wasn't. Can't fake that shit either. When a normal guy's mouth is on fire he sweats, turns red, eyes water.

"You read the file, right?" Still no signs of stress from her. Nada. Assumption: Jim and Miller had broken her rules and had the FBI file. There was no reading this chick. He couldn't tell if she was fishing for something to nail him on or what.

He shrugged. Wouldn't directly incriminate Miller.

"I'm thinking you know Sophie's killed in spurts. The first two in Stephenville, Texas, were anger-motivated. She saw the girls with her man and that's that. Blatant disrespect. Obviously doesn't value human life and she's got the drive to continue to kill like a serial."

She looked at O. "Then here in Dallas. It was a hodgepodge—some look revenge-motivated, some for profit, and a couple could be spite or practice with a new technique. With each one, though, she got smarter, stronger. The girl lives like a shadow. Selling drugs right under our noses, turning tricks. Then she goes silent for years."

Agent Webb finally took a sip from the water glass. But it wasn't in desperation or pain. She could take the hot stuff. She continued, now looking past O more than at him. "Since it seems your Danny boy is her final target, I'm thinking the closer she comes to fulfilling that long-term goal, the hastier the killing, the more her mental state is deteriorating. Her perception is getting more and more shattered. That plan, it's been her driving goal for years and now it's time to act. It's do or die. The guy behind the house looks like a slip in her control."

"You one of those profilers?"

Her gaze snapped to O. "Took a couple classes, but it's not my job description. My guess is she just lost it when the neighbor came up on her. She was snooping around and got spooked. Why else would she kill right there? It's dangerous. Very bold, more like stupid. She'd have to have known we'd yank them out of that house and place them somewhere under deeper cover."

"She's done more than one stupid thing." Jim almost wished the words back in his mouth. But Agent Webb was sharing; he should too. She may give him even more. She could drag him in and question him even though he had already shared most of his exchanges with Sophie. She had the report from Miller.

"Hiring me wasn't all that bright. She asked me not to confront Dan after finding him. That's all well and good. And if this had been an adultery case, I would have followed that request to the letter. Nothing but a photo and video confirmation. But her backstory on Dan was too far off. It didn't match the guy I found. Dan didn't remotely look like a lost junkie. I followed my gut."

"Good thing for him." She took another swig. Still no sign of sweating the hot sauce. "Sophie's good at hiding her identity. She's done an inordinate amount of prep work. So much so that she's lived several separate lives at once. She's not dumb. Why hire you to track him down in the first place?"

"Hiding and finding are two different things, Agent Webb." O took an enormous bite of his enchilada.

Webb watched him chew. Big guy with a big bite was quite the sight. She stayed silent as he took a rather large swig of his 'rita before continuing. How did people get so comfortable with this man so fast?

"Finding takes connections and legal avenues. Hard to use legal avenues when you're trying to stay off grid as much as she is."

She tapped the table. "You got a line on anything I need to know, Bean? You can stay and share, or go home and follow up that death in Vegas. But I'm lead. I cannot have you interrupting my investigations."

She was right. It would slow things down if she was interviewing the same people Jim was. They did have a little something Ava Webb did not: a name. He wasn't sure he wanted to give it up. She might take it and go off and leave him out of the loop. She could. She should.

He would.

Alejandra refilled their waters. "You sure you don't want nothing?"

"Am I staying or going, boys?"

Jim wanted to be around the hot sauce–eating Special Agent Ava Webb, even if his gut told him she was trouble. As in girl trouble. The feeling made him want to tell her to shove off. "Let me in on a part of it."

She balked, leaning back in her chair. "Not a chance."

"I can help. I'll be quiet. All input after your interviews. I need to be doing something here, Agent Webb."

She huffed. Considered. Jim, O, and Alejandra were all staring at her.

"I'm a dammed good PI."

Webb stood, paused at the edge of the table for a moment, silent. Maybe trying to talk herself into a sharing mood. Maybe trying to talk herself out of it. He wasn't going to say anything and make her decision fall against his favor. He wasn't fond of working with the Fee Bees, but they had fucking good resources. And in this case, the end goal was the same for both of them.

"This is against protocol," she said finally.

O looked at the waitress. "Staying."

She sat back down. "No menu, I'll have the Speedy with beans."

