

### Twisted Sisters Collection

By P X DUKE

Copyright 2016 P X Duke

All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-1-928161-36-3

Disclaimer

What follows is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Places mentioned by name are entirely fictitious and purely products of the author's imagination, and are not meant to bear resemblance to actual places or locations.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

### Twisted Sisters Collection

**Contents**

Marina Mystery

A dead body introduces Detective Jim Nash to Coroner Allie Sands. Despite warnings from just about every woman working in the same building, Allie throws caution to the winds while helping Jim solve a murder. As their relationship deepens, someone is intent on digging a grave for Jim deep enough that he will never climb out.

Twisted Sisters

Detective Jim Nash has a problem. He has a murder victim in an alley and a dead woman in his bed. His own homicide division wants to charge him with murder. To say he's got serious commitment problems would be an understatement. He's on the lookout for twins, but he doesn't want to date them. He wants to know who murdered them.

Sleeping with a .45

Detective Nash still has a couple of problems. He doesn't know who killed the woman found dead in his bed. As if that wasn't enough, someone is trying to kill him, and the killer's methods aren't very inventive. In fact, they're pretty old-fashioned. His boss says he's too close to both crimes and won't permit him to investigate. The women in his life fare only a little better. Lucy and Zelda narrowly escape an attempt on their own lives.

More by P X Duke

About the author

Read Order for Jim Nash Adventures

Pirate Cay

Thrill Kill Jill

Greetings from Key West

Lost Paradise

No Angels

Mexico Gamble

No Picnic

Fallen Angels

Vendetta

A Girl's Best Friend

Dead End

No Harbor

Dog Days

Startup Blues

Last Stop To Nowhere / End of Nowhere

Revenge Is Justice

Escape

Wedding Bell Blues

Breakdown

Little Girl Lost

Forget Me Not

All the Glitter

Mexico Time

SEASONAL

Trick or Treat

Helping Santa

OTHER

The Snap Brim Fedora Caper

### Marina Mystery

_A dead body introduces Detective Jim Nash to Coroner Allie Sands. Despite warnings from just about every woman working in the same building, Allie throws caution to the winds while helping Jim solve a murder. As their_ relationship _deepens, someone is intent on digging a grave for Jim deep enough that he will never climb out._

~ 1 ~

**I GOT INVOLVED** in the investigation completely by accident. The murder case I was working on crossed paths with high-class hookers hanging out at marinas. They were there to service the moneyed owners of the boats that arrived and departed.

I used the word _boats_ advisedly, and it was probably a misnomer. In fact, I knew it was. These weren't boats. They were high-end yachts. Floating residences. Homes away from homes.

Initially, I figured there couldn't be much of a market for prostitutes at the yacht club docks. Even if there was, surely these guys brought their own with them. How else did all the good looking women in bikinis figure into the equation?

And then I learned that boat-owning, horny millionaires wanted nothing more than to escape wives and families and business pressures without bothering to set sail out of the harbor.

That was news to me. It shouldn't have been. Perhaps it was only me, but I figured that if a man was wealthy enough to own a sailboat or a yacht, that ought to be escape enough. After all, it would be for me. But then, I was a simple S.O.B. when it came to things like that.

And I knew I'd never be in that position. Well, maybe with a canoe one day and missing paddles the next. I knew my limits, too.

The problem I had was linking the hooker in the water to the marina and one or more of its wealthy denizens. If I knew one thing for certain, it was that a rich lawyer-or more likely, an entire firm of lawyers-would be on call at the drop of a hat.

More specifically, in this case, at the drop of a prostitute's underpants. The best I could hope for would be a few interviews where everyone said they knew nothing, hadn't been anywhere near the marina on the day in question, and thanks but no thanks to everything else.

Which was why I asked for a coroner to meet me. I wanted all the lead time I could get. Knowing when the woman ended up in the drink would help me narrow down the comings and goings around the marina.

If I got real lucky, someone would have security camera feed for me to look at.

Once the hookers set sail, it was only natural that along with everything else, drugs got carried, too. It was supposed to be classy. It was anything but. Usually, the coke-starved individuals got too much of a good thing. Bodies ended up dumped into the ocean.

Sometimes, dead hookers drifted ashore. That's when I got called in to figure out what went wrong. Which is why I got involved in this marina thing.

High-class hookers don't look any different from low-class hookers. With one exception. They seemed to dress better and carry more expensive purses. And they were younger—at least until the drugs got to them and took over.

Then, they looked like and behaved like addicted street hookers everywhere.

Call me prejudiced if you want. I don't mind. When you've got my experience, prejudice sometimes goes right along with the job.

So I'm on this floating hooker thing that got fished out of the harbor not far from the marina. I had to meet up with the coroner somewhere. I figured I'd take a look at the boats in the marina on the way, since that's all I could afford to do.

Looking is cheap.

Sort of like hookers, until you have to pay up for services rendered.

The floating hooker had no purse. No pockets. No bra. No panties. She didn't have any cash on her, either. Unless she had it tucked away somewhere private. In that case, it wasn't my job to look for it. It was up to the coroner.

That's when I first got a look at Allie.

**I'd heard about** her. Well qualified and experienced, she was slowly making a name for herself in the city's M.E. office. Some of the detectives on the force liked her no-bullshit attitude when it came to investigating. A few more didn't like it when a woman shot their pet theories to-hell-and-gone with unassailable facts.

They probably didn't like that she was tall, either. With long, dark hair and eyes to go along with the hair. Slim, but not flat, if you get my drift. Personally, I didn't mind as soon as my eyes took her in.

I liked having nice things to look at. It made my day go appreciably better. And faster. Even if I was stuck with a naked, floating hooker with bad teeth and track-marks running up one side of her arms and down the other.

She didn't have a ring. Allie, that is, not the floating hooker. That's the first thing I looked for these days. I never used to.

Until I had to start.

One too many times I'd come up with a married woman's husband filing a complaint with the department. Ever since the last one knocked the wind out of me because I fell in love with the woman, I looked for rings.

No rings was good.

The woman on the end of the wharf with the long hair and the skirt blowing in the wind was good, too. I caught a look before she caught her skirt. Nice.

She didn't even blush.

—You the coroner I've been hearing so much about?

—I guess. Whatever that means. I'm Allie Sands.

—Jim Nash. I'd shake, but I've got a naked hooker on the end of my line and I don't want her to get away. You're not dressed for fishing. I've got coveralls in my car if you want a pair.

—Thanks. I'll take you up on that offer. I was on a day off when I got the text.

I threw her the keys. She did a one-handed catch. The other kept busy holding down her dress. She already knew I had hungry eyes.

—Jim Nash. Do I know that name? It sounds familiar.

—Nah. I'm one of the quiet ones around here. Head down. Keep my mouth shut. Do my job. Go home and try to live a different life until I have to punch in again.

—It'll come to me. It always does.

That's what I was afraid of. Just maybe what comes to her won't be all bad. You never know.

**The body floated** close to the wharf. It bobbed slowly up and down like a cork in what little swell made it past the breakwater.

—So what have you got for me? It looks like the fishing wasn't so good for someone.

—Probably a dead hooker. Bad teeth. No clothes. No purse. Drug addict by the look of her arms. Can't tell her age. Probably tossed overboard when she OD'd. Or she fell overboard and nobody cared. Or pushed overboard just to watch her drown.

—Nice crowd you hang with. You get nightmares often?

—Only when I sleep alone. You?

—Not much bothers me. Just part of the job. Where are those coveralls you handed me that line about?

I tied off the small boat and the hooker on the end of the rope.

—Follow me.

She handed back the keys. I led her to the car and opened the trunk. I could tell Allie had moxie right off the bat. By the time I straightened up, she had dropped her dress, slipped out of her blouse, and was in the process of bending over to reach in for the coveralls.

I had a double good look when she bent over again to pull them on.

—Thanks. I needed that. Dead hookers will do that to a man sometimes.

—You're welcome. What do you like to do when you're not working?

If she was going to ask me out on a date, that was a new one on me. Normally, I didn't like to associate with cops after work. It was too depressing in the dark bars they hung out in. A coroner, on the other hand, would definitely be a step up.

Even so, I ignored the question. I'd have to think about it. Just because a woman on a dock, in plain sight, gets undressed in front of me in broad daylight, didn't make me a pushover for a date.

To put it another way, I was playing hard to get.

Yeah, right.

—Is no one coming to help you?

—No. We're short staffed. Give me a hand with the bag and tag, will you? Have you got gloves?

