Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author Julie Beard

“Wildly inventive, fun and fast moving. I absolutely loved it!”

—USA TODAY bestselling author Mary Alice Monroe on Kiss of the Blue Dragon

“Beard knows how to make the pages fly through your fingers, not only with suspense, but also with sizzling passion and exhilarating adventure. A master of the craft, she creates memorable characters and magical stories.”

—Kathe Robin, Romantic Times

“Julie Beard is one of the few writers who takes the concept of love and passion right to the brink! Keep up the wonderful writing, Julie. I’m a fan for life!”

—A Romance Review

“Julie Beard writes intelligent romances brimming with emotion and sensuality.”

—New York Times bestselling author Joan Johnston

“There is a magical quality to Julie Beard’s writing.”

—Heart to Heart

Dear Reader,

Enter the high-stakes world of Silhouette Bombshell, where the heroine takes charge and never gives up—whether she’s standing up for herself, saving her friends from grave danger or daring to go where no woman has gone before. A Silhouette Bombshell heroine has smarts, persistence and an indomitable spirit, qualities that will get her in and out of trouble in an exciting adventure that will also bring her a man worth having…if she wants him!

Meet Angel Baker, public avenger, twenty-second-century woman and the heroine of USA TODAY bestselling author Julie Beard’s story, Kiss of the Blue Dragon. Angel’s job gets personal when her mother is kidnapped, and the search leads Angel into Chicago’s criminal underworld, where she crosses paths with one very stubborn detective!

Join the highly trained women of ATHENA FORCE on the hunt for a killer, with Alias, by Amy J. Fetzer, the latest in this exhilarating twelve-book continuity series. She’s lived a lie for four years to protect her son—but her friend’s death brings Darcy Steele out of hiding to find out whom she can trust….

Explore a richly fantastic world in Evelyn Vaughn’s A.K.A. Goddess, the story of a woman whose special calling pits her against a powerful group of men and their leader, her former lover.

And finally, nights are hot in Urban Legend by Erica Orloff. A mysterious nightclub owner stalks her lover’s killers while avoiding the sharp eyes of a rugged cop, lest he learn her own dark secret—she’s a vampire….

It’s a month to sink your teeth into! Please send your comments and suggestions to me c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

Sincerely,

Natashya Wilson

Associate Senior Editor, Silhouette Bombshell

Kiss of the Blue Dragon
Julie Beard

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JULIE BEARD

is the USA TODAY bestselling author of nearly a dozen historical novels who, with this action-adventure novel, makes a no-holds-barred debut in contemporary fiction worthy of a Bombshell heroine. She loves kickboxing, debating politics and being walked by her Basenji dogs. She lives in the Midwest with her husband and two children, one of whom was adopted from China. Julie is a former television reporter and college journalism instructor who has penned a critically acclaimed “how to” book for romance writers.

To my son, Connor, for having the spiritual insight

and fortitude to make his parents go halfway around the

world to China to adopt his sister, Madeline Jing.

I adore you both.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank the following people for the support and help they gave me when I wrote this book:

Master David Blevins at Blue Wave Martial Arts Center, Shirl and Jim Henke, Amy Berkower and Jodi Reamer at Writers House, and especially Julie Barrett at Harlequin Silhouette. Without Julie’s vision and enthusiasm, this book would never have been conceived, much less written. Thank you all!

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 1

The Day From Hell

I like to make men sweat.

I like to tie a man in a chair and watch the beads of perspiration bubble on his upper lip one at a time, the air growing steamy from his nervous heat as I press the cold shaft of my Glock against his pulsating temple.

“You’re gonna die, sucker,” I whisper. “Too bad you had to be such an asshole.”

That line works almost every time. That’s because the world is full of Grade-A A-holes. Make that triple A. And I’m not just talking about men. I’ve seen women commit crimes so harrowing it would turn your blood into shaved ice. I blame part of that on the meltdown in the American justice system.

The Scientific Justice Act of 2032 ensured that no criminal could spend more than two years in jail without DNA evidence. God forbid they should suffer cruel and unusual punishments like their victims did. Naturally, what followed on the Internet were virtual manuals teaching criminals how not to leave DNA evidence at the scene of a crime. So now—more than seventy years later—executions, even for heinous serial murders, are so rare they make top ratings on pay-per-view. And punishment for run-of-the-mill murders? Forgetaboutit. Two years and you’re out without that sacred DNA proof of a crime.

In too many instances, if victims and their families want justice, they have to hire a Certified Retribution Specialist like me—Angel Baker, CRS. I don’t mete out vengeance myself. I simply haul in sorry-ass criminals so victims can have at it themselves. And the government looks the other way. It’s cheaper than building new prisons.

So I shouldn’t complain about all the jerks, creeps and sociopaths I have to deal with. Without them I’d be out of work.

Then again, I’m not in it for the money. But that’s another story.

I knew this was going to be a tricky job. I had invited a ROVOR to meet me at a secluded green lot on Roscoe in the old Wrigleyville neighborhood on the north side of Chicago. I live close to Southport in a charming redbrick two-flat with a walled-in garden on a double lot squeezed in on either side by apartment buildings. I picked it up for a song—a mere two million—when the neighborhood went downhill. That was right after the Cubs relocated at the end of the twenty-first century to a TerraForma stadium in the middle of Lake Michigan.

ROVOR stands for Restraining Order Violator. A ROVOR is usually an abusive man who repeatedly violates court orders to stay away from his wife and/or kids until he kills them. I handle all kinds of criminals—rapists, thieves, white-collar criminals—but I feel especially sorry for domestic abuse victims and have taken on more than my share of cases to try to prevent tragedy.

I was doing this latest one pro bono. Call me a sucker, but I hate men who treat their loved ones like punching bags.

The ROVOR was Tommy Drummond, a ham-fisted laborer who liked to show his love for his wife and kid by breaking their bones in drunken rages. The family was hiding in an abuse shelter. Drummond had found out where they were and had violated his restraining order twice. I planned to let him know in no uncertain terms his visitor pass had expired.

It used to be that a job like this involved the usual tricks of the trade—some hand-to-hand combat, threats, smoke and mirrors and a little luck. All that changed two months ago when Chief Judge of the Circuit Court of Cook County, Able T. Gibson, started giving retribution specialists warrants to execute ROVORs who were repeat offenders. Instead of three strikes and you’re out, now it was three strikes and you’re dead.

Problem is, I’ve never killed anyone, even accidentally, and had no intention of starting now. Sure, I carry a semiautomatic pistol on occasion, but that’s just the show part of my show-and-tell act. If retribution specialists were going to evolve into assassins, I would retire. Meanwhile, I wasn’t above using the threat of a Gibson Warrant to my advantage.

The question I hadn’t quite answered in my mind was how good of a liar I could be. In the past, my biggest challenge usually was figuring out how to scare the hell out of a man twice my size without shooting his nuts off. Now I had to confront Tommy Drummond and pretend that I had a Gibson Warrant with his name on it, then convince him to leave his wife and kid alone. Forever. And all this without ever showing him the warrant I didn’t have. He had to think I was willing to kill him when I wasn’t.

My door buzzer rang, jerking me out of my thoughts. I had no time for visitors, not when I only had fifteen minutes before I met up with Drummond. I raced down the stairs and opened the door to find none other than Lola the Soothsayer. She looked like a cross between a bag lady and the twentieth-century comedian Lucille Ball on a really bad hair day.

This I knew because I was a huge fan of old movies. While the jury was still out on how my own Technicolor life would turn out, I usually could count on a happy ending when I watched a classic film, especially those shot in black and white.

“Ah, Angel!” Lola said in that electrifying way of hers that always made me think she’d just discovered I was a reincarnation of Cleopatra or Catherine the Great. “Angel, Angel, Aaaaannnnggggeeeellllll.”

“What do you want? I’m meeting someone, and he’ll be here any minute.”

“Someone?” Lola adjusted the gold-lamé turban that was tilting to the right on her nest of brassy dyed-red hair and gave me a suggestive wink. “Glad to hear it, honey. It’s about time you settled down.”

I gripped the doorjamb instead of Lola’s throat. “No, not that kind of someone. He’s a ROVOR.”

“A ROVOR? That means he’s married, right?”

“Not always, but in this case, yes.”

“He could always get a divorce.”

“Lola! This is business. The guy is seriously dangerous.”

Her red lips thinned in a grimace, revealing a lower row of tobacco-stained teeth. “O-oh, I don’t like the sound of that, honey.”

“It’s all part of my job. And I can’t be late because I don’t want him to see where I live.”

“If this guy is breaking the law, you should let the cops handle it. They don’t like you horning in on their territory, believe you me. You’ll have trouble on your hands.”

I crossed my arms and leaned against the door frame. “You know more about trouble with the police than I do, Lola. You’ve got an arrest record longer than a roll of toilet paper.”

“That’s not my fault! Can I help it that the cops hate psychics?”

“They hate con artists.” I started to close the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She stuck the toe of her scuffed boot in the doorway, stopping it with a thud. “Please, Angel.” When I shook my head, she whimpered, “Please. I’m in trouble.”

“With the cops?”