O barked out a laugh over the food order coincidence and winked at Jim. He got a frown in return. O just kept grinning. Dear god, the man was going to try and play matchmaker. Jim would put a stop to that easily enough. For now, business.

"Waitress recognized a picture of Sophie. Said she was a pro until she got a good job and moved on. Said she went by the name Elizabeth Stanton."

Webb stopped with a chip almost to her lips. "Like the social activist?"

"You know the name?" O asked.

She rolled her eyes. "Elizabeth Cady Stanton was one of the early advocates of women's rights. Basically started the suffrage movement. You know, equal rights? Women get to vote?"

"Oh." O dabbed at some melted cheese that had found its way onto his shirt. "That Elizabeth Stanton. Out of context. I wasn't thinking in historical terms."

She tapped out a text. "I'll see what we find on Elizabeth."

He wondered if Ely would find something as fast or as good as the FBI.


Jim was drying off when he heard the knock at the door. He'd jumped in the shower right after leaving the restaurant. Wanted the grime and sweat of the dying neighborhood and the steamy Texas heat off his skin before he went to sleep.

"Yeah?" He never put his eye to a peep hole.

"Pizza delivery." O's rumbly voice was easily recognizable.

Jim swung open the door. To his great and unpleasant surprise, Agent Webb walked in … followed by Oscar you're getting your ass kicked Olsen. Jim tightened the towel wrapped around his waist. Did she give him a good once-over before she turned away? Probably not. He needed some sleep.

"Sorry, bro. Didn't know you were … um … naked."

"I'm not naked." Jim headed to the bathroom to grab his jeans. If O was matchmaking at this time of night, Jim was going to find a good payback.

"Mostly naked," O allowed. "Nice abs. Been lifting again, I see."

Through the mirror Jim saw her give an eye roll. She didn't find his nakedness quite as amusing as O. Could be a good thing. Could be bad.

And his gym time was to burn off steam. Properly release his anger. Or so the court order had read. Didn't hurt to be in shape in his business either and O knew it.

"Why are you two here, O?"

"Ran into Lady Fed in the hall. She was on her way."

Jim popped his head out of the bath as he buttoned his jeans. She didn't correct O's comment.

"I got something on Elizabeth Stanton."

As if on cue, his phone started blaring "Smoke on the Water." Ely. The phone was by the bed, across the room. She was a Fed, worked around men. His walking around shirtless shouldn't offend her sensitivity. And if it did, he wasn't sure he cared. He picked up the phone. "You have good stuff for me?"

"I do, my fine friend." Ely was always on target. He'd get the chance to one-up the woman. "I do. How's Lady Fed?"

What? "How do you know about … " Jim was going to say her name, but that would give her reason to believe they were taking about her. She was smart enough to see they were all plotting to put them together as a couple. Probably already picked up on it. That pissed him off too. He had no intention of adding to the farce. He glared at O as Webb looked out the window. Not that the view was exciting. His room overlooked the parking area.

"Good news travels fast," Ely said.

Jim gritted his teeth. "There is no good news. Unless, of course, you have some for me."

"Bummer. And I do."

"Well?"

"So you want the Stanton stuff or the mother stuff first?"

Jim looked at the Fed. "You coming up here to share info on Stanton?"

"Who is that?" she asked.

At the same time, Ely asked, "Is that Lady Fed? You in her room?"

"Special Agent Ava Webb, meet Ely. Go on with the Stanton info." Jim hit speaker button. "This is my research guru, Ely."

"Hello, Miss Ava Webb, Lady Fed." Ely was stoned. He all but sang out her name.

Her brows drew at Ely's tone. "He together enough to be reliable?"

Jim sighed. "Would I have put him on speaker if I didn't think he was okay?"

She frowned and stepped a little closer. Her eyes scanned his chest again. That time he was sure of it. Jim inwardly smiled.

Ely started, "Elizabeth Stanton. Born in Sweetwater, no real records until '89. Graduated University of North Texas in Dallas with a logistical something or other degree. Social Security records show two jobs in her career. One short term at a car rental company, the other with a warehouse distribution firm. You know, trucking and logistics and shit. She was there at least six years. Then she drops off the face of the earth. No money trail. Nothing."