—Have I got gloves. Let's go.

I helped Allie slide the slippery, heavy corpse out of the water. Together we lifted the poor woman onto the wharf. She flipped her over for a look at her back. She did a quick inspection on the rest of her. She looked into multiple orifices. She didn't find anything.

Except teeth. The girl had all of her teeth. They were good, too. Not like I initially thought.

—She's young. Pretty good looking before spending all that time in the water, too.

—How long?

I already knew she couldn't answer definitively until she got her on the block.

—A day. Two max. Maybe. Maybe not.

—Thanks for the solid answer. It'll make my investigation go that much smoother.

I helped to tuck the body into the black bag. She zipped it shut with a satisfying sound.

—Look. You know as well as I do that I'm going to have to get her back to the office to do the real work. Cut me some slack.

I knew. In fact, I knew so well that I was grinning at her like a man that just caught the biggest fish of his life. Except, I'd never been fishing. Ever.

—In that case, I'll see you back at the office, Allie Sands.

I opened the car door.

—Wait. What about my dress?

I knew she'd be there until the wagon arrived. She'd have to wait with the body.

—What about it? You looked pretty good to me without it.

That got her blushing.

—I'll bring it with me—if I don't end up putting it under my pillow for luck.

—If you put it under your pillow, keep it. I wouldn't want to rob you of happy times between the sheets.

She was a smartass, too. I liked that about her right away.

**All I had** to do was try and figure out if the woman in the water had anything to do with the murder on the yacht tied up in the harbor. It belonged to a venture capitalist. I was looking to him for more information.

Greg Vice—yeah, I know—was found on his yacht in this very marina. Someone had stuck a needle in his arm, pushed the plunger down all the way, and hadn't taken the time to pull it out.

Or maybe he did it himself.

Whoever he had on the boat with him was long gone. One, none, or a hundred, I had no idea. The marina's security cameras were out with a failed server. No backup available.

Which is usually par for the course. They all cheap out on the backups once they figure out the bill of goods they've been sold on the surveillance system.

The night watchman, the day watchman, and the marina regulars saw nothing. It wouldn't be good for business if they gave up all of their secrets, anyway. Even I knew that.

So I was at a dead end.

The only viable solution staring me in the face was that of a public pissing contest that Greg had gotten into with another VC over the funding and purchase of a resort property down south. Their deal had started out as a partnership. Then one or the other, depending on which story one believed, started taking money from the accounts on the sly.

Bank statements said they were both guilty of that part of it. It was probably standard fare if one wasn't shy about those things. By the look of it, neither was shy. By the look of it, it was a tossup as to who would get murdered first over that kind of money. As it turned out, it was Greg Vice.

Yeah. I know. That name again. But I couldn't hold it against the man that Vice liked vice. And vice versa.

Or that a man with two first names was the prime suspect.

~ 2 ~

**ROBERT GEORGE WAS** a self-made man. By the time he hit his early twenties, he'd made his millions from a bunch of smartphone apps. Being a bit of a dinosaur with a flip phone myself, I didn't hold it against him. That he hadn't turned into a complete asshole impressed me just a bit, too.

I mean really, when you've made your first million at such a young age and didn't turn into an instant asshole, there was something to be said for your upbringing. And your family.

I met them all when I stopped by the mansion they shared in an upscale neighborhood. Robert had purchased the property complete with a second house on the huge lot. He lived in the smaller house.

The rest of the brood lived in the main house. They included a mother, a father, and two sisters. I met the sisters when they answered the door in stereo. The pair of them took turns flirting.

I decided on the spot that if I was ever given the chance, I'd tag-team them. It seemed to me as though they agreed with my decision. When one left to get the parents, the other tried to sit in my lap while I was still standing up.

—I'm sorry, but you're going to have to wait for your sister before anything happens.

—No problem. That can be arranged.

Footsteps interrupted what was turning into a mutual admiration society of two. All I needed was sister number two and I'd be in heaven. Then Mom and Dad showed up to the party.

—You must be Mr. and Mrs. George. I'm Detective Nash. I'm here investigating a murder on a yacht in the marina.

—That's horrible. Do you have a suspect yet?

Obviously, these two hadn't watched many TV detective shows.

—No, but we're working on a couple of angles.

—We don't own a boat, but our son does. My husband and I get seasick, so we've only been out once.

—We're interviewing everyone who has a boat tied up at the marina. Is he here now?

—He lives in the smaller house in the back. Girls, why don't you take Detective Nash to see your brother.

I left a card.

—Call me if you remember anything.

Once the door closed, the sisters surrounded me on the walk to the rear of the mansion.

—Don't we get a card too?

I fished for one. The dishwater blonde put it in the back pocket of her cutoffs.

—Where's mine?

I reached for another and watched bleach-blonde tuck hers into ample cleavage. I wondered if there might be a cell phone in there somewhere, too.

There was definitely room.

**The sisters deposited** me at the door to the small house.

—So long, detective. We'll see you later.

It was all I could do to keep my jaw from dropping, and it wasn't because of the long legs and fine rear ends in retreat.

If this was what the parents called a small house, I sure couldn't tell. Judging by mansion number two, the venture capital business looked to be doing pretty good. I punched the button and waited. I looked hopefully in the direction the sisters had disappeared. They were nowhere to be found.

The door opened to a man in his mid-twenties. Tall, about six-three. Blond hair to match his sisters—although at least one of them was bottled. I expected a kid with too much money who knew it. What I found was an entirely different story.

—I'm Detective Nash. Are you Robert George?

—I am. Can I help you?

—Possibly. May I come in?

I followed him into the massive foyer.

—Do you live here alone?

High-pitched laughter announced the arrival of the sisters. I thought they had beat a too-hasty retreat. I should have known better.

—He's mostly alone, except for the times he stacks them up like cord-wood upstairs.

Robert blushed somewhat painfully at the dig.

—Ignore them. They're trouble.

Somehow, I already knew that. I figured it was going to be a matter of how soon, and how much.

—Come on, you two. Cut me some slack. The detective wants to ask me some questions. I don't need you putting words in my mouth in front of him.

Doors closed. We were alone.

—You probably know why I'm here, but I'm going to tell you anyway.

News headlines notwithstanding, I explained about finding Greg Vice dead on his boat in the marina. I didn't mention anything about the needle in his arm or the empty wine glasses that had been scrubbed clean. Security cams had images of Robert and his car in the lot earlier in the day. They showed him entering the building, and proceeding to the restaurant.

That's where the footage ended and everything went dead, in more ways than one, apparently.

—Can you tell me what transpired after you walked into the building?

—I had a meeting scheduled with Greg. We were on the verge of an agreement on the southern property with regard to how we'd split the proceeds. You know, whether we would sell it, or go ahead with the construction. Once we finalized verbally, we'd be leaving it to our respective representatives to put it on paper.

—Was the meeting cordial?

—At the start, yes. But towards the end, with Greg drinking his lunch the entire time, it started to come apart.

—How so?

—Greg fell back to his position that I had screwed him out of the property. That wasn't true. His name was still on the deed.

—Why do you think he believed that?

—He was pretty adamant about it. You can ask the servers. I don't know whether it was his lawyers, or his partners causing the trouble. I had hoped it wouldn't be my problem, but obviously, with him dead, it's become a major problem.

—Where did you go when you left the restaurant?

—I went straight to my office.

—Did anyone see you?

—Not that I recall. It was Saturday, remember?

I asked a few more perfunctory questions, wished him a good day, and hoped I'd see the sisters before I departed.

I didn't.

**I packed up** Allie's skirt and blouse in a paper evidence bag and headed out to the ME's office. On the way I tried putting what I had together, but it was just a bit too early. Even so, there was motive. Hundreds of millions of dollars of motive.

Opportunity was another matter. No one could have known that the security cams would be out of service around the entire marina complex. George couldn't possibly have known about the outage.

Hell, half the staff including the security guards didn't know about the failure. They were dumb enough to think that if they could see a picture on a monitor, then the system was recording it.

On the way by, I turned into the marina. A little bit of fraternization wouldn't hurt when it came time to ask more questions. Imagine the surprise when I spied the sisters at the bar, yukking it up and flirting with the bartender.

I watched for a few from the doorway. On the spur of the moment, I decided to join them. I knew better. I always did. I always ignored the knowing better part, sometimes much to my dismay. This would probably turn out to be one of those times.

It was after quitting time, though. I was my own boss now.