She shook her head. “They don’t scare me. It’s much worse than that.” Instead of eyeing me cunningly, as usual, she looked at me as if I were some kind of savior. It creeped me out.

“Come on, Lola, it can’t be that bad.” I reached into the back pocket of my jeans and pulled out a thousand-dollar bill. “Here. Take it. It’s all I have right now. Just don’t drink it away.”

Thankfully, her eyes hardened and she put her hands on plump hips exaggerated by a floor-length, confetti-colored gown. “I’ll have you know, young lady, I’ve been sober for six months.” She snatched the bill and stuffed it into her creped cleavage.

“Six months? Great.” She could have taken a Z580 pill twenty years ago that would have stopped her drinking cold, but she’d refused. She said it would stifle her creativity and she wanted to sober up the old-fashioned way. Unfortunately that had never happened. “Congratulations. Now, goodbye, Lola.”

“Please, honey.” Tears puddled in her eyes, dripping over her garishly lined lower eyelids. She stole a nervous glance over her shoulder. “I’m in big trouble.”

“What else is new?”

“Don’t talk to me in that tone of voice.”

“All right,” I growled. “Come in, but make it quick. I have to dress fast.”

There was no way I could face Drummond in blue jeans and a T-shirt. I breezed past the first floor entrance to my studio and bounded up the stairs two at a time to my living quarters, telling Lola over my shoulder to help herself to iced tea.

I dashed to my large bedroom in the back of the oblong flat, which faced the garden. I tore through my wardrobe, looking for the perfect costume. It was customary for retributionists to wear elaborate outfits on the job. That tradition was established in colorful New Orleans, where the first CRSs set up shop and established standards for the profession.

Most of us learn our trade on the street, and most come to the job with a background in martial arts or street fighting and a burning desire for justice. Actual certification is granted by a board of retired professionals. We’re not recognized by any state or national organization, but so far no one has outlawed us, either. Government officials know that as long as the justice system is broken, someone has to make sure crime doesn’t pay.

Enter moi—a five-foot-four chick with lots of muscle and even more chutzpah. But sometimes that’s not enough. Clothing heightens the mystique factor and adds an element of danger. It also protects my identity. Not that I hide my profession from anyone, but I don’t like the idea of being recognized on the street by someone I’ve recently hauled in for retribution.

I flipped past the Grim Reaper robe, my Crips gang wear and my nun’s habit. Hmm. That had possibilities. Drummond was Catholic. Nah, I decided, moving on. While a white wimple and black habit might guilt him into good behavior, it wouldn’t last. Better to scare the hell out of him, so to speak.

I briefly considered my Madame Dominatrix leather outfit. That would be a fitting irony since he obviously got off on dominating and abusing his poor wife, but I didn’t want to turn the scumbag on. Better to assume the identify of what frightened him most—an intelligent, independent twenty-second-century woman. Besides, if Judge Gibson’s warrants became protocol, I’d look like the Grim Reaper even without the costume.

I dressed in record time, pulling on flexible cobalt-blue pants over a paler blue crisscrossed spandex sleeveless shirt. Very feminine and conservative, but it also showed off my muscles and gave me complete freedom of movement. I snapped on spiked wristbands and a leather belt, and after serious consideration, put my Glock in the belt’s holster.

Last but certainly not least, I applied a blue dragon easy-stick tattoo on my forehead. It was just bizarre enough that it sometimes intimidated my opponents. When I wore the sign of the dragon, I was telling the world, and myself, that I meant business. I grabbed the bogus Gibson Warrant I’d created on my computer and rejoined Lola.

“Oh, my God!” she barked in her post-menopausal smoker’s voice when I emerged from my bedroom. And damned if she wasn’t smoking a cigarette. “What is that thing on your forehead?”

“What is that thing in your mouth? Put it out!” I strode to the couch in the living room, my black ankle boot heels clicking on the polished wood floor, and grabbed the burning contraband dangling from her lips.

“Hey, hey, hey!” she cried. “Give me that!”

“No smoking, Lola! You’re going to get me arrested.” I went to the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet. “You know tobacco is illegal.”

“If I wanna die, it’s my right! What’s this world coming to? You can’t smoke. You can’t even have sex anymore without a license. When I was young, we used to do it in the back of a hydro Chevy!”

Sex was not a subject I wanted to talk about with my sixty-year-old mother. “Intercourse licenses are required only for people who want good health insurance,” I reminded her. “Now can we get back to your problems?”

She gave me a needling, curious look. “Do you have a sex license?”

I glared at her. “Mo-ther.”

That pleased her enormously and I took the opportunity to change the subject. Pulling up an ottoman near her and taking a seat, I said, “Now, what’s the problem? You need help?”

What followed was one of those rare moments when my mother’s hard, scheming expression melted into something that looked suspiciously like maternal pride. Her rheumy-brown eyes puddled up. I tensed. I’d never been comfortable with her unexpected bouts of affection.

“Honey, I’m so proud of you.”

I crossed my legs and adjusted the zipper on my boot. “Thanks.”

“To think you’re a retribution specialist! You actually do good in the world. Not like me. You’re so strong, honey. You’re such a good girl.”

“Not everyone shares your admiration for my profession. And I’m twenty-eight. Hardly a girl.” I nervously placed my hands on my slender knees. I was sure that wherever she was going with this, I wouldn’t like it. But she was my mother. She brought me into the world. The least I could do was allow her to be proud, even though she had nothing to do with my success. “But thank you, Lola. That’s nice of you to say.”

“I just have one question, Angel.”

“Yes?”

“Why in the hell do you have to ruin your beautiful face with that weird tattoo? I hate that Chinese crap.”

I gave her a crooked grin. “Don’t hold back, Lola. Tell me what you really think.” Relieved by the insult, I stood and examined myself in the full-length mirror near the front entrance, trying to see myself through her eyes.

My white-blond hair stood straight up in short, soft tufts that tapered down the back of my head to the middle of my neck. My lips were curvy and naturally pink. My robin’s-egg-blue eyes seemed almost innocent compared to the dramatic colors of my tattoo. Some women tried hard to be feminine. I tried hard not to be and was frustratingly unsuccessful, a disadvantage in my line of work.

That’s why I needed a mean, green-eyed dragon with blue shimmering scales hunched over my brows. Don’t look into her soft azure eyes, the dragon warned, look into mine and meet your fate.

Arched downward for the strike, the tattoo directed focus toward my neatly formed chin and, below that, a neck and body that was packed with more muscles than God had ever intended a petite, narrow-waisted, B-cup woman to have. I wasn’t born that way, of course. I work out daily with Mike, my martial arts guru, and I’d started taking Provigrip as soon as the FDA okayed its use for policing agencies, bounty hunters and retribution specialists. Lola told me that when she was young, athletes took dangerous steroids to build muscles. Provigrip increased my strength by twenty percent at no risk to my health. I don’t look like a body-building freak, but I can pack a punch.

“You really ought to dress normally, honey,” Lola added as I turned back to her. “Best way to get a man.”

I glanced at her outlandish everyday wear and shook my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My outfit looks normal to me.”

My whole body suddenly gave a quick shiver, like a divining rod honing in on water. My head jerked toward the window and a chill settled over my shoulders. “Someone’s here.”

It couldn’t be Drummond. How would he know where I lived? I’d given him a fake name and told him to meet me at the green lot down the street, luring him with the promise of a shady construction deal.

As I’d hoped, his desire to make some quick bucks had overcome any concerns he’d had about who I was and why I’d chosen him to help me with the scam.

The doorbell rang a second later.

Lola gave me a strange look. “How did you—?”

“Just sit tight. Don’t worry if you hear anything…unusual. Not even if you hear gunfire. I’ll be okay.”

I skipped sideways down the stairs, pulled out my Glock and flung open the door. I took aim at a man who had slightly curly dark brown hair with a touch of premature gray at his temples. He wore a sleek, camel-colored sport coat that stopped at his knees. His wide stance and packed build made it clear he wasn’t intimidated. He looked at me over the barrel of my gun with a deepening frown.

“Is that thing registered?” he asked in a deep voice.

“Yes. What’s it to you?” I started to lower the weapon when I realized this man wasn’t Tommy Drummond. “Who the hell are you anyway?”

“Detective Riccuccio Marco. I hope you’re not going anywhere, Ms. Baker, because you and I need to have a little chat.”

Chapter 2

The Wild, Wild Midwest

“Sorry, I’ve got plans,” I said and shut the door. Another knock. I reopened it and smiled. “Look, Detective, I’m working.”

“So am I.” Eyes that had seen it all and questioned everything glanced down at my gun, which I’d put in its holster, and back up to my tattoo. “What exactly is it you do?”

I had the feeling he already knew, but I’d play along. “I’m a Certified Retribution Specialist. I’m getting ready for an appointment.” I started to shut the door. He stopped it with a strong arm.

“It’s important, Ms. Baker.” With that he pulled out a hologram badge from inside his sport coat and flipped it open.

I watched with a sinking feeling in my gut as a three-dimensional display of his head pivoted for my benefit on the business-card-size disk. With his chiseled jaw and seductive, dark eyes, he was movie-star gorgeous, and I never trusted handsome men.