Jim rubbed his chin. "That time period. The seven years or so she was employed. That the quiet time in the killing spree?"

Agent Webb nodded.

Ely said, "You got it."

So they had the same information. Where was her partner from the Vegas office, anyway?

"All lines up." O oozed into the chair at the tiny desk in the room. He'd been drinking all evening. Jim had a stash of scotch he'd been about ready to crack open. He wanted it now.

"But it tells us nothing." Jim shook his head. "So she had a job. Killing pimps seemed to be her job for a while before that. Pays her way through school with the drug sales? Then she goes all respectable? That would mean she was in school, turning tricks, and selling drugs. Busy young lady."

"Makes her smart and hard working. But fragile and easily thrown off kilter," Ava added. Jim shook his head at himself for thinking of the agent by her first name. He'd intentionally kept her at a distance by reminding himself she was an FBI agent and Jim was not. It would be like dating a really rich chick. You'd never be on her level. Not really.

"No shit," Ely said. "But I got another bone for you."

He paused. He always did. Jim could see him sitting at his wall of computers and grinning like a kid with a new Xbox.

"Don't keep us hanging too long," O shouted so he'd be heard from across the small hotel room. "We're all here looking at Jimbo's throbbing pecs while you shoot for the dramatic pause. It's taking away from the effect."

Jim grabbed a tee from his bag and pulled it over his head.

"Stealing my thunder, Bean?" Ely drawled.

"Ely."

"I found her real mom, bro."

"Sophie's real mom, not the foster mom?" Jim had talked to that family. They'd said terrible things about the girl. Not surprising, given what Dan had said about the way the fosters had treated her. Nothing to really consider there, since he was sure the foster father had abused Sophie.

"Exactly." Ely cleared his throat. "Her name is Mary Callas. Looks like she gave up three kids to the system over about seven years. Get this. All three were named 'Something' Ryan Evers. Oldest, Samantha Ryan Evers, died in a car wreck in 2001. Middle, Sarah Ryan, moved to Idaho and got married real young. You Feds find that shit out?"

Ava frowned. "Not yet. We didn't have a lead to make us think tracking down the birth mother would be of importance."

"You were not adopted then, Miss Lady Fed. My girlfriend was. She's looking for her mom right now. Probably dead, but I think maybe all abandoned kids feel the desire to seek out mom."

She nodded to the phone. "You got me there, Ely."

Ha! His guy had one-upped the Feds. Take that. "Nice job, anything else?"

"No. Annie misses you. You want to talk to her?"

Ava raised an eyebrow.

"Miss her too, but I can't talk now. Work to do." Interesting. Maybe Agent Ava was a little bit jealous.

O butted in. "Give her some tuna."

Ava looked appropriately confused at O's order.

"Cats love tuna, don't they?" His tone dripped amusement.

So much for making the Fed think there was a little woman named Annie at home waiting for him.

"They do," Ely agreed.

"Goodbye, Ely."

"Later, Jim. See you in the a.m., O."

Jim looked at Oscar.

Ely sang over the phone, "Goodbye, Lady Fed."

Jim ended the call. "Heading home?"

O shrugged and put his arms up, locking fingers behind his head. "I figured you and Agent Webb here have things firmly in hand. No need for me to be tagging along. I got a business to run."

His leaving Jim alone with Agent Webb was definitely playing matchmaker, but O's reasoning made perfect sense. No way to argue it. Jim was the one emotionally invested in the case, not O. He'd be available if Jim needed him, no question about that, but talking him into staying was impossible.

"I'll check in on Dan as soon as I get there and often. Is he in the same place?" O asked.

"We haven't made the move yet. But I'll clear you when we do. Probably tomorrow."

"Why so long?" Jim would have figured for a quick move.

"Sometimes we do a fake-out move. Let the bad element believe the subjects have been moved. His mother is old. Taking her a long way off would be hard on her. My partner is there, coordinating with the locals. Dan's being consulted today, we're getting his opinions."

"Wow. Considering the subject's opinion." Not what Jim expected to hear. "Kinder, gentler FBI?"

She smiled. "Not exactly. People in protective custody tend to stay in custody longer and stay safer when they have some say. Likely, we'll move your boy and his mom to another local spot. She's really frail. Don't want it to be too hard."