Number one elbowed number two. When she turned around to face her sister, she almost fell off the stool.

—Well. Look what we have here. It's a detective.

—In that case, since my reputation precedes me, I won't need to show a badge.

That got a smile and a giggle.

—Do you think we should call 911, or should we just tie him up and take him home?

—Our house, or his?

—Let's go to his. Come on, detective man. It's now or never.

I chose now.

The women piled into the unmarked car, flipped on the lights and siren, and generally screwed around all the way to my place. It was a tossup as to who was the nuttier of the two. By the time I got them upstairs and quieted down, I decided all three of us were crazy.

Morning couldn't come soon enough. When it did, it blossomed into someone pounding on the door at a pace that matched the pounding in my head. I struggled to untangle from the pile of girl parts and edge them out of the way.

Normally, I'm the kind of guy that likes to see a woman at my door any time of the day. Today was an entirely different matter, because when I eventually made my way, it turned out to be Allie on the outside, looking in.

—Nice pants. Who does your laundry?

I knew by the smile and the two cups of coffee she brought that she was happy to be here. And I was happy to see her, until I was reminded of what I had in my bedroom.

—Jim, are you ever coming back? It's not time for work yet.

Allie's smiling face turned to one of curiosity. Thankfully, she didn't toss the coffee.

—Is this a bad time?

—Well-

The women pushed past both of us and headed down the staircase. At least they were dressed.

—So long, Jim. It's been a slice. We'll call you.

I shrugged and stepped back, not sure if that deserved a comment.

—Obviously you didn't hear me. Is this a bad time?

I considered for only a split second.

—Not any more. Come on in.

I almost fell over when she did. I turned around and went in search of pants. At the very least, I needed pants.

**Allie motioned with** the coffee.

—You look like you could use some of this.

—Yes I could. Thank you. Now if you'll give me a couple, I'll be right back.

I danced through the shower in record time, dried, dressed, smoothed the sheets and made the bed. Damned if the last two people out of it hadn't bothered.

—All right. I feel presentable now.

—You don't look it.

—Thanks. You look great. To what do I owe the honor of your drive-by so early in the day?

Allie didn't answer right away. She was busy looking around, taking the place in. I had to admit, there wasn't much to take in. I lived a spartan life. My job was my home—at least, up to now it had been.

I began to take a better look at this woman who had the balls to show up uninvited bearing gifts. Hell, she deserved a second look. She made everything in my place look cheap, and she wasn't even wearing a little black dress. The dark slacks and the white blouse hid just enough to make a man wonder what it might be covering up.

Since I was a man, I wondered, even though I had a partial look the day before.

—By the way, the evidence bag was a nice touch. Tacky, but nice.

—I figured you wouldn't want me walking around your office with your clothes in my hands. It was the best I could do on such short notice.

—Thanks for that bit of discretion. Now I remember the name.

Oh-oh. Here it comes. And I knew what was coming, too.

—All the women in the building told me about you when I first started.

That was a strange one. I never put the moves on any of them that I could remember.

—What did they say?

—Two words.

—Really? Which two?

—Stay. Away.

—All of them told you that?

—Pretty much.

—Still, even so, here you are.

—I have to be a fool for punishment.

I took a slug of cold coffee.

—Only if you keep coming back. There's a little place across the street—

—That's where I got the coffee.

We walked across accompanied by the noise of her heels clickity-clacking on asphalt. I rather enjoyed the sound. It wasn't coming from a stripper's Lucite heels nor a hooker's screw-me pumps, two things I had become quite familiar with in my last case.

—You were going to tell me what you were doing on my side of town so early.

—It's about the water in your floating dead hooker's lungs.

~ 3 ~

**ALLIE LOOKED PRETTY** sure of herself. Hell, she ought to. From what I had been told when I began asking, she was one sharp cookie.

—There's no doubt. The water in her lungs is sea water.

Damn. She even knew what I was thinking and we only just met. Perhaps she had a natural skepticism.

—So that means—

—Yes. Whether she fell or was pushed off the boat while still alive is yet to be determined. I have to go back and take another look at all of it.

Accidental drowning? Not likely. When a hooker showed up, the last thing she would be thinking about would be a swim. Thrown off the boat would be more like it. Falling off in a drug-induced coma wouldn't be far off, either.

Allie wiped away the donut sugar lingering on her lips with a napkin. I thought it was the cutest thing ever to watch. Up to now, I hadn't been paying attention. Normally, by now, I'd have looked.

So I did.

The sun had left a light outline where a wedding band once had been. A thick one, judging by the width.

I thanked the sun god and pretended not to notice. Instead, I filed it away.

—Anything else?

So she was just separated or divorced. What else could there be? Kids? I didn't think so, but you could never tell for sure. I looked at her and pretended to listen.

—An addict. Track marks up and down both arms and on the feet. Bruises around the neck, possibly acquired during an attempted strangling. Or rough sex. Not enough that it was the cause of death.

—Do you have a cause?

I thought I'd like to make her a cause, although I'm almost certain that she'd have something to say about that. I let her go on.

—Not yet. We're waiting for toxicology. That'll tell us if it was a drug overdose that contributed to the drowning.

—So it could possibly have been an OD, intentional or otherwise.

—Perhaps. Like I said, we're waiting on results.

—So there's no chance that she was moved?

I thought about that for a minute.

—She couldn't have fallen into a salt-water pool, could she, and then been moved? Where are you parked?

—In the alley. Why?

She probably didn't want to be seen anywhere near my place. I couldn't blame her.

—Leave it there and come with me.

She didn't ask where we were going. She just got in, sat down and shut up.

The more time I spent with her, the more I liked her.

**While I drove** I learned she was a mid-west girl. Sensible until it came time to decide on a career. She chose modeling for a while, until she figured out that it was a nowhere job to a nowhere end. Drugs and bulimia scared her out of that.

She ended up in university with a part-time summer job digging graves to help pay the bills. She considered stripping. Said she had the body for it, but decided against that, too, even though she was desperate for the cash.

I had to agree she had the body for it. After all, I'd seen it before a pair of coveralls blinded me.

It all worked out when she graduated. And then she went back for more. Seven years more.

I had to admire the balls to do that when you're broke. But she had paid it all off, and then some. Now she was in the market for a house.

—We're here. Come on in with me. I'll distract the good-time girls while you get a sample. Have you got a vial or something?

—I've got a plastic bag. I can tell them I'm looking for goldfish. Wait, the good-time girls? You don't mean-

**I caught her** checking out the house behind the gate.

—The pool is behind the big house. Not the one you're looking at. It's the one behind it. You can sample that one on the way out.

—Holy shit.

—Yeah. That'd be the guy to bag if you wanted someone to buy your house for you.

—No thanks. I want to do that on my own. I have principles.

She obviously knew that I didn't. I had been the one with the nerve to drag her to the home of the twisted sisters with which I'd become entangled the night before. The very same ones that had greeted her at my door.

—Jim! You came back.

The two women scurrying towards me slowed in lockstep when they got a look at Allie.

—Oh.

Scowls replaced grins.

—You brought that one.

I didn't need to be an expert with women to know that wasn't a good sign. Allie ignored the snark and walked past them without giving them so much as a look. At the pool, she bent with the baggie to take a sample.

It didn't go well.

By the time I helped her out, she had enough of a sample to set aside. She rushed up to sister number one. A roundhouse punch knocked the girl into the pool. She was headed for number two by the time I managed to get an arm around her and carry her off.

—Come on, champ. I have coveralls in the trunk just for you.

Just like last time, she stripped down and donned the outfit.

—This is getting to be a habit. I'm sorry I don't have dry underwear for you.

—There's not one chance in hell I'll be putting on any underwear you have in there. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I'd be worried all day where it came from.

Touché. She had me there.

—I don't think we should go back to the office like this. There's a laundromat across from my place-

—It's almost like you planned it this time.

If only I could be so lucky.

I found a clean robe for her and trundled across the street to do the laundry. I stopped at the bakery for fresh coffee and donuts. By the time I returned, Allie had disappeared.

—What the hell are you doing in there?

A mess of bedding lay piled at the foot of the bed. Obviously, she'd gone through the place to find clean sheets.

—I didn't get any sleep last night. Now take those downstairs. Before you bring them back up here, make certain they're clean, or I'm never coming back.

And that, as they say, was that.

I disappeared for a couple of hours. I came back with fresh laundry. I was forced to watch the woman change again. This time it was different.

She got naked.

So did I.

**The fridge door** opened and slammed shut in a second.

—There's nothing to eat.