I turned from the hologram to the real thing, my gaze skimming over his bare ring finger. Even though he had to be at least thirty-five, he wasn’t married. Why bother when he probably had women falling at his feet? I’d met men like him before. I’d almost married one, in fact. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…

I tipped up my chin and sneered. “Yeah, so you’re a real cop with a real 3-D badge. I’m impressed. I still have to get going.”

His exquisite mouth widened with a patient smile. “If I can’t come in and chat, then I’ll have to assume you’re hiding something.”

My jaw muscles tightened and I said in a low voice, “I’m not hiding anything, Detective. I’m a professional. I’m just doing my job. A job, incidentally, I wouldn’t have to do if you and your brothers-in-arms were more successful at yours.”

I glanced over his shoulder and saw a lumbering big blond man on the sidewalk across the street. He glanced from a piece of paper to the street sign. Oh, my God, it was Drummond. I touched the fake warrant tucked in my hip pocket. I couldn’t whip this out in front of a cop. Marco’s gaze followed my hand, which I then tucked into my pocket, pretending to strike a casual pose. From the corner of my eye, I saw Drummond get his bearings and head down toward the green lot. Somehow, I had to get rid of Detective Marco before Drummond got tired of waiting for me and left.

“Look,” I said, clearing my throat, “I apologize for what I just said. I’ve been a little sensitive ever since the Gibson Warrant controversy blew up in the press. Some police officers seem to be blaming me and my colleagues just because a judge decided to start giving out death warrants. But I assure you, my profession is just as dedicated to law and order as yours. Now that you mention it, Detective, I would like to chat.” I smiled like a Southern belle offering a mint julep. “Won’t you come in? I’ll be with you in a minute. Actually, maybe a few. I have to buy some, uh, sugar at the corner store.”

His strong, smooth forehead wrinkled with doubt. “Sugar?”

I pointed to the left. “It’s just two doors down.”

Clearly, he wasn’t buying it, but I knew he’d borrow the excuse if it gave him a chance to check out my place without a warrant. I didn’t care what he’d find. Well, except for Lola. But she could handle this guy with her hands tied behind her back.

As soon as Marco climbed the stairway to my living quarters, I shut the door and raced down the street, stopping at the corner of the blond-brick apartment building that bordered the west side of the green lot. Drummond was sitting on a bench reading a magazine.

I scoped out the rest of the lot, which was an abandoned area with a few trees and a jungle gym. Empty as usual. It was time to move. For a split second fear chilled me and the contrasting Chicago summer heat suffocated my skin. Beads of sweat slid down my back. I was aware of my muscles—strong biceps, small but rock-solid thighs, sinewy shoulders—especially at times like this when adrenaline pumped them to the max. I was also aware that retribution specialist was a role I played and Detective Marco’s arrival had thrown off my rhythm.

I took a deep, calming breath and walked down the gravel path to the middle of the tiny park. I stopped twenty feet away. “Drummond,” I called.

He looked up and put the magazine aside. “You da one who called?” he said in a typical Chicago dems-and-doze accent.

“Yeah, I called.”

“What’s dis all about? You got some kinda job for me?”

“It’s about Janet.”

He stood and rubbed his palms on his thigh-clad jeans. He towered a foot and a half above me and looked like an overstuffed bear—one that bench-pressed about two hundred and fifty pounds. He had a scruff of blond hair, a drinker’s nose and mean, bloodshot eyes. I’d been briefed on Drummond by the director of the abuse shelter and had hired a private investigator to fill in the gaps. I’d done my research and knew what to expect, but the prospect of fighting a guy who weighed three times as much as I did was always daunting, no matter how much I tried to psych myself up for the fight.

“You a cop?” he said, his eyes glazed with confusion.

“Don’t you wish.” I moved in closer.

“A lawyer? I ain’t givin’ her a divorce.”

I barked out a laugh. “When’s the last time you saw a lawyer dressed like this?” I tipped up my chin so he could get a good look at my tattoo.

His sausage fingers clamped into his fists. “You callin’ me stupid?”

“Yeah, but not for the reasons you think. You’re stupid because you think you can control your loved ones with violence. I don’t like men like you, Drummond.”

Confusion cleared from his eyes like fog in a wind. “Damn! You’re an avenger.”

“That’s right, Einstein. A Certified Retribution Specialist.”

He looked totally flummoxed. I’d seen this reaction from ROVORs before. He couldn’t believe there was a CRS contract out on him. Then his disbelief turned on a dime. He rushed forward like a Chicago Bears’ defensive lineman. I hadn’t expected this, but I was ready for him.

I ran forward and squatted at the last minute, pushing up when his shins hit my shoulder. Down he went with a thud. This was going to be too easy, I thought. Then he surprised me by shooting his hand out and clamping hold of my ankle as I leaped away, pulling my leg out from under me.

My face hit the grass, and I twisted hard like a writhing snake, but he crawled on top of me and gripped my neck before I could slither away. He moved his bulky frame faster than most thugs I’d encountered.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been downed so fast, I thought as he tightened his grip. I’d been distracted by the cop. Hell, I could use another distraction about now.

I clawed at his arms, drawing blood, but it only made him angrier. He tightened the grip on my throat as he cursed and spat at me. Soon I couldn’t breathe, and my lungs silently screamed for air. I kicked up at his fat, muscled back but couldn’t reach his head. Blood pounded in my head. My God, I thought, I’m going to die here.

“Hey, Mommy, look at that man.” It was the voice of an angel—or a kid. Either way, it was divine intervention.

Drummond looked over his shoulder and, at the sight of the kid and his mother, he loosened his grip. I saw my chance and took it, somehow managing to wrangle out from under his three-hundred-plus pounds.

As soon as I was on my feet I gave him a furious uppercut to the jaw. The jolt of it ricocheted through my body. He groaned, wide-eyed, but he remained upright on his knees. Damn, I hadn’t meant to fight this guy—especially one built like a tank. He looked at me with astonishment.

“That’s right, asshole, you’re messing with the wrong girl.” To make sure he didn’t come after me again, I gave him a roundhouse kick to the side of the head and he toppled over like a bowling pin. He raised his head, too stupid to give up.

I took one last whack at him—a full frontal kick to the groin. As my kung fu master had taught me, I employed fei mai qiao. My leg flew like a feather, but the chi behind it walloped his crotch like a hammer. My ankle burned from the impact.

Finally, Drummond groaned in defeat and rolled into a fetal position. Only slightly winded, I knelt beside him and grabbed him by his lapels, pulling his face close to mine.

“You’re gonna die, asshole.” I pulled out my counterfeit Gibson Warrant—what I should have done from the very start—and waved it in front of his face. “See this? This is a court order from Judge Gibson himself with your name on it, Drummond. If you try to talk to Janet one more time, I have permission to shoot you on sight, no questions asked.”

His eyes narrowed on the folded paper, then he went pale. Thank God he had enough brains to keep up with the news and understood what I was talking about.

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 3

Blast from the Past

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

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

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

“It’s a good group. What of it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s right.”

“You thirsty?”

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

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

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

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

“Alcohol straight up.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His mouth twisted with irony and he took a drink, watching me as he sipped, then said, “No, that’s not why I came. But, since you mentioned it, I’m head of the Fraternal Order of City Police committee working to outlaw your profession. I was actually happy about the Gibson Warrants. They’ve shown the world what I’ve known all along—that you’re nothing more than a bunch of outlaws. This isn’t the Wild West, Ms. Baker.”

“Oh, but it is.” I moved to the edge of my chair. “That’s precisely the point. I don’t approve of what Judge Gibson has done, but I understand it. How many hundreds of thousands of restraining orders have judges given out over the last hundred and fifty years? How many of them have actually stopped an enraged husband from killing his wife? Everyone knows restraining orders are a joke.”

“But if you commit murder to prevent murder, is society any better off?”

“I haven’t decided that yet.” I wasn’t about to tell him that I thought the warrants went too far. For some reason, I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“So you want to play God. Are you saying that you—or Gibson—have the power to determine who lives and dies?”

“People are going to live and die no matter what we do.”

“You can’t be that cynical, Baker.”

I gave him an exaggerated scowl. “Don’t be such a Boy Scout. You know as well as I do that rich people almost never pay for their crimes because they can afford great lawyers. And anybody, rich or poor, who is smart enough to keep DNA out of a crime scene will be back on the street, even with a conviction, after only two years. That’s a slap on the wrist. You’ve got to hate that, Detective. All your hard work trying to catch the perps goes to waste.”

“The system sucks, I agree. So why don’t you try to change it instead of compromising it?”

“Because the system is controlled by giant corporations and international crime syndicates who don’t give a damn about life, liberty or the pursuit of happiness, thank you very much. But if I can protect one woman from an abusive husband, or help a victim at least get an apology from his assailant, then at the end of the day I’ve done something worthwhile.”

“An apology?” A sardonic half smile tugged his lips. “Is that all your clients want from their perps after you hand them over? Some of the ex-cons you people haul in wind up at the bottom of Lake Michigan.”