O piped up. "So I'm out for the night. On a jet plane in the a.m. Call me if you need." He gave a pathetic salute and left Jim standing in his hotel room with Special Agent Ava Webb.

"Tomorrow. Distribution company and the mom's house?"

Jim nodded.

"Eight. In the restaurant?" She was looking at the carpet. Or was it his bare feet? He hadn't answered, so she looked back up. Damn, her eyes were green.

"Got it. Breakfast at eight."

"No. Ready to go at eight."

Not a breakfast invitation then. He needed that scotch.


It was definitely not a breakfast date. She met him in the dining room precisely at eight a.m. He was finishing up his steak and eggs, which was better than the paleo-vegan mush at the Coffee Girl, but the place lacked a certain charm—that charm being Sandy. He hoped that girl stayed in school for a long time, otherwise he'd need to go farther afield for his normal breakfast.

No surprise, Agent Webb seemed miffed that he wasn't ready to leave. She slid into the booth with a snippy greeting. They ran over what facts they had.

He paid the bill. They headed to Hickville, north of Dallas somewhere. No trees. Lots of dust. Ninety-three degrees at 9 a.m. Breathing was as laborious as sucking air through a swimming pool.

Heffelmire Distribution and Trucking was not the small, tired business on the verge of ruin Jim had expected. Not really sure why he'd thought that anyway, other than it was in a small town outside a huge metro area. He'd been dead wrong.

Instead of a shack, Heffelmire was a complex, thriving enterprise. Two office buildings and several huge warehouses sat safe inside an eight-foot fence topped with shiny new razor wire. No one was coming into this place without cutting up his ass cheeks. If Jim had bothered to spend the time counting, he was sure he'd find at least fifty tractor-trailers and half that many box trucks in and around the warehouses. Alejandra was right. Sophie had gotten a real job.

"Someone from HR is meeting us at the main building."

"You called ahead?"

Agent Webb let the window down to show her ID to the man working the gate. He jotted her name and the plate number in a log. "Yes. It's best to have an appointment."

"First building on your right, ma'am." The security guard waved her on with a sleazy grin.

"I never give people a heads up. That's opportunity for a guy to decide what you want and how he wants to handle you. If he's got something to hide, he's ready to talk. Lying's easier if you're prepared. I like to take them off guard."

"And if the person you want happens to be out to lunch?"

"You get what you can from the secretary or a co-worker. They'll be back."

She got out and leaned on the roof of the car. "Seven-year-old employment records? You really think anyone here has old information like that off the top of their heads that they want to protect?"

Anything was possible. He shrugged. No way he'd admit she might be right about that, and followed her into the building. She was still wearing a dark suit—possibly the same one, but it looked clean and pressed. Did she take the time to press it this morning? Jim checked his jeans to make sure they weren't stained.

Webb took the lead. She was the Federal agent in charge at the moment. Why would she let a lowly PI take point? Made for a great opportunity to see how people reacted to her. How she did her job.

She flipped out the badge. "Agent Webb, here to see a Millie Stubbs. I have an appointment."

The receptionist smiled. "I'll call her right away." She motioned to a clipboard with a sign-in sheet. "If you could, please."

She called and chatted with Millie in a hushed tone as Jim and Webb left their full names, the name of the party they were visiting, and the time of arrival. The woman took the board and handed them each a visitor badge as she logged the badge number beside their printed names.

Jim eased over to the large windows overlooking the complex. A security guard walked the front of the building. Probably cameras in the parking lot too. Lots of security. With a small turn, Jim scanned the reception area. Inside, two surveillance cameras scanned the reception area.

"What kind of distribution do you do around here?" he asked.

"All kinds. Domestic. International. Land, sea, air. You need it moved, we're your logistics experts." The phone rang. The receptionist grabbed it as she pointed to a small seating area and mouthed Have a seat before rattling off her canned greeting.

"Bet this is the biggest employer for miles around."

"Looks like it." Webb was also scanning. Checking the environment. Her cool eyes assessing. "Why take off? I mean, this is a real job. One she got from an education she earned under an assumed name, as if this was going to be her long-term life. But then she abandoned it," Webb pondered aloud.