—I don't want to sound like I'm making excuses, but had I known you were coming, I'd have baked a cake.

That wasn't a lie. I damned well would have for this one.

—Yes, well, don't expect me on a regular basis. Keep the cakes to a minimum or they'll go stale.

Allie stood in the door, her fine figure outlined by the light streaming in from the living room. She had a great body to go along with everything else about her.

—Don't be such a showoff and come back here.

—Not on your life. I'm sticking with what the women at the office said.

—It's too late for that. When you show up, it's definitely not staying away.

—Where's my clothes?

—Why don't I get up and help you look.

—You're already up. Why don't I get back in bed, instead?

—Make up your mind, would you?

—No. It's my job as a woman to keep you unbalanced.

—You're certainly doing a good job of that, let me tell you.

It was true. There was no sense denying the obvious.

—Now let's get going. And don't forget to go in your car. If you ask me for a ride, I won't be able to say no. I wouldn't want to start any rumors after just being introduced to you.

—In that case, you definitely need to know you can't expect this on a regular basis.

Allie did a bounce and a pirouette and headed for the living room.

—Come on, Jim. Rise and shine—and not the way you want to rise and shine.

We took our separate ways to our respective offices with promises to stay in touch. I'd heard that one a time or two. It was code for don't call me, I'll call you.

So I didn't.

**Instead, I put** everything into the case and still came up with nothing. I got an email from Allie. It confirmed that the water in the hooker's lungs wasn't from the George pool she'd taken the header into.

At the end of the day I went home. I would have slept like the dead but for the scent of the woman still in my bed. She kept me awake well into the morning.

Which was why I heard someone walking on my tarpaper and gravel roof at three a.m.

The only other people in the place were at the opposite end of the strip mall. They ran a dog grooming business. The suite I was in had been an afterthought by the owner of the building. He thought having an apartment on the roof would keep problems away.

It did, too. But not tonight, apparently.

I kept an ear pealed and went for my pistol and badge. One can't be too careful these days.

The Molotov cocktail crashed through the window right in front of me. In a split second I returned it through the same broken glass. It landed with a shattering sound and a thump. Gasoline fumes ignited in a deep orange glow.

I knew for sure I'd never hear the end of this one. Out the window my precinct car burned brightly. I set fire to my own car.

I dialed 911 and waited for the verbal abuse I knew would be coming my way in short order.

**When the smoke** cleared I took a taxi to the precinct. Like good cops everywhere, someone radioed ahead. A ceremonial guard had been formed along the street to herald my arrival on foot. I gave my impression of a royal wave and climbed the steps. At the top I turned and made them all think I was about to give a speech.

Instead, I rushed into the building, only to be greeted by more applause and laughter. I'd be a long time living down the fact that I had set fire to my own cop car.

Even Allie got in on the deal. Smartypants left a message volunteering to do forensics on the car.

By the time I filed my preliminary report and landed it on the Captain's desk, I was ready to approach the auto pool. I ended up with a brand-new black and white complete with Christmas tree.

Right off I figured I'd stalk Allie. I was hoping the toxicology report might be in. On the way I picked up a couple of coffees and headed over.

—Is it in yet?

—You're not that well-endowed. If I feel anything, I'll let you know.

I snickered before handing over a coffee. I settled into a chair across from her desk for the long haul.

—It should be here any minute.

—Did we miss anything on the body? Tattoos? Scars? Anything?

—No. But there were signs that she'd been tied up. Nautical rope of some kind judging by the pattern.

—So she was on board a boat.

—More than likely.

—Any one of a hundred. Or more.

—There were small amounts of teak wood and some fiberglass in one of the cuts. A nice light blue.

—Which only narrows it down by half.

—You're right. She most likely wouldn't have gotten that in a pool.

—She wasn't moved and dumped. Here's what we've got so far. A dead hooker swimming in the bay. Drowned or OD'd. By who or what we don't know. Carted out or fell out of a boat. Free to swim with the fishes and wash back and forth with the tide.

—That sounds about right to me. Did you bring donuts?

I looked around before replying.

—Judging by what I saw last night-

—Fat chance.

I droned on.

—Maybe what we have are two entirely different crimes. If there's nothing to put the two together—. And no, I didn't bring you donuts. I'm concerned about spoiling your girlish figure.

She grinned.

—It's nice to know you were thinking about me, at least.

I was thinking about her, all right. I was thinking about how I'd be getting her back in my bed sooner rather than later.

~ 4 ~

**WHILE I WAS** dialing 911 to report the burning car in my front yard, homicide was busy picking up Robert George. He ended up charged with the murder of Greg Vice, his business partner in the resort deal. People higher up the chain of command obviously knew more than I did.

From what I could tell, the evidence was circumstantial. They wanted to send a message and put the fear of the lord into him. All the better if it would scare a confession out of the man, too.

Robert asked to see me, rather than call an attorney. That was a new one on me. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, checked my firearm at the door and made the walk to his holding cell.

Disheveled, stripped of belt and tie and shoelaces, he looked beaten. He was nothing like the man I had seen in the million-dollar residence.

—Have your folks been to see you yet?

—Not yet. They're on the way.

—What about the two crazies?

—They left town for a trip up north to the Hamptons.

—Fly or drive?

—They chartered.

Of course. When you've got access to money, why fly commercial? It did seem strange that they got out of town just as Robert was arrested. I'd need to think some more on that.

—You might not get out on bail, you know.

—I know. The evidence is circumstantial, though. Perhaps the judge will take that into account.

—Is there anything you can tell me—even the craziest thing—about your partner? Anything at all? Even if it doesn't seem related.

—Greg used to be in electronics. High end, top secret stuff used in espionage. Cameras. Transmitters. Long-life miniature batteries to power it.

—You think he might have something like that on his yacht?

—It's possible. He liked to put together videos of the better parties on the boat. Maybe that's how he got the footage.

**Well damn. Now** I had an excuse to tear apart a yacht. To cover all the bases, I went for a warrant, and in three hours I had everything I needed. On the spur of the moment I decided to see if Allie might be available to help. I should have known better when she cast a glance in the direction of my new black and white.

—Nice ride. Where's the ticket book and what's your quota?

—For your information, I haven't been demoted. This is a loaner. I've been warned that if I damage it in any way, I'll never get another up to the day I retire. I'll be using my own car until then.

I grinned, turned on the lights and siren, and left rubber at the light. I should have known no one would stop. I made it through the intersection, but not before seeing a minor traffic pile-up in the mirror.

I couldn't be bothered to call it in. I knew better.

I picked up a pass card to get us through the gates at the marina and headed for Greg Vice's yacht. Water lapped against the side. The yacht club flag shifted mournfully in the light wind. Mid-morning sun danced off the water. It was peaceful.

—Too bad you didn't bring your bathing suit. We could party down and see what showed up to participate.

—I'm not playing lot lizard just so you can get a free look. If you want to see any more of me, you have to buy me dinner.

—You keep forgetting. You already showed me everything there is. How does Chinese sound?

—Not everything. And it's my favorite.

Not everything? What had I managed to miss?

—Grab a pair of gloves and let's get started.

We spent a couple of hours tossing the boat. We came up with nothing. Nada.

—Let's do it again.

We were another hour into it and still nothing.

—I can't believe this. Are you sure he had cameras on this thing?

—No. But there is a chance, considering how he made his money.

—How small could they possibly be?

That sun dancing on the water got caught up on a bit of glass, lighting it up. I took a closer look. Sure enough. I took out my knife and cut through the teak frame.

—Well I'll be damned. Take a look at this.

—Now we know what we're looking for, at least.

We scoured the rest of the boat and came up with two dozen of the things. Now we needed a recorder. With a miniature power pack, it could be anywhere.

—I'm thinking that it wouldn't be anywhere near the engine to avoid electrical interference. Not by the nav gear, either. Or the radar.

—What does that leave us with besides the rest of the boat?

—Grab my flashlight and take a look in the bow.

Allie was back in ten minutes, her grimy face covered in a sweat sheen. She had the arms of her coveralls tied around her waist, revealing the perspiration soaking through a sheer blouse.

—You're hot once you get a little dirt under the fingernails.

—If you want to see what I've got, you'd better be nice to me or else.

—Or else what?

—Or else you'll be wishing you still had my dress to put under your pillow to help you sleep and dream.

She wasn't smiling.

—Have you got anything that will play this?

—Are you kidding me? You've already seen everything I have, including the empty fridge.