Heat burned my cheeks. “That’s not my fault.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I don’t take any clients who would do that sort of thing. Nor does any other retribution specialist who is certified. We have a professional code and contracts that specify that no perpetrator can be killed or tortured. Surely you know that.”

“What I know is that you’re playing with fire. You can’t take the law into your own hands, no matter what criminals do. Even if what you do is legal, it’s not right. You have to leave law and order to trained officers. We’ll do our job.”

I snorted in derision. “And who are you? Elliott Ness? You think you’re going to clean up this town like Ness cleared out Capone and his gang back in the early 1900s?” I shook my head. “Cops. You’re all either corrupt or egomaniacs who think you’re going to save the world.”

He blinked slowly. “Why do you have such a low opinion of legitimate law enforcement?”

I took in a deep breath. Because the cops who arrested my mother and put her in jail for bookkeeping had been placing bets at her apartment the night before. Because the social workers who put me in foster care the next day knew my foster father had a history of abuse. Because I don’t trust anyone.

“Because,” I said in a rough voice, “even if you do your job perfectly, the bad guys are going to go free. Judge Gibson wants to change all that. While you can argue with his method, I can’t imagine anyone who would argue with the result.”

“So you’ve used Gibson Warrants?”

I leaned back as I thought about my encounter with Drummond. “You might say that.”

His chestnut-colored eyes darkened. “How many people have you executed?”

“In the past two months?” I shrugged. “I’ve lost count.”

For some reason he wanted to hate me, but he knew I was yanking his chain. He sighed and leaned back, taking another sip.

“What are you drinking?” I asked.

He licked the clear liquor from his lips. “Chianti.”

“Chianti.” I smiled. He was Italian. “I should have known. But I might have taken you for a Scotch man.” I hated Scotch.

In the pause that followed, the old-time elevated train roared by not two hundred yards away. It was the only original el-track still functioning in the entire country and a real tourist attraction. In the mid-twenty-first century, all of Chicago’s elevated trains and subways had been replaced by aboveground superconductor lines, which were virtually noiseless. I had the dubious privilege of living near the only remaining electric track capable of making my two-flat rattle from its vibration.

“So, Detective,” I said when the rumble died, “let’s cut to the chase. I’m not a bloodthirsty ogre and we both know it. What really brought you here?”

“Danny Black,” he said.

Two words. They may as well have been two fists pounding into my solar plexus. For a moment I couldn’t breathe. I tried to keep my cool, but my eyes closed of their own will while unwanted images flashed in my mind. I saw Officer Daniel Black’s body lying in a pool of blood in a rat-infested alley in the Loop. A minute before there had been seven of us—me and Darelle Jones, a drug dealer I’d been contracted to bring in, Officer Danny Black and four dealers—connected with the neo-Russian mob.

Darelle opened fire, killing everyone but me. I was close enough to witness the massacre, but just out of sight around the corner of a nearby building. When the smoke cleared, I was the only witness. The fact that I was the lone survivor and had prior connections to the assailant made me doubly suspicious. But a thorough investigation cleared me of any collusion.

I put the unpleasant memories aside and opened my eyes. I found Detective Marco heading toward the door, readjusting his sport coat. He wasn’t even going to hear me out.

“If you’ve bothered to look at the record, Marco,” I said as I stood and crossed my arms, unwilling to chase after him, “you know that I was found completely innocent in that tragedy. The chief even held a press conference announcing that conclusion. The case is closed.”

He opened the door, adjusted his collar and seared me from the distance with a laser-beam glare. “I’ve read the record, Baker. And you’re right, you were cleared of wrongdoing. But you couldn’t be more wrong on another count. The case isn’t closed. It’s now officially reopened.”

He slammed the door behind him. I didn’t move for a long time. I couldn’t have been more stunned if he’d said, “Frankly, Scarlet, I don’t give a damn.” And in a way, that’s exactly what he did say.

Chapter 4

Black Coffee, Blue Dragon

As soon as Marco left, I called the private eye whom I’d hired to watch the abuse shelter where Drummond’s wife and kid were staying. Some retributionists who make good money have a whole staff of private investigators who do everything from watching over victims to tracking the whereabouts of ex-cons. I kept my operation simple by using a freelance P.I. when needed.

My guy was an old pro from Skokie. I told him about my fight with Drummond and told him to call the cops and me, in that order, if my threats failed to cower Drummond and he showed up at the shelter. The police could legally shoot the sonofabitch if he attacked his family. I could only do it with a bogus Gibson Warrant and wind up in jail for fraud.

I had just hung up when someone knocked on the door again.

“Now what?” I muttered as I flung it open. And there, standing before me with a rakish smirk and a tilted fedora, was none other than Humphrey Bogart.

“Bogie,” I said on a long sigh of relief. “I forgot you were coming. Man, am I glad you’re here.”

He passed me with a wink and a whiff of tobacco trailed behind him. There was something so simply and confidently masculine about him that just watching him climb the stairs and saunter into my flat made my wire-tight shoulders unfurl. Okay, fine. I’d given in to Chicago’s uniquely primal summer heat. I was here. He was here. My libido was definitely here.

Though Bogie wore a trench coat, he wasn’t sweating. I was. He shrugged out of the coat and tossed it onto my couch, then poured himself a glass of Vivante. Bourbon. You never had to ask with a man like Bogie. He took a long sip, then looked at me long and hard. His upper lip twitched once—one of his rare signs of emotion.

“You look tired, Angel.”

I nodded. “More than you could ever know.” Between Drummond and Detective Marco, I felt as if the whole world was against me. I needed someone who would accept me as I was, ask no questions and leave no doubts that I was a woman. Lucky for me, that someone was standing in arm’s reach.

When Bogie put down his glass on the serving bar and came my way, hands tucked into his suit pocket, my skin tingled all over. He kissed me lightly. I smelled tobacco on his breath, and it was so real I melted in his arms.

“Make love to me, Bogie.”

“Is that an order?”

I nodded. He took me to my bedroom and undressed me. His jaded eyes lit with hunger.

“Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”

And I knew from experience he would do much more than that.

The next morning I arose, as usual, to the soft sound of Mike’s Chinese gong and the smell of incense. Both were di rigeur for his meditations. Sound and scent floated up from the garden through the open French windows in my bedroom. I flopped my arm across my double bed, not expecting to find Bogie there. And I didn’t.

I’d only contracted with AutoMates to have Humphrey Bogart until 3:00 a.m. With his internal clock fully engaged, quite literally, Bogie always rose promptly, no matter how deliciously exhausting our lovemaking was. He’d light a cigarette, which AutoMates were permitted to do. After all, tar and nicotine can’t hurt a robot. Granted, second-hand smoke was still a problem, but the stinking rich AutoMates corporation lobbyists had convinced Congress that a few smoking movie star robots couldn’t produce all that much smoke.

After lighting up, Bogie would dress in darkness, his rugged features illuminated only by the red glow of his cigarette, and depart.

His zombielike obedience to time always reminded me a little of those blond people in The Time Machine who went off in a trance whenever the Morlocks called. The 1960s movie, starring Rod Taylor and Yvette Mimieux, was a classic. It was in color, but I still liked it.

The fact that Bogie had been programmed to send me to the moon diminished the afterglow, but not by much. With a compubot produced by AutoMates, the premiere manufacturer, satisfaction was always guaranteed. And I was lucky enough to get exclusive dibs on the star attraction of Rick’s Café Americain, the reality bar down the street.

Yet I’ll admit the physical satisfaction did little to relieve my loneliness. That’s why I always sent Bogie home before morning. The emptiness of our so-called relationship always glared in early daylight. The problem was I just wasn’t sure if I could handle a real man again. I wasn’t exactly lucky in love. While on the outside I looked fearless, my heart was about as tough as a bowl of cherry Jell-O.

I made coffee, and when I had a steaming cup in hand, I went into the garden, thinking my martial arts trainer would give me a break from training today. Mike’s savage attack cry promptly disabused me of the notion.

“Haieeeeyaaaa!” he screamed.

My every muscle tensed. I knew what was coming next. Nevertheless, as the stimulant-dependant occidental that I was, I managed to take a slurp of my treasured caffeine before going into defense mode. Not only because my sluggish brain desperately needed it, but because it made Mike mad.

As a former Buddhist monk, he’d prefer I ate no meat, drank no caffeine, engaged in no sex and slept on a straw mat. He wanted me to live like a…well, a monk. It was my lifelong determination to prove to him that I could be every bit the fighter he was even while maintaining my status on the top of the carnivorous, lecherous and indulgent food chain.

I saw a tornado of sienna-colored robes rounding a bank of blooming pink azaleas.

“Aaiiiyeeee!” he cried again, every tendon straining as he squatted and assumed a pose of steel.

“Oh, hell.” He was opening with the iron buffalo ploughs the field. That classic Shaolin kung fu move was enough to make me want to dig a foxhole. I took one last slurp of coffee and tossed my mug into the grass. “Hey, Mike, can we talk about this?”