Heels clicked sharp and snappy on the floor. Efficient. Millie Stubbs rounded a corner, but she wasn't what he'd expected either. A Millie should be older, grayer, probably a little chunky. But this Millie was in her mid-twenties, dark blond hair with a pert nose and stick-thin figure. Her beige pinstripe suit made her look like a walking ruler. She was not smiling.

Webb stood. Extended her hand. "Special Agent Webb, FBI. Thanks for seeing us on such short notice."

"Not sure how much I can help. I pulled Elizabeth Stanton's file. She did work here on the dates you gave me. Almost exactly."

"And she left why?" Jim stood. Millie looked down her nose at him. Could be his unshaved face, could be his causal attire. Either way, Millie was not impressed.

Millie put her hands behind her back, making her look even more like a talking ruler. "Afraid that's confidential. I can't release the circumstances around someone's termination. It's against privacy laws." She tilted her head down but looked up at Agent Webb, as if she were looking over glasses. "I would think you would know that, Special Agent Webb."

This chick was a barrel of laughs.

"Would you hire her again?" he asked.

Millie's sour look made Jim want to smile. He knew the laws. But he didn't want to push any more of her buttons than necessary. Yet.

"I'm afraid not."

"So, she was canned?"

She said nothing. Just stood there looking straight and smug.

Webb let out a heavy sigh and cocked her hip slightly to the side. She clasped her hands at the fingers and impatiently tapped her thumbs together. Quick as a snake strike, her face contorted. Millie took a very small step back. Jim loved it. Special Agent Webb turned bulldog in a heartbeat.

"You can be as smug as you like, Ms. Stubbs. But I'm investigating murder cases and the body count is now over double digits. Do you think you might have something you can share from your files that could help us?"

Millie's face paled. Her hand went to her chest. "Wow. Murders?" The word murder usually takes the starch out of the smug one's britches. "And one of our ex-employees is involved?"

Jim decided to speak. "We're trying to track Stanton down, follow her history. It could help us solve a series of murders and prevent any further violence. Any help you can provide would be beneficial." He'd play the nice guy. It wouldn't kill him this once.

"Umm. Legally, I can't say too much." She glanced back toward the hall she'd come down. "I looked at the file when you called. I, of course, was not here at the time. But the termination was robustly documented. Without a warrant, I'm afraid I'm only willing to say she had a rather heated personality conflict with another employee."

"Can you tell us the employee's name?"

Millie hesitated and glanced back again to make sure the receptionist was not listening. "No." She bit her lip. Her little pointy-toed shoe tapped the tile. "I can suggest you stop in at Woody's Place to have a drink. The 'bartender' is a great guy. He's been around and may have stories about local history." She actually used air quotes for the word bartender, as if they were stupid.

Agent Webb pulled out a card.

Millie took it. "Hope that helps."

"Me too. Thanks."

"Tell Max I said hi." Millie turned and strolled down the hall, seemingly satisfied that she'd helped the FBI and not broken her rules.

Max the bartender was either the ex-supervisor or someone who would know what had happened. Hopefully he had something pertinent, if not …

"How long does it take the FBI to get a warrant?"

"Too long. My hope is Ms. Millie just made that unnecessary."


"Stop by and see Max on our way to Mary Callas, the mom?" Jim closed the car door.

FBI car. Big and dark and with state-registered plates. About as stealth as the Empire State Building rolling down the Strip. She drove. He'd never be caught in a dark blue or black sedan of any type. Cop car, cop engine. In his line of work, the car should say nothing about the man or his mission. Special Agent Ava Webb, however, had a cop car. Rolling authority.

"Logical progression." She punched Woody's Place into the GPS. "Only ten minutes in the wrong direction. Back towards town."

They had to have driven right past it on the way out here. Jim hadn't noticed. What had he been paying attention to? Not like him to miss something like that.

The gravel parking lot had only three vehicles. An old Chevy and two compacts. It was ten a.m. Probably just the owner and the cooks prepping for the day. The front door was unlocked. Webb pushed the door in and eased through without waiting for him to open it for her. Jim followed. Scanning.

He was right. Not one customer in the wood-paneled place but behind the counter was a graying man in a T-shirt with an outline of Texas on it. Inside the state lines was a cowboy pointing a gun straight ahead. The caption read: We don't call 911.

Nice.

"You must be Max," Webb said as they approached.