—Then we'd better head to mine.

**Allie slipped the** memory card into her laptop and brought up a player.

—Well I'll be damned.

—Yes, you will. I'll damn you to eternity if you ever sleep with those twins again.

—That's not what I was talking about.

—I was the one talking about it.

Allie went back to letting the high-speed memory card play the video.

—Look at that.

—I'd say we just solved the case. Speaking of which, do you have a warrant?

—A warrant? What the hell is a warrant?

Her jaw dropped before I patted my pockets as though looking for one. I fished it out. I didn't want her to think I'd taken her on an illegal goose chase.

—Yes, I have a warrant.

—That's good enough for me. Now we need to get those disk drives into the proper hands.

—The guys are going to have to go through that boat again in case there's something we missed.

I was happy. The recorded evidence cleared Robert George. It also cleared up how a floating dead hooker ended up that way.

—We should celebrate.

I hoped for the best, while thinking that Allie would probably turn me down because of those damned twisted sisters.

—What did you have in mind?

—I know a great little hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant.

—In that case, why don't you pick something up and bring it over to my place later.

—What's the matter? Are you afraid one of the office drones who warned you about me might find out you ignored their warnings?

—Something like that.

—Would you like anything special from the menu?

—We'll see after I let you in.

**I signed in** the evidence. On the way out I stopped into holding to let Robert know. He seemed to be doing pretty good, all things considered. He did even better when I told him what I discovered.

—It won't be long before you're out. Hang in there. You'll be all right.

—I owe you big time for this. I won't forget it.

—You don't owe me anything. I'm just doing what I get paid to do.

—That may be true, but even so—

I was starting to feel good about my job. Just so it didn't go to my head, I cut Robert short and left.

I stopped at home, showered down, cleaned up and passed a razor over the stubble. Clean pants, a pressed shirt and the gun tucked into my back left me feeling pretty good.

I felt even better leaving the shirt untucked. I wanted to cover up the beginnings of my muffin-top. Allie was younger than me. I needed every advantage I could give myself.

I shot the breeze with the owner of the Chinese restaurant while I waited. He and his family came here twenty years ago. He managed to save enough and eventually opened this place. You couldn't even get an American dish in the place. It was all Chinese, all the time.

Allie greeted me at her door, and I knew right away dressing up a bit had been the right thing to do. I was immediately sorry I hadn't done a better job.

—You clean up pretty good, girl.

—And so do you—for a cop.

—Gee, thanks. I think.

—What did you bring me?

—Besides me, you mean?

—No. I'm talking about food. What did you bring me to eat?

—I'm fine. How are you?

She ignored me and pulled the bag from my hand. I followed behind a woman in a little black number just about long enough. Dark stockings and pump-me shoes completed the picture.

—I like your outfit.

—You'll like it even better in a second.

She tossed the bag into the sink. The dress swished to the floor and I carried her to the bedroom.

**Allie took time** to ask about Robert. It told me she was still too new to be jaded.

—He's relieved that it's over. He promised me the world for doing what I get paid to do. I doubt he'll ever come through with anything. It usually doesn't turn out that way when they're in a hurry to forget the bad parts.

She nodded.

—You're probably right about that.

I sat up on the edge of the bed.

—Can I set the table?

—It's already set. Go and sit down.

Candles burned, lights went out, and we dug in.

—Finding those recordings put the icing on the cake. Who would have known there were two hookers on the yacht without them?

—The guys will have her in the back of a squad car in no time. Robert is one lucky son of a gun.

—All right. Enough about work. Tell me everything you want me to know about you.

—Ladies first.

Allie got up from the table.

—Who's doing the dishes?

—I'm not sure yet. Come with me.

She didn't have to drag me into the bedroom.

—My condoms are under the bed.

—So you can reach them from the floor?

—Sometimes.

**It was all** good. I was happy an innocent man was proved innocent, thanks to a cop. A guilty person was nailed by the victim's own spy gear. And I had a new friend.

—I can't find the condoms.

—That's because I keep them far enough under the bed that I can use not having any as an excuse to throw out whoever I want. I don't want a man getting comfortable enough to move in.

—That's harsh.

—No. That's the way it is. Oh, wait. It feels to me like you might be ready for another one. Why didn't you say so?

—In that case, why don't we look together?

###

### Twisted Sisters

_Detective Jim Nash has a problem. In fact, he has more than one. There's a murder victim in an alley. A dead woman lies in his bed. His own homicide division wants to charge him with murder. To say he has_ serious _commitment problems would be an understatement. He's on the lookout for twins, but he doesn't want to date them. He wants to know who murdered them._

~ 1 ~

**THE ALLEY WAS** dark, too dark to make out much of anything. I went back to the car for my flashlight, one of those almost-too-bright lights but for times like this. I flicked it on and discovered two bullet holes in the woman. She was almost all the way over on her stomach.

I rolled the torso only part-way for a quick look beneath, not wanting to disturb the crime scene more than necessary. I aimed the light and discovered a hundred dollar bill under the woman. I allowed the body to roll back slowly to its original position.

I swept the ground close to the body with the light one more time. Still no shell casings. No pool of blood. I widened the area surrounding the body. Nothing.

The body had been moved and dumped. I squinted into the drizzle, hoping for a camera. It wasn't likely I'd find one. Who put cameras in dark alleys?

The call-out demanding I do my duty came on one of those dark nights with no moon and no chance of one given the cold drizzle accompanied by an all-enveloping dreary fog. Weather never much hindered an investigation, but it didn't make an unpleasant task any more pleasant.

And I was never happy to be called out for a murder investigation, no matter the weather or the time of day.

The overall picture was unusual, given the circumstances. It was unusual in the sense that the woman didn't look like a hooker or a drug addict or both. She was a good-looking girl. Well-dressed. Her clothes appeared to be expensive. Not so much makeup. Hair in place. No track marks on her arms when I pulled up the sleeves for a quick look.

The woman was young. She had a dark jacket covering up a white blouse. A couple of buttons undone on the shirt. Just enough to say maybe, not enough to say slut. My flashlight reflected a hint of sparkle winking back at me on her upper chest beneath the blouse, just above the bra.

I traced the length of her with the light and revealed a longish skirt covering most of her legs. Given the clothes, she looked kind of classy. Definitely not going for the hooker look in that outfit. I lifted her skirt and shined the light for a better look.

Panties intact down below.

Yeah, I know. Call me a pig. I'm used to it. And I needed to know if there was a possibility the girl might have been raped before or after she was killed.

The crime scene equipment arrived and I waited for them to finish setting up for the chance to get a good look under better lighting. Makeup and mascara appeared to be piled on pretty thick under the strong crime-scene lighting. It wasn't messed. Hair neatly on top of her head and fastened with a clasp. Clean, unbroken nails with a dark red polish. Same with her toes on the foot with no shoe.

I allowed the body to roll back a second time and switched my attention to the victim's pockets. Nothing in the jacket. At first glance everything in the purse looked like it belonged. A bit of cash and change.

Her name was Candice Season. Miscellaneous business cards. One from a strip club. A dance club, they preferred to be called. A name on the back was hand-written in a girlish script.

The purse got bagged along with everything else, minus the card. The hundred under the body would have to wait on the coroner. I didn't want to chance messing something up.

—Anything interesting, Jim?

Speak of the devil. Even at oh-dark-thirty the devil looked pretty good with the just-out-of-bed hair. The leggings didn't do a thing to diminish the woman's good looks, especially since the jacket only went as far as her waist.

—Nothing too much out of the ordinary, Allie. Looks like a pop and drop. Probably not a robbery though, judging by what's underneath and in the purse.

—What got you here so fast all the way from the south side?

—Somebody tripped over the body and called it in. I was having Chinese in my favorite neighborhood when I got the text.

—How's that system working so far?

Dispatch wanted to test a new method of getting investigators to serious crimes. Dinosaur that I am, I was against it at first. After more explanation and a lot of listening, three of us volunteered. So far it had worked pretty good. Added bonus: carrying a bulky radio had been eliminated. No loss. The cars all came with one anyway.

—It's not so bad. Makes me feel trendy and cool with the younger generation.

It meant being at the mercy of a cell phone, but I kind of liked it. A phone, a gun and a badge was all right by me.

—If I were you I'd go with trendy. You look like you've been wearing those clothes for a week. That's not so cool.

Yeah, so I was a bit of a slob in the clothes department. So sue me. I didn't spend a lot of time at home doing laundry and ironing. At least I didn't smell—as far as I knew. I didn't bother checking.