His typically enigmatic Oriental expression, boyish for his thirty years of age, was distorted into a mask of savagery. Boy, he wasn’t kidding around. My dalliances with Bogie always pissed him off. Mike believed compubots could suck the chi out of you for days. He was trying to teach me a lesson. But while I was sporting the just-laid look, I had more energy than he suspected. The question was, what move?

I cleared all thoughts as Mike had taught me, making way for instinct. He blazed toward me—jumping, squatting, rolling on the ground and flailing. But just before he downed me with a blue dragon tail-wag move, I leaped and grabbed the twisted tree branch that was shading a bed of hostas and pulled myself up with catlike grace. Squatting barefoot on the branch, and wearing nothing more than a tank top and boy-short briefs, I pounced down on him—now the tiger—and flattened him.

“Ha!” I cried out when he sank back in defeat. I stood on my adrenaline-pumped legs. “I told you never to do that before I’ve had at least two cups of coffee.”

He sat up, not the least the worse for wear, and smoothed a hand over his shaved head. “I make sure you are awake.”

“Well, it worked. But I lost a perfectly good cup of coffee. And I’m going to have more,” I said emphatically as I combed through my sprigs of platinum hair and headed back to the kitchen.

“Wait, Baker.”

His somber request stopped me cold. It was more his tone than the words that worried me. He always called me Baker. Ever since I’d rescued him from a prison camp in Joliet, Illinois, he’d called me by my last name, thinking it was my first. The Chinese put their last names first. His was Pu Yun. Yun would be his first name, except he’d taken a classic American nickname.

“What is it, Mike? Can’t it wait for another cup of java?”

His long pause worried me. But finally he nodded. Reluctantly.

With a steaming cup of joe, I joined him in his shed at the end of the long, fenced-in garden. I always called it a shed, but it was much more than that. Mike lived in a cozy twenty-by-fifteen-foot renovated coach house. With a bare wooden floor, it was insulated but not well heated, so we had put in a potbellied stove.

In accordance with the principles of feng shui, a water pond coated with green lilies and stocked with white and red carp sat serenely outside his door. Inside, colorful painted images of a dragon, a red bird and a tortoise adorned differing walls.

I glanced around and noticed the place was unusually cluttered—Taoist amulets and talismans scrawled on red and yellow strips of paper were pinned here and there, his bag of I Ching tablets lay in the corner, incense burned before a small statue of the Buddha, and he’d been working at his suitcase-size desk on a purple astrology chart. Fact was, Mike was superstitious, as were most Chinese who’d grown up in the old country.

“I have very bad luck,” he’d said when I first brought him here five years ago. His wrists had been scarred from being chained after numerous attempts to escape from the work camp. He was skinny and looked like a concentration camp victim. “My father…his grave is in a bad place near Shanghai. Pointing east. We are all cursed, my family, because of this.”

Not if you’re one of the elite Shaolin monks, I’d thought at the time, which he was. The monks and their kung fu style of martial arts had first come to the attention of Westerners in the 1970s because of a television show. When the Chinese communist government realized they could make money off of the monks, the Shaolin Temple north of the Shaoshi Mountain opened to tourists. While Mike had made a name for himself at the Shaolin temple, he had come to America in search of social freedom.

Whether it was because of bad luck or naiveté, he had arranged his trip through a crafty travel agency sponsored by the Mongolian mafia. Mike unwittingly ended up in a prison work camp operated by the mafia on the outskirts of Chicago. He’d slaved in Illinois’s legalized opium fields for two years before I’d rescued him while taking a tour of the camp, a spontaneous act of mercy on my part.

After his escape, Mike could have returned to the Shaolin temple, but he’d felt that his imprisonment was such a bad omen that he had brought dishonor to his fellow monks. So he stayed with me, employing his fighting skills on my behalf, teaching me the kung fu style of martial arts. I’d been studying tae kwon do, the Korean style, since I was a kid.

So while Mike was a fighter, he still had the heart of a monk and often spat out cryptic sayings and insightful diatribes that had vaguely ominous, spiritual overtones.

“I had a dream,” he said darkly.

I swallowed. “Oh?”

“While you slept with that thing, I dreamed your fate.”

“Look, Mike, I didn’t ask you to do that, and he is not a thing. Bogie is a…a…” My voice trailed away. I rubbed my forehead. I didn’t even know what to call him. Truth was, I should be making love with a real man. Maybe Lola was right. I heaved a sigh. “So what happened in the dream?”

“A blue dragon…she rose out of water and…”

“Yeah?” I prodded when he frowned down at the astrology chart. “So?”

“You are so impatient, Baker!” he snapped.

I was stunned into silence. I’d never heard Mike lose his temper before. I slowly put my cup down on the table. “I’m sorry.”

He frowned and nodded, not looking at me. “Blue dragon must fight two-headed eagle.”

I waited, afraid to interrupt.

“Something has happened, Baker. A storm gathers. Our time together may be at an end.”

He looked at me as if for the last time. I shivered with foreboding. A sudden wind blew up, rare in the north side of the city. The skies opened and warm rain descended unannounced. Big, fat dollops hit the roof, the sidewalk, cleansing them, leaving behind a humid, silver scent. Mike and I exchanged looks. He’d once told me blue dragons had power over rain.

Jeez. I was getting downright superstitious myself. I took my coffee cup and left without saying another word. I didn’t need to. Superstition aside, I had a funny feeling the Chinese gods were about to fling some ox pies our way.

Chapter 5

To Lola with Love

Irony sucks.

At least it did when I went to see Lola on Howard Street in the Rogers Park neighborhood to make sure she was okay. I arrived thinking I understood the extent of my mother’s shenanigans and left realizing I didn’t know the half of it.

Two blocks east of the public transportation station, Lake Michigan lapped on the sandy shore in the glare of the moonlight. I couldn’t hear the waves, but I remembered them from my childhood—remembered intrepidly diving into water that was cold even in July.

Back then I’d wanted to be a mermaid when I grew up. I used to practice holding my breath under water so that one day I could live in the lake, but I always had to come up for air. That was my first clue that I might be destined for something else.

I was six, and the lake was an oasis from Lola’s parlor, where mobsters of every ethnic origin came to have their fortunes told or, more likely, bets placed. One year later, when Lola went to prison for bookmaking, I was yanked out of there by the Department of Children and Family Services. Since I didn’t even know who my father was, D.C.F.S. plunked me into foster care, if you could call it that, in one of the sprawling suburbs, a concrete oasis known as Schaumburg. I didn’t see the lake again for two years. By the time I returned I didn’t believe in mermaids anymore.

I brushed the memories aside as I exited the superconductor platform onto the grimy street. I turned left and walked one block until I saw the red neon Fortunes Told sign blinking outside Lola’s second-floor window. The T had shorted out so it read Fortunes old. That was for sure.

More childhood memories came flying at me, and not all of them bad—Lola and I holding hands as we walked to the corner ice-cream shop, trying not to step on cracks; laughing together when she tried to curl my hair and it ended up looking like she’d put my finger in an electric socket; lying in my lumpy bed at night, listening to the sounds of traffic and gunfire, so grateful I had my mother to keep me safe.

Even then I must have known it wasn’t going to last. I’d cherished the chaotic and neglectful life I had, not knowing it could be better. And later, when I knew it could have been, I yearned for it still. You never stop missing a mother when she’s gone, even when you can’t stand to be near her.

I picked up my pace. I’d been worried about my mother ever since her visit and Mike’s ominous dream. I felt guilty about blowing her off. Why I worried about a woman who could outsmart the devil himself, I didn’t know. That is, not until I drew close enough and saw that the police had cordoned off the sidewalk in front of her brick apartment building. The cops had used old-fashioned yellow police tape. They didn’t waste decent laser barriers in a neighborhood like this. Not when they’d probably be stolen. There were a couple police aerocars hovering on the street outside.

I ran the last few feet and ducked under the police tape, fully intending to dash up the crumbling concrete steps to the second-floor apartment.

“Hey!” shouted a patrolman from his car. He turned off the engine and the squad car sank a foot to the pavement with a hiss. He climbed out. “You can’t go in there!”

“I’m a relative!” I shouted over my shoulder.

Just then an older cop came out of the door. By the time I met him on the small porch, he had drawn his taser. “Stop right there. Who are you?”

I looked up into his deeply lined face and my mind sizzled with a long-forgotten memory. It came like the flash of a July Fourth sparkler. I recalled the night the police had arrested Lola for bookmaking twenty-one years ago. The officers who handcuffed her had been placing bets in her parlor for years. I hated the hypocrites. For a long time I loathed the sight of a police uniform.

“Who are you?” the big, square-framed cop demanded as he hoisted up his sagging pants.

I no longer felt like explaining. I pulled a trick Mike had taught me.

“Follow the bouncing ball.” I put two fingers like a fake gun to his forehead, arm extended, and threw every ounce of chi I had into his third eye. I don’t mean that literally, of course. In eastern religions, the place in the middle of the forehead is considered a portal to the soul—a third eye. The cop in front of me didn’t know that. Nevertheless, he froze and closed his eyes. I turned and jogged up the stairs three at a time until I reached the apartment.