His face was tan, like a guy who spent too much time outside. Maybe enjoying fishing now that bartending was his gig and days were free. He had more gray hair then brown. Max put his knife down and wiped his hands, carefully returning them, palms down, to the bar, where they could be seen. This wasn't his first rodeo.

"Not if you're the law." His face was easy. Calm. Not a twitch. This man was guilty of little.

Jim wished he was the one talking to this guy. Figured PIs might do better with guys who don't like cops than a Fed in a suit with a shiny badge. He was less coppish than her by a mile.

But she had to flash the badge. Protocol.

Max straightened. Pulled away from them. "What's the FBI want with me?"

She eased onto a barstool. Unbuttoned her jacket. Nonthreatening. "We were wondering if you ever worked for Heffelmire."

"I did." Crossed his arms eased back a step. More standoffish. He was ready to clam up completely.

"You ever work with an Elizabeth Stanton?"

He leaned back against the beer cooler. If he could have oozed his body thought the wall of liquor bottles behind him, he would have. His body language couldn't be any more closed. "Eliza. Yeah."

"You two have issues?"

His expression went flat, his body stiff. Even his eyes didn't blink. Jim felt the anger from six feet away. "What's this about?"

"We're looking for her."

He huffed, unfolded his arms. His shoulders dropped. A big relief. But why?

"You ain't gonna find her here!" He snickered and started cutting limes again.

"Don't suppose you know where …"

"Nope. And don't want to. If you find her, keep her the hell away from me." Lime juice shot in Webb's general direction. "Sorry. Can't help you."

Jim sat too. Why had the man relaxed so suddenly? "What happened with you two, anyway?"

Max looked down at his work. Hesitated. "Nothing I feel like reliving." His glance was down and his eyes avoided both of them. "Why are you looking for her?"

"We need to ask her some questions. Having a little trouble finding her," said Webb.

Max studied Webb and glanced back at Jim. Maybe he did know something. His face lit up as he stopped the cutting again. He leaned forward on the bar. "Feds only show up when something real bad happens." His accent thickened as he leaned forward, his arms on the counter like he was ready to come over the bar in a big leap. "Crazy bitch done killed someone, didn't she?"

Webb glanced to Jim. Nodded. She was going to let Jim go with this one. Fine. "Actually, a bunch of someones," said Jim.

Max's meaty fist smacked the bar hard enough to make the cutting board jump. "Told everyone she was a certified psycho." He rested the knife on the counter. "How?"

"Stabbings."

Eyes closed as if to ward away some reality Jim and Ava didn't understand. "She use drugs first? You know, to knock 'em out?"

"We think she sold drugs for a while in Dallas under another name, before she came to—"

"No." Max's head shook and his gaze found Webb. "Did she use drugs in the killings? Like date-rape drugs?"

Ava tapped the counter, thinking. "Not that I'm aware of."

Jim's heart, meanwhile, thudded in his chest. Each beat heavy, sluggish. He knew what Max was asking. "What do you mean?"

Maybe Jim wanted to know the answer to that question. Maybe he didn't. Memories of his experience with Sophie assaulted his own head space. Her voice, drug-garbled and vacant, echoed in his ear, ran like a bad music clip. The vague feeling of violation crystallized with every word Max uttered.

Max looked around as if someone might have invaded the space as they had been talking. If he was going to tell a secret, he didn't want the world to hear. "Eliza invited me for drinks after work one night." Aimlessly, Max stroked the tattered bar top with his towel. "I thought it would be a crowd. Usually was. Turned out to be just her and me. No big deal at the time. We were co-workers. No reason to not have a drink with a co-worker, you know?"

He looked at Jim to confirm his feelings. Jim gave him a short head tilt to agree. Max concentrated on the wood surface to avoid looking at Ava.

"Well, it got out of hand fast. I was drunk, real drunk, after just two beers."

Jim knew where this was going. Wondered if the sweat he felt beading on his forehead was noticeable.

"She offered to run me home. I remember that part. Then I remember a little bit of a hotel room. And her naked. And …"

"We get the gist, Max." Jim said it to keep him talking. His own demons were twisting in his gut with each word. It would have been so easy to vomit right there at the bar. Jim swallowed down his own anxiety like dry bread. Didn't really want to know the rest. But they needed to hear this guy out. "Go on. You can leave out the details."