—In that case, trendy it is.

I took a few minutes to watch Allie go through the motions. She'd been in the job for five years, and she had proved herself time and again to be thorough. Nothing got past her. Not even me. We'd been involved in a relationship that ended about eighteen months ago. It ended on good terms, as far as I was concerned.

She felt the same way, and we stayed close friends. When one or the other got knocked for a loop in a relationship, we'd sympathize over beer and Chinese and talk it out. Sometimes we'd spend the night, but that didn't happen often any more.

We'd both moved on.

I snapped a picture and checked the card for the addy of the dance club, just to be sure.

**The Fontana Club** was on Eighth, one of those streets that ran a long way through the city. If you stayed on it to the end, it would take you from high class to low class to no class in a hurry. Not even the lights could slow you down if you were determined.

If you were lucky, you might end up retracing your steps for another chance to make the run. Most didn't. Once they got on the downhill end, they tended to stick like flies to flypaper in a poor man's summer cottage.

You could thank the mortgage crisis for a lot of that. Plenty were living in their vehicles with entire families. You could thank drugs for some of it, too, but that didn't get a _You're welcome_ , either.

The Fontana straddled the border, hovering between good taste and shithole. Closer to the shithole end, it got bought and sold on a regular basis. With each makeover it would run the gamut of high low-class, biker bar, druggie hangout, low class and no class, or some semblance of order such as that.

It never attracted the type of clientele that would promote it to big-time on a permanent basis. Not even big-screen televisions and 24-hour sports channels would do that. Thus the reason for the dead televisions.

Depending on what stage it was at on its inevitable downward slide, the dancers had a long range of appearances. Trim and light and mostly tight. Not too bad. Drug-addled and downright cross and angry. Those last ended up being run by bikers.

And as always, no matter where the dance club lay in it's climb or descent, there was no shortage of men who felt they had to be there.

Personally, I sometimes went there with some of the guys on a night out during a trim and light phase, but that never lasted long. Mostly we went because of the cheap beer. And if you believed that, you'd believe anything.

**The neon sign** on the club's roof danced and buzzed past the broken letters through a pale sheen into the driver-side window on the beat-up, high-mileage, former black-and-white. The one time I got issued with a new vehicle, someone took a run at me with a semi and won the grudge match.

I ended up in the hospital for a week. Every damned card I got from the uniforms rubbed it in. In fact, I think some of them gathered cash to buy up a collection just to drop them off at the nursing station.

Which turned out to be not so bad.

The young ones were cute and sympathetic. The old ones just laughed. Eventually I lived down the nickname, but even Allie became part of the harassment for a while. I also had a side bet with myself that the makeshift suggestion box in the coffee room got filled with thoughts on what to do with the next time-exed black-and-white.

I flashed up the victim's photo on my phone and ran through what I knew about her. A younger woman, late teens probably early twenties at most if I didn't want to believe the driver's license in her purse. Well-dressed and made up pretty good, too. Maybe a first-time dancer, or maybe so hick she showed up for an interview in a business suit with plenty of makeup piled on for good measure.

She wasn't even a jane doe. Her name was Candice Season, according to her DL. A pretty girl with a name like that, you just knew the boys called her Candy and they all wanted to be in season.

Yeah, I know. Sometimes, I just can't help myself.

I took another look at the picture on the phone and shook my head. Even after five years in homicide, it still bothered me when a body turned up, no matter who or what it was. Still, she was too pretty for this place, but I guess maybe she hadn't known that.

Or maybe she had.

I gave up a tired sigh, climbed out of the beater, and zig-sagged past the cars and around the puddles left by the recent rain in the uneven parking lot. There must have been some puke mixed in there too, because I could smell it over the stale beer.

I passed an open window with a foot dangling and a woman alternating screams of yes with grunts. I didn't look in. If she wasn't being taken care of, she could dial 911 and request assistance for all I cared.

The crowd of smokers circling around the door must have paid attention to what I was driving when I circled through the parking lot. By the time I got close all that remained was a cloud blinking under the broken neon and the odor of marijuana. Too bad it wouldn't get declared legal and some of us could be out looking for real crime.

Or maybe that was the problem.

**I pushed through** the door and was assailed by the stink of stale beer and cigarettes. Overhead lights illuminated a dark, low stage. Torn carpet, peeling wallpaper and missing ceiling tiles completed the picture. The dump had obviously descended to the no-class stage. It looked like it had been there for a while.

The dancer didn't look much better, highlighted as best she could be in the low lighting. In contrast, the girls slinging the beer looked pretty good. Management would do good to hire them to do double duty as performers.

I bellied up to the bar and wedged myself between the pour station and the beer pulls. Even that didn't get anyone's attention. A waiter elbowed me out of the way and kept on filling the glasses she took off the bar.

—You can't be between the railings. Servers only.

I held the phone in front of her.

—You recognize her?

I thought I saw something in her eyes until the lights on the stage blinked. The look disappeared before I could be certain.

—Never seen her before.

I switched my attention to the bartender. He didn't look all that interested, standing as he was at the far end of the bar. When I made a move in his direction he behaved like a pig in a pen that didn't want to be slaughtered for bacon. He shifted in a hurry down to the opposite end.

I didn't have time for his shit. I chased after him behind the bar and grabbed his belt. He still wouldn't look at the phone on the bar, so I pulled him close and grabbed his balls and squeezed. He took a bow and his face ended up close enough to the phone to bathe in the glow.

—Now that I've got your attention, have you ever seen her before?

In case he was far-sighted I eased off to pull his head back and I came up with a handful of long, greasy hair. He had to be a former hockey player. He had a mullet.

—No, man. She's never been in here.

—Her name's Candice Season. You sure?

I squeezed one more time for good measure.

—I'm sure.

I wasn't finished.

—Who's Hank?

The name written on the back of the card in the girl's purse.

—Hank?

—Are you deaf?

I squeezed again and his hearing improved right away.

—He's the manager. He's not here. He left for the night.

—When's he coming back?

—First thing in the morning, far as I know.

I planned on being here first thing in the morning to make his acquaintance. Then I got a look at the woman getting ready to climb onto the stage. Instead of leaving, I took a seat at a table in front of the splash rail.

I sat down intending to do some further investigating.

~ 2 ~

**I FOCUSED MY** energies and my eyes on the stage and the dancer doing her thing. She gyrated, squatted, stretched, pirouetted, crawled, rolled onto her back and kicked up her heels. She even managed to dance, and she worked the pole like a pro.

I was so impressed I didn't bother taking any notes in the dim light. The dancer was too pretty and obviously over-qualified. Besides, I wasn't here for the ambiance.

Once I got done studying the bump-and-grind, I took time to concentrate on the girl's features. By the look of it, she had to be the twin of the girl I left in the alley. That, or the corpse I was investigating come back to life.

I went with twin, just so I wouldn't make a fool of myself.

She had a nice little body and she wasn't a bad dancer. When she switched it out for the pole she showed coordination and agility, too. A man tossed a dollar and there were no missing teeth when she smiled her thanks.

Maybe the place was moving up in the world after all.

When the set ended I followed her to the dressing room at the side of the stage. The door guard took me for a johnny-come-lately and let me know I should get lost if I knew what was good for me. I flashed my badge and let him know what would be good for him if he didn't let me through.

I walked into the room and found myself in a world I'd never been privy to before in my life. It was definitely a new one on me.

Half-a-dozen mirrors surrounded by high-watt bulbs greeted me in a hot, stuffy room lit up like a store-front window at dark just before Christmas. Every one of the mirrors had a woman in front of it. They were preening and prepping and readying for their sets.

Hair and makeup and body glitter and stockings and everything else that contributed to a dance set was being installed or adjusted. None of them appeared all that pleased that a man had invaded their territory. I could tell by the dirty looks that followed me and reflected back from every mirror in the joint.

That didn't bother me, though. They'd get over it.

The effect of the lighting made visible every line and wrinkle and gray hair, and I wasn't only talking about me. That's right. Some of them were that old. At least, they looked that old from where I was standing. But then, maybe I had been spoiled by Allie's good looks.

Or maybe by the last dancer I witnessed working the pole.

I took a look at the picture and shook it off again. All things considered, the women in here couldn't possibly look that bad. I approached the dancer I followed off the stage, but she didn't appear interested in talking. I let her have a look at my badge and that changed everything.

—Not here. Come this way.