The first room I saw was the kitchen. An overturned table lay in the middle. There was blood everywhere. There were times when I had been ready to murder Lola with my own bare hands, but I wasn’t prepared for this. I hesitated just long enough for the patrolman to break out of his trance and come barreling up the stairs after me.

“Hold it right there!” he ordered.

Just then a detective stepped in my line of sight.

“It’s okay, Officer. She’s family.”

It was Detective Marco. He guided me in with a soft touch to the elbow. When the older cop left, I stopped and pulled my arm away and glared at Marco. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ll explain later.”

“Is she dead?”

“As far as we know, your mother is alive. The lady in there wasn’t so lucky.” He spoke low and calmly. It was an intimate, soothing sound, and I was grateful, even though I knew it was the voice he doubtless used with his psych patients.

I looked in the family room area, where a couple of detectives were collecting evidence, and saw a body covered by a sheet.

He followed my gaze. “We’re identifying her now. A neighbor says the victim came here regularly for readings. The neighbor also says she saw two men taking your mother away out the back entrance of the building. It was an apparent kidnapping.”

“Don’t call her my mother.” My eyelids fluttered at the hard sound in my voice, but I wouldn’t give an inch on this. I’d learned to accept her, but only on my own terms. “Call her a suspect. A perp. A victim. Lola. Whatever you want.”

Curiosity had replaced his suspicion. He still didn’t like me, but now he was trying to understand me. “Okay. Lola, then.”

“I only lived here until I was six. Then I went into foster care. I hardly remember my childhood.” My voice was the same monotone I’d adopted during the two years I’d spent in an abusive foster home right after Lola went to jail. The numbness faded when I’d landed with a nice, suburban couple who raised me as if I were their own.

Marco had been staring at the bloody mess but turned his focus back to me. God, I had to put an end to this blubbering. The last thing I wanted was for him to have insight into my psyche.

“So what are you doing here?” Marco asked. “Do you know anything about this?”

“No. I came because I was worried about her. Right before you came to see me, she said she was in some kind of trouble. But she didn’t get a chance to elaborate.” I didn’t let her, I thought with a sigh. “What I want to know is why you’re here. Don’t tell me it’s a coincidence you’re handling my mother’s kidnapping case at the same time that you’re investigating me.”

He slipped his hands into his pants’ pockets and briefed me like the cool professional he was. “Two undercover detectives were in a car outside. They saw the assailants enter and heard a commotion, but by the time they got up here she was gone. I had assigned the men to keep an eye on Lola.”

“As part of your investigation of me?”

He nodded.

I should have been angry, but the truth was, I didn’t feel much of anything. I was too good at numbing myself. “I’ll look at the body. Maybe I can identify her.”

“I doubt it,” he said but didn’t stop me.

I understood what he meant when he led me to the body and pulled back the bloodstained cover. All that remained was a trunk and limbs—no head, hands or feet. The victim wore one of those nebulous, sleeveless paisley frocks women wear when they give up all hopes of being glamorous.

“The R.M.O.,” I whispered. The Russian Mafiya Organizatsia was notorious for ruthlessly dismembering victims. No wonder the apartment looked like someone had put blood in a blender without a lid. “I see what you mean.”

“We’re running a quick DNA test now. We should know who she is later this evening.”

I nodded. My stomach twisted with regret. Lola had come to me for help. Said she was in big trouble. Now this. I should have listened. “Do you mind if I go into Lola’s parlor and look around?”

“Fine. That area has already been scanned and logged.”

While Marco and the death scene investigators finished up with the bloodbath, I wandered to the front room where Lola did her scrying. That was the fancy word she liked to use for reading her crystal ball. She claimed she could see scenes from the future reflected in the glass. What a crock. All she could really see was the money she was conning out of her unsuspecting victims. My guilt morphed into anger. She wouldn’t be in this trouble—whatever it was—if she didn’t hang out with lowlifes and thieves. That wasn’t my fault.

The perfectly round grapefruit-sized crystal sat on a small pedestal in the center of the table. I eyed it warily. I hated that thing. To me it represented all the painful lies my mother had told to me, to clients, and to D.C.F.S. when she was trying to get me back after her four-year stint in prison. I tore my gaze away and strolled around the room. With flocked wallpaper that was antique three times over and beaded fringe lamps, it looked like a Victorian whorehouse. Like the madam of a bawdy house, she had pictures of her most famous clients on one peeling wall.

Photos displayed the smarmy grins of a few lounge lizards who played in northside synthesizer bars. There was also Juan Villas, the Cubs’ star pitcher. I was impressed. When I saw a signed photograph of the mayor, I paused. She had to have bought that one on the Internet. I looked closer. It looked like the real thing. Or was that a forgery? Knowing Lola, it was forged.

The last baffling photograph was of Vladimir Gorky. I’d seen him in the news. He was head of the R.M.O. here in Chicago and a top lieutenant in the national neo-Russian mob. While he was a known mobster, he was so high up on the food chain that the cops could never tie him to the crimes committed by his underlings. And since he had been smart enough to launder his money in legitimate businesses, he was somewhat of a society celebrity. He was like a white-collar criminal who never does time in a luxury prison and just happens to have invisible blood on his hands.

Wow. Lola was either knee-deep in syndicate crime or she’d really improved her fortune-telling act.

I looked closer and saw scribbled in ink, To Lola, the best fortune-teller outside of Chechnya. With love, Vlad. I nearly stopped breathing. Lola had been scrying for Gorky himself. She’d done a lot of bookmaking for low-level mob types when I was young. But this was big-time. Unless this whole wall of fame was just another one of her scams.

I glanced at the crystal ball, then did a double take. Before it had been dark. Now it glowed orange. I snorted at my own superstition. Of course it couldn’t glow. It was just the reflection from the neon light outside the window. To reassure myself, I looked out the sullied window at the “Fortunes old” sign. It was set to blink on and off, on and off. I looked back at the ball. The glow was steady, clearly not a reflection.

I walked toward it, stopping at the edge of the round, velvet tablecloth where it sat in a black stand. Curious as hell, I reached out and touched the glass globe.

“Ouch!” I yanked my hand back. It was hot. Not enough to burn, but enough to surprise me. Hell, did Lola have this thing hot-wired to impress her clients?

I reached out again, this time letting my hand smooth over the ball. It was definitely warm. I sat down and pulled the ball and its small black tripod stand closer. No wires. I put both hands on the globe. Suddenly I heard her voice. Help me. I didn’t mean it. Her voice was in my head. The glass burned hotter in my palms. I looked down and saw Lola’s face in the ball. She was crying. Then someone hit her. I heard words I couldn’t quite understand. English, Russian, French, Chinese? All or none of these? Or just words played in reverse, comprehensible in a different direction.

I recoiled and pulled my hands away just as Marco entered the room. He drew back the curtain with a whoosh. Light from the living room flooded the parlor.

He looked damningly from me to the ball. “Does fortune-telling run in the family, Baker?”

Short of a snappy comeback, I was momentarily speechless. What if it did? No, I thought as I wearily rubbed both hands over my face, collecting myself, no it couldn’t, because Lola was a fake.

“What if I did inherit psychic abilities?” I finally managed to reply sarcastically as I stood. “You’re a shrink. Aren’t you supposed to appreciate the powers of the mind?”

“I’m also a cop. I appreciate the ingenuity of grifting in all its forms.” He cocked his head over his shoulder. “Let’s get out of here. The body has gone to the morgue. The evidence has been bagged. We’re the last ones out.”

“Look, uh, Marco, would you mind if I took this home with me?” I motioned nonchalantly to the crystal ball. “You know it…well, it has sentimental value.”

His mouth tugged in a cynical line. “Yeah, sure, what the hell. It’s against the rules, but you bend them all the time, don’t you?”

That stung, but I smiled sweetly. “Think whatever makes you happy.”

“Go ahead. Maybe you’ll actually be able to see your mother in that thing and tell us where she is.”

“Ha, ha,” I said, forcing a laugh. That would be a hot one. As hot as a crystal ball burning beneath my hands. I had no idea what just happened to me, and I might never know. But one thing was sure. I was going to find out who had kidnapped Lola and murdered this poor innocent victim. If I didn’t take a stand, who would?

Chapter 6

Wicked Witch of the East

Let me tell you something about the Russian Mafiya Organizatsia. The foot soldiers in the R.M.O. are some bad, bad asses. While they call themselves Sgarristas, an Italian word for foot soldier borrowed from the Cosa Nostra, they make other Chicago mobs look like wimps.

Capone had his tommy guns, John Gotti had cement shoes, but these guys had unrivaled ruthlessness born of relentless suffering in a failed communist economy.

Efforts by U.S. politicians to rein in the R.M.O. largely failed because no campaign finance reform laws were strong enough to keep mob money out of the democratic system. Not that the police are eager to go after the R.M.O. Not only are such encounters usually fatal for Chicago’s finest, but the arrests made rarely end in convictions, at least not for the mob kingpins, because the Mafiya maintains a careful balance of legitimate businesses and criminal activities.

I’ll never forget seeing the R.M.O. slaughter four Chicago police officers who’d thought they were invincible with their SMART uniforms. Sgarristas torched the officers. The flames danced right through the cops’ invisible bulletproof shields. They had all died of burns. And that was old technology. The Sgarristas were said to have new weapons not even the military had yet.