"I told this story enough. Hell, the whole town knows about it. I been bartending on the side for years. Everyone knows me. Small place like this, the bigger the secret, the faster it spreads."

Damn. Jim knew that. "Go on."

"Woke up in the hotel. I was … well. I knew I had … been … " He rubbed his fat finger under his nose and exhaled. "Raped." He stared at the bar for a moment.

Jim didn't like the word. It was like acid pouring into ears. He accepted that he'd been taken advantage of, even duped over the investigation. But rape?

Ava gave him time before pressing for more. "You confront her? After the incident? Report it to the authorities?"

Max finally looked at her. "I most certainly did. The next day at work." He shook his head. "I went right to her office and told her what I thought of her little escapade." He waved his hand. "But that didn't work out like I expected it to, either."

"No?"

"She took offense to the accusations. Got all mad. Started yelling. Standing as far from me as she could. Saying I was harassing her. Turns out, the night before she'd filed a sexual harassment complaint against me! Took me hours to get over the drugs. She made her complaint before I could do anything, say anything." He rubbed the towel across his brow. He was sweating more that Jim, but not by much. "You can imagine my reaction to that. I felt like shit. I'd been taken advantage of. Was worried what the wife was going to think."

He leaned against the coolers again. All the color was gone from Max's face. "We got into one hell of a shouting match. The whole office tuned in. Then she came over the desk after me. Looked like a cheetah on attack. Screaming like I was the rapist. The cops came. Then they didn't know who to believe."

Jim's vision went a little blurry with anger. Not only was this guy the victim, he was being accused of the crime. Jim's unease with his own feelings multiplied. He was going to get this woman and put her away if it killed him. But he had to know if he and Max shared more than Max would ever know. "Did they arrest you?"

"Of course. Who believes the man would be innocent? That I was the victim?"

Jim knew that feeling all too well. He and Max were uncomfortably close to kindred spirits. Both falsely accused of rape. And both …

And both rape victims of Sophie Ryan Evers.

"Flip side of this being such a small town out here is my brother-in-law heard quick. He's an attorney."

Max looked Ava in the eye now. Stood his full height. "I'm telling you. I know a Mickey when I see one. The bitch drugged me. Put shit in my drink. Brother-in-law sent me to the hospital, did the rape kit. Tested my blood. It was ketamine."

"Did they arrest her?" Nothing had come up in the searches, but this was a small town.

"When my brother-in-law took the evidence to the police, they went to question the crazy bitch, but she was long gone. Never heard another peep out of her. Flat out disappeared."

Ava stepped away to make a call. Jim heard bits of the conversation. Latest vic. Signs of Special K. He knew that was the street name for the drug.

Jim noticed Max didn't wear a wedding ring. He'd said he was married. Now that it was just the two of them, he asked, "The wife?"

"Didn't like the stigma either way. I was a villain or a victim. She couldn't hack the aftermath. It's been years now." Max started back to the task of cutting the evening's limes. "Most people have forgotten or at least don't seem to care anymore."

"And you, you still care?" The importance of the answer was weighty.

"Life's short. And if she's killing folks now, I guess I got something to be appreciative about."

Jim agreed with old Max on the whole not having your throat cut thing. He hoped this feeling of helplessness passed soon. Last thing he needed was one more thing to drink over.

"But it'd sure be real nice to know if you get her. Feel kind of like vindication."

Amen. "I'll let you know if we do. Any idea where she might have gone? She ever talk about any family or friends living around here or out of state?"

Max pulled in a deep breath. "Sure wish I could tell you anything useful. I didn't even work in the same department she did. She was sales and project management. I was operations. Only knew her from the few times a big group of us went out."

Jim handed Max a card. "If you think of anything."

He knew he should probably tell Ava about his own experience with Sophie. The thought only lingered a moment. Wasn't going to happen. Unlike the good folks from small towns, Jim could keep a secret. It in no way jeopardized the case or his client, so Ava didn't need to know. If Sophie was drugging vics, they'd figure that out. They didn't need his word for it. Max had fixed it for him, actually.

He would file his experience, that freakish night, away with a few others he'd buried in the never think of again file.

It'd be easier to accomplish once the bitch was behind bars.