I chased after her to a door in back of the change room. Maybe I should have been suspicious when she held the door for me. Three steps down and I ended up in an alley behind the club. The door crashed, I crashed, and for the first time ever I was first through a door and flat on my back in two seconds.

When I came to the woman was gone. I couldn't open the door to get back in so I went around to the front. For my troubles the bouncers tossed me against the brick wall like a rag doll. My head snapped back and I was a two-time loser in the consciousness department.

Somebody must have called the fire department, because when I came to a cute little fireman was checking my pulse. I laid back to let her do her job, but when the smell of smoke started drifting my way I sat up real fast.

—What the hell?

—The place is on fire. Don't worry. You're not anywhere close, Detective. I moved you. Will you be all right here?

—Unless you plan on carrying me over the threshold after I propose, I need to find my car.

She put an arm around me and helped me to the black-and-white beater at the far end of the parking lot that was my chariot. It wasn't yet midnight, but this pumpkin was destined to be on his way home.

—How did you know this was my car?

—Are you kidding? Everyone knows about your bad luck. If you're going to be all right I have to go do some actual work now.

—Can I have your number in case I'm not?

She turned and I checked the name on the bottom of her turnout jacket.

—Got it. Thanks.

In haste to remember in my confused state following the double beating, I scrawled her name in my notebook. I yelled after her.

—What station?

**It was time** to pause and regroup. I was still shaky from the shit-kicking, but not enough to keep me from figuring out something was going on with my latest case. That I didn't have a clue made me nervous in light of the two beatings I had just been handed.

I suppose whoever wanted me dead could have ended up ensuring I'd be inhaling black smoke on the floor of the club. It didn't go that way, so maybe someone was looking out for me after all.

I had a good-looking body named Candice Season in a back alley with two holes in her chest and no signs of anything stolen. The body had definitely been moved and deposited there after she was killed. A card in the woman's purse led me to the Fontana Club, where I discovered her twin dancing up a storm.

Thanks to the people who had kicked the shit out of me—twice—I still didn't know if the dead girl and the beatings were related. But why set fire to the club—if indeed it was arson?

I hadn't been in that much of a daze not to recognize a woman in a fireman's turnout gear. I came to smiling up at her. It was infamy more pleasant memories of the night.

Maybe I should have gotten the message, but being the stubborn son of a bitch that I am, I didn't. Besides, it was part of my job description to not take messages. I only returned calls.

Now I had to track down a woman who had disappeared and gone on the run, and who might possibly be responsible for at least some of the black and blue marks I started to grow.

Screw it. I was exhausted, emotionally and physically. Time to head home and crash.

**The banging on** my door brought me out of what felt like a coma. I limped my way to the door and almost fell down in my haste. Then I remembered why I was in such rough shape. Jesus, sure as shit I'd had a good one laid on me. It didn't keep me from opening the door without checking who was behind it.

—Yeah?

I hoped I sounded grumpy enough to send whoever it was scurrying away.

—Remember me? Chesterfield.

Apparently not. But there was a bright side to it, I decided.

—Vaguely. Where's your shining armor?

—You got it part right. I'm the knight that nursed you back to health, and since I happened to be in the neighborhood, I came by to see how you're doing.

—I'm doing good.

She pushed open the door and I almost fell down. Being the good firefighter that she was, she caught me on the way and propped me up.

—Yeah, I can tell by that limp. Now let me get you back to bed. You've obviously got a concussion and you need to rest.

—How did you know where to find me?

—While you were out like a light I checked your ID and found out you were a cop. I took a look at your driver's license, and here I am. Now get your ass back into bed. This time I'll stay with you until I'm certain you're all right.

She eased me into bed. I laid back and closed my eyes, too sleepy to care. I might have dreamed that she took off her clothes and joined me, but I couldn't tell for sure. In any case, she was a fireman. I already knew she'd have a body under that uniform. I didn't need to look.

—When you have a concussion, you need to be woken up regularly for checkups. I'll see to it that you are.

How could I refuse an offer like that? I was too beat up to care.

By the time daylight came around I wasn't feeling much better. My head was still pounding. Even so I felt good enough to pull the sheet back for a better look at what I didn't care about last night.

I was right about Chesterfield and her fireman's body. The g-string she didn't take off looked to be covering up a nice, trim little runway. Her leg shifted and I figured she was just playing at being dead, but I didn't have it in me.

I didn't have it in her, either.

—Stay right where you are. I'll be back later to check up on you.

Chesterfield rolled over on her back and slid her feet up on the sheets.

—I'll hold you to that.

**By the time I** showed up at the coroner's office, Allie had the details ironed out.

—High noon, cowboy. Are you working part-time now?

I told her about getting beat up last night, and she got all concerned and shit. I didn't mention I had just left my new personal nurse on a sleepover. It might be arguable, but just because I'm a man doesn't mean I'm as stupid as most of them.

—What have you got on the woman in the alley?

—The woman took two in the chest from a .357. No sign of powder burns. At least twelve hours before you found her.

—Any casings under the body?

—None. And she definitely didn't die there. There was vary little blood beneath her. No evidence of rape. One tattoo on her lower back. No other marks. Nothing under the fingernails, either. She was pretty clean.

—So that means she was definitely done at a distance with no struggle.

—I'd say so.

—That's not much to go on. Probably someone she didn't know. I'd thank you, but I don't have a reason to.

—You still look like shit, by the way.

—Thanks. I think.

—You're welcome.

Two phones buzzed. Allie looked at hers. I checked mine. I needed to attend at an address that was all too familiar.

—I've got somewhere to go too, Jim.

**I didn't need** to look at a map. I knew my way home, and I didn't waste time getting there. I climbed the stairs to my walk-up with a heavy heart. Already I knew what would be waiting.

Chesterfield was naked in my bed, just the way I left her. Even so, I wasn't real happy to see her like that. She was almost floating in a huge pool of her own blood. It looked to me like she had lived and suffered. Whoever killed her let her bleed out.

The way everything was scattered around, someone must have come across her during a break-in and didn't want to leave a witness. It was more than plain that he wanted to make her suffer, too.

Now I really felt like shit. Chesterfield was only trying to be a good Samaritan. Why did she have to get dragged into the deal? I made a promise that someone would be suffering for this, no matter how long it took me.

I allowed the cops already at the crime scene to do their jobs. I answered the questions as best I could. Allie would be showing up soon enough. I didn't need to be looking at my own place. I needed some space.

Whoever was chasing after me didn't want me finding out anything about the body in Allie's cooler. Well, that was shot to hell now. I just experienced a personal incentive.

Two photos came up on my phone, side by side. The woman in the strip club and the murder victim were definitely twins. Candace Season was the dancer's name. Christ on mighty, but what morons name identical twins Candice and Candace?

I looked forward to meeting the people responsible for that travesty. I headed over to where the twins lived with their parents. I was greeted by a good-looking older woman when she showed up at the door with her husband in tow. I expressed my condolences and she told me they had already been notified.

I made my apologies and asked if we could sit down and talk.

Before I left I showed the script on the back of the strip club's business card. The mother said they both wrote the same, so she wasn't any help. On the other hand, the old man blinked and I thought his jaw was going to drop until he changed his mind.

By the time I left, I was as confused by a case as I had ever been. At least now I had some actual photos of the two girls. And they were identical, down to the last detail. The only problem was, I was looking for an entirely different person.

The mother confirmed that the dead twin's name was in fact Candice. Candace must have been the dancer I saw in the club. The old girl was kind enough to show me where I could find a DNA sample for each of her daughters.

Perhaps Allie could come up with a solution.

~ 3 ~

**I'D BEEN TAKING** notes, but I still wasn't clear about what the hell was really going on. Twins named Candice and Candace. One dead, shot in the chest. One missing, on the run.

Could someone roll the dice and tell me where I should go next?

I dropped the DNA samples off at the Coroner's office and high-tailed it back to the precinct. That hundred dollar bill was nagging at me, and not in a good way. I retrieved it from the evidence box.

It didn't feel right. I held it up to a light and it didn't look right, either. I grabbed an infra-red hand-held and went into a broom closet to take a better look. A female uniform caught me coming out with a satisfied look and a smile on my face and I knew I was in for it.

—Now I know why you never hit on me.

—That's not it at all. You're not butch enough for me.

That got me the one-finger salute and the grin I was trying for. She had a gun, and knew how to use it. I put myself back on the street as quick as I could get there.