I was thinking about the Sgarristas when Marco and I left Lola’s building. In fact, I was doing more than thinking. I knew someone was out there.

“Hold it,” I told Marco just before he opened the foyer door to the sidewalk. A weird feeling made my shoulders quiver with a chill.

He looked at me. “What?”

I swallowed hard before I said what I couldn’t possibly know but knew nevertheless. “Someone’s out there waiting to nail us.”

Marco’s eyes glittered unkindly. “Is that what Angel the Soothsayer says?”

I was too spooked by the hair standing on my nape to be irritated by his sarcasm. My heart banged like a drum pulled too tight. I could almost feel death waiting for us beyond the door. What was going on here? I’d always been the intuitive type, but this is ridiculous. Someone is out there.

Where could we go? The inside door that opened to the tenants’ mailboxes had already closed and locked behind us. Marco didn’t have a key. The only place for us to go was outside this ten-by-ten-foot outer foyer.

“What’s the matter?” he said impatiently. “You have nothing to worry about. There’s a patrolman waiting for us outside.”

“He’s gone. He left.” I propped an arm on the door and leaned heavily against it. I had to think.

“You’re not a suspect in this murder case. You don’t have to create a scene here to impress me, or throw me off the scent.”

“Pardon me for saying so, but I don’t think you have a scent. And this isn’t about you or me. Someone is out there. If you’re so sure I’m wrong, then go ahead. When they run out of bullets, I’ll follow. Gentlemen first.”

He narrowed his eyelids as he studied me with a curious mix of amazement and amusement. “I can’t believe you’re serious. Fine, I’ll call ahead.” He pulled his cell radio clip off his belt and called to the car. Silence. “Crappy equipment,” he muttered, staring at the black device in his hand.

I nodded and gave him a gloating smile. “Your line has been jammed. Typical R.M.O. tactic.”

He glared at me, for a moment considering my case. Then he shook his head. “No, this thing has been on the fritz all day. Department budget cuts.”

Nevertheless, he reached into his suit coat, tucked away the radio and pulled out a Mortal Taser, setting it to Kill.

“Now we’re talking the same language,” I said, glad that he was armed. I’d left my Glock at home.

“That’s a first,” he muttered.

In spite of the danger I was sure awaited us, I couldn’t help but notice how gracefully his hands cradled the weapon.

“Hey, Baker.”

I looked up and almost gave a start when I saw how penetratingly he was staring at me. “Yes?”

“When we get outside and you see you were wrong, you’ll have to buy me a beer.”

I grinned. “And if I’m right, you’re buying.”

He moved toward the door, then halted, letting out a breath of relief. “Look. I told you.”

I followed his gaze, which focused on a pulsing red light that throbbed through the cloudy etched glass embedded in the upper half of the old-style oak door.

“So what?”

“Those are called lights,” he replied, sarcasm fully restored. “They put them on squad cars. My backup is there. You’re good, Baker. Very good. You almost had me convinced.”

He walked out of the door like Gary Cooper in High Noon. What a jerk, I thought. Then irritation turned to absolute panic. The vague danger I’d sensed turned into a sharp, sizzling sound in my head that made me nauseous. I saw bricks just inches from my face. They looked like they were burning. I didn’t know what it all meant but I just knew something very bad was about to happen.

“Don’t!” I shouted, but he was already outside. Like a tornado, I flew out the door and smashed into his legs, tackling him. He crashed into the cracked concrete sidewalk. His taser flew from his hand, skittered into a street drain and vanished down through the iron slats.

“Damn it, Baker,” Marco cursed.

At the same time a company of bullets sprayed the glass and brick wall where Marco had been a second before. By the sizzling that followed in the eerie silence, I knew the bullets were acid eaters—a favorite of the Mafiya. It wasn’t enough to roto rooter your insides with SMART bullets. The R.M.O. wanted to burn away your internal organs with chemicals, just to make sure you were really dead. With a chill, I realized I’d heard the same sound a moment before in my mind. I looked up from the ground and saw acid fumes curling up from the bullet holes in the redbrick wall. That must have been the smoke I’d envisioned.

“What the—?” Marco growled as he yanked his legs from my embrace and twisted up from the trash-littered sidewalk. He stopped as soon as he saw the bullet holes. In unison we glanced hopefully to the flashing red light.

Unfortunately it topped a street cleaner parked across the street, not a squad car. I had been right. The patrolman was long gone. The street looked like a ghost town.

“Let’s go!” He reached for my hand and together we scrabbled to safety around the side of the building. Panting, we both stood and flattened ourselves against the wall. “My taser—”

“Forget it,” I rasped, still clutching his hand. “It’s gone. Useless anyway.” From my experience, the hard-core mobs would outgun you every time. Hand-to-hand combat was the only useful weapon against mobsters, if you were lucky enough to get close. Sgarristas didn’t usually train in martial arts. They didn’t need to. So it was the only weapon that worked against them when your back was up against a wall, so to speak.

“Guess I’m not buying that drink,” I said. I pulled my hand from his tight grip and clutched the rough wall. “Don’t worry, Marco, I’ll handle this.”

“Like hell you will. I’m not going to let you get killed.”

I gave him an incredulous look. “For your information, Marco, you’re not letting me do squat. I’m going to save my butt and yours in the process.”

“Do you always have to be in control, Baker?”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me, Marco. You should have stuck to head-shrinking back at headquarters. You’d be dead by now if I hadn’t—”

I heard a rustling noise and the squeak of a rusty wheel, and fell silent. We both looked at ourselves mirrored in the plate-glass windows of the storefront across the alley. In a distorted reflection created by a bright rainbow-colored billboard on the brick wall over our heads, we saw a stooped figure pushing a rickety grocery cart.

“A free-ranger,” he whispered, his face visibly relaxing. “An old lady.”

Free-ranger. I hated that term. It was a euphemism for any homeless person who hadn’t gone underground to live in Emerald City, which was a euphemism for the abandoned subway tunnels that had become a city for the poor.

A number of homeless Chicagoans who preferred to brave the elements in order to enjoy the light of day remained above ground. Calling them “free-rangers” sounded like something happy, like free-range chickens.

The reflection of the homeless lady approaching with her rusty grocery cart full of bags, empty cans and trash became clearer. Her dirty gray hair looked like a Brillo pad, her nose looked borrowed from the Wicked Witch of the East from the classic The Wizard of Oz, and her teeth were MIA. Maybe a methop junkie whose brain had turned to mush. They were usually harmless.

She pushed her cart past the edge of the building and smiled at us as she passed. I was just about to relax when I saw something round and hard poking out of the many tattered layers of her clothing.

No time to curse. I shot my leg out at a ninety-degree arc, ramming the toe of my boot into the soft part of her temple with a sickening thud. The free ranger-who-was-not flew backward and landed in an awkward, still heap. Knocked out cold. Mike would be proud.

“Damn I’m good.” I straightened my collar and glanced at Marco, who looked down at the unconscious body in horror.

“I ought to book you for that.” He ground the words through clenched teeth and bent to help the prone figure, until I grabbed his upper arm.

“Don’t be such a patsy,” I whispered. “This is a setup.”

He glanced around and saw what I had—an ominously deserted street. It was as if someone had shut down traffic for a parade. The Sgarristas probably had. But for just one assassination? They must have really wanted us dead.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said. “I don’t know why the R.M.O. sent this guy to kill us, but this isn’t the place to debate the issue.”

I quickly squatted and pulled out the weapon I’d seen, which was still hidden in the assassin’s clothes, and held it up for him to see.

His face sobered. “You were right. I didn’t see the gun.”

“Hell, yes, I was right. Don’t worry about it. You have to spend some time on the streets before you notice these things.” I handed him the Uzi-size weapon and felt for a pulse in the assassin’s neck, which was partially covered with his latex mask. “This guy will be coming to soon.”

“How do you know it’s a guy?”

I grinned at him over my shoulder. “There’s only one sure way to find out.”

I tucked my fingers under the edge of the latex and pulled the mask off, revealing the sweating, unconscious face of a dark-haired, twenty-something guy whose ancestors definitely once vacationed on the Baltic Sea.

“You were right again,” Marco acknowledged.

“I usually am. Don’t ask me why.”

“How did you know this guy was waiting for us?”

“I really don’t know. I’ve always had great intuition but this was…this was too weird.”

He nodded, but hardly looked convinced. He turned his professional scrutiny to the contraption in his hands. “What do you think this is?”

“I don’t know, but I feel a lot safer knowing it’s in our hands and not his.”

I stood and he handed it over for my examination. It was surprisingly light. There was a trigger, but that was the only conventional technology on the foot-and-a-half-long contraption. The nose ballooned like a flamethrower, but I was sure it shot out something far more subtle and dangerous. Something inside of it glowed unnaturally. All ruminations came to a screeching halt when Marco stiffened and pointed down the empty street.

“Baker.”

“I see her.” A figure stood staring at us five hundred yards down the road. This time it really was a woman. I could tell by the natural flow of her long black hair, the knockout body in black tights, the cocky, somehow sexy stance. “If this is Tweedle Dee, there’s Tweedle Dumb. Though I have a feeling she’s anything but.”

My supposition proved all too true. While she distracted us, the Sgarrista on the ground grabbed a knife and lunged toward me. Damn. I had been so entranced with the first weapon I hadn’t searched for another. Marco turned and socked the guy hard in the jaw. I was impressed. But the Sgarrista barely moved. Oh, great! Jaws of steel.

The assassin kicked his leg out and rammed me against the brick wall. I groaned, half expecting to hear the crack of bones. He grabbed Marco by the collar and had the knife to his throat so fast I couldn’t react in any other way. I aimed the mysterious weapon and pulled the trigger. I didn’t even hesitate.

What happened next was amazing. I’ve never killed anyone, but in this case, I had no choice but to use the assassin’s own weapon against him.

Some sort of glowing laser beam soundlessly emitted from the snout. The Sgarrista watched with intense horror as it apparently penetrated his bulletproof vest. He scrambled backward as if it were a giant, creepy spider crawling up his chest. Then he dropped his knife and his shoulders slumped in complete defeat. I turned the weapon to the James Bond chick who watched the whole thing from down the street. She took one look at it, turned and ran.

The assassin then got up from the sidewalk. He wasn’t hurt. But somehow his face already looked dead. Despair welled in his black eyes. Even though there was no visible penetration of his flesh, he looked as if I’d just dealt him a mortal blow. He held out his hands. “Arrest me.”

Marco and I exchanged looks. What did he know about this weapon that we didn’t? As Marco pulled a pair of cuffs out of his back pocket, he said, “Why are you making this so easy?”

The sweating, bruised young man replied, “Because I’m dead already. You have a gun? Shoot me, please. It will be faster.”

“I’d shoot if I had my weapon,” Marco muttered out of the side of his mouth. Then he marched forward, spun the assassin around and cuffed him. “Killing you would be too compassionate. You’re going to have to endure overnight lodging courtesy of the county of Cook.”

“Govno,” the gunman cursed in Russian.

“Just think of the jail as a bed-and-breakfast on a budget.”

I chuckled in spite of the circumstances. Marco shot me a smile, which I returned, then I frowned. It was time to start figuring out why the R.M.O. had tried to kill us. More important, I needed to know when the next attempt on our lives would be since they weren’t easily discouraged.

Chapter 7

The Long, Hot Night

Marco called into headquarters on his lapel phone. He got no answers as to why his backup had disappeared, but a squad car arrived quickly and took the R.M.O. assassin downtown. The APB on Lola had turned up nothing. And DNA results indicated the headless body was a Polish cleaning lady who took care of Lola’s apartment in exchange for future predictions. By the looks of the apartment, Lola and her cleaning lady had ripped each other off.

When Marco offered to give me a lift home, I made no attempt to decline. Granted, a niggling voice inside my head warned me that his insidious masculinity and good looks were a lethal combination. Therefore, I definitely should have returned the way I’d arrived, via public transportation. But I was dog-tired and didn’t want to fight a crowd. Besides, when you almost bite the bullet with someone, you want to talk about it over a couple of beers.

Marco took me back to my place in his old hydrogen-powered SUV. Because my back was sore from our scuffle outside Lola’s apartment, he took Lake Shore Drive. The land lanes on LSD were well paved, unlike the grid of neglected city streets. Just before we arrived in front of my two-flat, Marco received bad news. The backup he’d been counting on had gone missing under suspicious circumstances.

In the brooding silence, as cars whizzed by on the curved ribbons of pavement, I felt his sense of betrayal in my own gut. Not good. I could not afford to empathize with this man. I glanced at his profile—the strong, straight nose, the rugged jaw, the lush yet firm-set lips. My mouth almost watered.

Nope, there would be no beers tonight. We could commiserate about our brush with death another time. Right now I needed distance from him. When he pulled up in front of my two-flat and turned off his engine, I reached for the car door.

“Hey.” He grabbed my left arm. “I owe you a beer, remember? I can run to a store and come back.”

“No.” I was quick to answer and forced a bright smile. “No, it’s okay. I won’t hold you to that. I have to go.”

“But I want to.”

He still held my arm. His strong fingers felt like kindling catching fire on my skin. Amazed, I looked at his hand, then into his eyes, not even pretending to be tough. “Detective, I know that when you face danger with someone, there is a sense of…closeness. But it’s a false sense of comfort. You don’t like me, remember? Besides, I’m bad luck. Someone wants to kill me and they almost took you down in the attempt. So let’s just call it a night.”

I whisked out of the car and shut the door before he could protest. I waved through the passenger window and almost changed my mind when he simply stared back, disappointment unabashedly simmering beneath his thick, dark lashes. Turn and walk away, Angel, I ordered myself. You know the routine. Yes, I certainly did. So I did just that.

I took a long, soothing bath and stretched out on my couch. It was too hot in my bedroom to sleep. Like Marco’s radio, my air conditioning was an off-and-on proposition at best. Right now it was off. So I opted for the ceiling fan in the living room.

Though I was exhausted, sleep eluded me. I watched the fan rotate around and around, my head spinning with the crazy turn of events. I kept thinking about that poor woman in Lola’s apartment. And when I finally succeeded in pushing aside those gruesome images, I thought about my visions of Lola in the crystal ball.

Is that really what they were? Please, God, let it be anything but that. Perhaps I just had a wild imagination. That would explain everything. But the lame notion died before I could even begin to convince myself. Marco was right. I’d known exactly what was going to happen tonight.

Had this ability, or curse, always existed? I thought back to the many times I’d escaped danger—always dodging bullets at the last minute, always changing plans when my instincts told me I was in too deep. Was intuition the same as psychic ability? I refused to even think of myself in those terms. I was not a quack or a fraud like Lola. I was just lucky.

Yeah, right.

I rolled to my other side and tried to think of something else. Someone wanted me dead. But who and why? Who in the R.M.O. syndicate could benefit from my death? Maybe somebody wanted to kidnap Lola without having to worry that a pesky daughter might come in search of her. I could think of no other explanation. But why kidnap Lola in the first place?

And then there was Marco. He really believed he could change the world. It had to be killing him that he was wrong. One of Chicago’s finest, a member of his own force, had betrayed him tonight. It almost made me sorry I was right. Almost.

I rolled onto my back and sweat pooled between my breasts. Tonight, just before I got out of his car, he wasn’t looking at me like a professional. For a moment, under his dark gaze, I felt like a real woman in the presence of a real man. And for a brief moment, it had been exciting. Just before excitement had turned to panic. Circle the wagons, Angel. Don’t let him in.

I sat up, tired of pretending things were normal. Tired of pretending I was satisfied with this cleverly crafted life of mine. I rose up on my knees, leaned against the back of the couch and craned my head out the window for a breath of fresh air.

I saw a couple walking by after a night at Rick’s Café Americain. Perfect timing. They giggled and smooched, obviously in love. Then my gaze wandered until I found something that floored me—Marco’s SUV. He was still here?

It looked like he was sleeping in his car. He was leaning his head against the headrest and his forearm hung out the window.

I listened to distant traffic noise, and the sound of someone’s music blaring from an apartment a block away, and wondered why. Why the hell had he stayed?

As if he heard my silent question, Marco raised his head and caught me staring. He got out of his car, and crossed the deserted street, heading toward my door. I walked down the stairs ready to tell him I could take care of myself. I reached the ground level entrance and paused when my hand grasped the doorknob. I pushed back the short sprigs of hair that clung to my moist forehead, then smoothed over my loose, long cotton pajama pants and spaghetti-string top. How silly to worry about how I looked.

I opened the door and found Marco standing in midnight’s shadow. He exuded masculinity like an aura, and I wondered how taught his muscles were beneath his crisp and fashionable linen shirt. I could reach out and find out myself, if I had the guts.

He thrust his hands into his pants’ pockets and squinted at me through a sliver of moonlight. “You change your mind about that beer?”

“No, I need you to get the hell—”

He closed the distance and the words died in my throat as one of his strong, tanned hands moved around my narrow waist, massaging the tight muscles in my back. He pressed me against him.

“Marco,” I whispered, stunned by his gentleness, “you’re very good at this.”

“Shut up, Baker, and try to relax for two seconds.” He pulled me closer against him in a bear hug. For one pure second I felt at peace.

And just like that, the moment passed. We slowly parted. At least he had the decency to look as disturbed as I felt. It was time for that beer.

We sat out on my second-floor garden balcony, silent for a long time. The embrace notwithstanding, I felt amazingly comfortable in his presence and began to relax. For some reason I couldn’t explain, I trusted Marco. Besides, we’d almost died together.

Part of the multilayered wooden deck nestled like a big tree house in the giant elm shooting up past my roof. Now and then the leaves around us rustled in a desultory breeze. Marco rested against the railing and drank from the bottle of beer gripped in his big fist. I sat in a wicker chair, occasionally pressing my cold, brown-glass bottle to my temples, occasionally sipping. When you’re really wiped out, nothing beats a beer in an old-style glass bottle.

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