At the burned-out remains of the Fontana I crossed paths with the arson squad and one of theirs who had managed to step through the weakened floor. That resulted in what remained of the club's basement being roped off. He wasn't hurt, but the story he told was worth every minute of my time. What I heard said the FBI would be on its way sooner than I wanted them to be.

I climbed down the ladder and introduced myself to a very expensive high-end color photocopier that looked to be responsible for churning out the hundred. The floor was littered in leftover loose bills scattered everywhere.

The faded pool of cleaned-up blood did it for me and now I knew where Candice Season had more than likely been killed. I sniffed around and discovered a discarded shoe that was a twin to the one my victim was wearing. I still needed to know who killed her. And I needed to know where her sister had disappeared to and why.

I was pretty sure someone from Allie's department would be able to clear up the mystery of who I suspected the dried blood belonged to. Now all I was stuck with was a simple murder that had turned into a missing person case that had morphed into forgery.

Piece of cake.

I pocketed a random sample of hundreds from the floor and climbed the ladder just as Allie arrived.

—Christ, Nash, the bodies are piling up on you. First a girl in the street. Another one in your own bed. Now a river of blood in a strip club basement. Are you sure you've been living right?

—It was you who told me I was trendy. In any case, four on the sidewalk is never allowed.

—You'd better hope. Do you think they're related?

—I know they're related. I just haven't come up with the reason why. Did you get a chance to submit the samples I sent you for testing?

—I should have the results by late tomorrow. Where are you staying?

—At your place. I'll see you tonight.

That came out faster than I wanted it to, but Allie went with it and nodded her acceptance. I was happy. It looked to me like she was, too.

—I'm going to be here for a while.

—That's all right. I'll have the Chinese waiting.

**Two dead women.** A missing person who was the exact twin of one of them. A case of forgery in the strip club where at least one of the twins worked and where the other one was killed.

It definitely wasn't going to be all that difficult to tie up the loose ends once Allie's testing of the bloodstain in the Fontana's burned out basement proved it belonged to the woman in the alley. Okay, so my conclusion was a bit premature, perhaps.

Right.

I never saw the half-ton coming until it stuck in the side of the black-and-white beater I was herding. It put me out like a light when I banged my head against the door frame. I woke up on the same floor of the hospital where I had spent time after the disgruntled semi driver took a run at me. It was like old home week with the nurses, but this time, I'd only be here for a couple of hours.

Fortunately, the empty passenger side of the beater had been sturdy enough to cushion the impact. Well, that, and it took the direct hit. I took a holiday and waited where I was until the asshole in the next room came to.

The mess that was the other driver wasn't smart enough to wear his seat belt. Good thing for him that I was there to keep an eye on him while he remained on life support.

I'd just have to wait and see what I could dig up on him. When he came to, I'd be digging for sure. In the meantime, how the hell would I find out who Hank, my new neighbor, was working for?

**The moaning led** me next door to investigate like the detective I was. I shut the door behind me and went to work like nothing happened. Poor Hank the strip-club manager was out of a place to work, out of a job, and now he was out of time. I didn't have sympathy. Instead, I sat down on the fresh cast that was his new leg and turned his bed into a trampoline.

It seemed to do the trick.

My ass was showing through my hospital gown when I left the room, but Hank didn't seem to mind. He went back to sleep the moment I climbed off of him.

—Nice ass.

Shit. Allie.

—You say that to all the boys.

—Only the ones I care about.

—Like I said.

I knew better, so I grinned just because.

—What are you doing here?

—I have the DNA results. They're definitely twins. And their prints belong to two different people.

—What do prints have to do with it?

—The DNA of identical twins is the same. Until technology takes a huge jump, at least.

—So unless the missing twin shows up with a matching tramp stamp on her ass, we'll never know for sure?

—Quite possibly. And she'd better not have her fingertips burned off, either.

**What little I** got while babysitting Hank in his hospital room hadn't been a lot of help. The doctors had him pumped full of too many drugs to do much good. Sitting on his broken leg helped to force him out of his stupor long enough to mumble a name. That was enough for me.

I dressed and I was on my way after saying goodbye to Allie.

The current owner of the Fontana was just another in a long line who thought they could make a go of it and ended up going broke. Only this one had moved a counterfeiting operation into the basement to pay the rent. That was a no-no, especially when the dead bodies started to pile up.

Christ, what was it with criminals these days? None of them had the smarts God gave to high school dropouts. Even if that was the problem, the educated ones weren't any better.

My phone buzzed and I struggled to pull it out of my pocket. It slipped out of my hand and onto the floor. In heavy traffic, I forgot all about it and the waiting text.

**Allie was happy** to see me until she noticed the bag hanging by my side.

—Just because you showed up with a bag doesn't mean you're moving in, Nash. You'll cramp my style.

—Yeah, that's what I thought too when I stepped over the empty pizza and Chinese boxes on the way to the fridge. At least you've got beer.

I opened the fridge, rattled a Sol, popped the top and guzzled. I never said no to a Sol. I developed a taste for the beer on one of my runs down the Baja years ago. Allie picked up the habit from me.

—You want one?

—Christ, Jim, give me time to close the door behind me.

Allie eased the door shut, and I figured I might as well give it another shot.

—So what's for dinner, wench?

—Detective Nash, if you know what's good for you, you'll cool the misogynist act and settle down.

—You said to wait until the door was closed.

—Don't bug me. I need to change. The clothes I'm wearing have been at two crime scenes today and I'm feeling dirty on the outside.

I sunk my own tired ass into the sofa. The open bedroom door gave me a clear shot straight across. I figured the woman was letting me know that she was dirty on the inside, too. Her familiar body looked pretty good to a man that had just this morning left what turned out to be a dead body bleeding out in his bed.

—Are you coming before I run out of hot water?

I never did need to be asked twice, especially by a beauty like Allie.

~ 4 ~

**THE SIRENS WOULDN'T** quit in my nightmare. They wailed and wailed and when I thought I was in the middle of a bad dream that wouldn't end, the wailing turned into banging on the door. I woke in time for a new nightmare to begin.

—Police! Search warrant! Open up!

I was in a friggin' reality show.

—What the hell is going on?

Whatever it was about, it couldn't be good for either of us. Allie's panic-stricken look said that and more.

—I don't know. Answer the door and take a look.

—Put something on, just in case it's for real.

We scrambled to dress. We didn't make it in time. Five cops in riot gear came through the door and swarmed us. I ended up on the floor, thrown there by a cop in full riot gear. Allie ended up beside me, tossed there by the same cop.

A plainclothes cop read us our rights.

—You're wanted downtown, Nash.

—By who, exactly?

—Homicide.

—What the hell? I'm homicide, you dumbasses.

—Shut the fuck up. They're waiting for you downtown. The woman will be coming with you for aiding and abetting.

—What the hell is this all about?

—You're wanted for the murder of the fireman we found in your bed.

—How was she killed?

—You'll hear all about it when you get there. Get dressed. And get some clothes on your whore. They want her, too.

The swat team escorted us out of the building and loaded us into separate cruisers for the ride downtown.

I never saw Allie again.

**Quite the welcoming** committee waited at the precinct. The press was on full alert, probably because someone with a hate on for me tipped them off on the arrest of a murderer. The sideshow unleashed itself at the underground entrance. From there all hell broke loose, and I was too consumed with my own ordeal to remember to ask about Allie.

No one would have told me anyway.

I figured they'd try to use her to get to me. It was a classic trick. There was a problem with it, though. I hadn't murdered anyone, and Allie wasn't involved in the slightest. If she was smart, she'd lawyer up and be up their asses faster than Velveeta on white bread in a trailer park.

I didn't want a lawyer. I wanted to know what the hell was going on and who was behind it. It was starting to look like the two murders, the missing woman and the counterfeit operation were all linked. I had no idea how.

It didn't help their case when the two cops asking questions didn't know shit from Shinola. It didn't help that the very same interview room I was in was one I had used hundreds of times myself. I was pretty comfortable in it, all things considered.

—Why did you murder her, Nash?

Amateurs. Jesus, when I'm done with this I'm going to have to overhaul the entire homicide department. I didn't think I had enough time in my life for that shit.

—Murder who?

They exchanged glances.

—The woman.

—What woman?

—The woman found dead in your bed.

—You mean Chesterfield? What was the question again?

—Why did you murder her?

—Which her are you talking about? Look guys, we can go around like this all day and all night. I'm an expert at it and obviously you're not. So either charge me, place me under arrest and throw away the key, or get me a lawyer.

—We've got proof.

—Sure you do. Show me.

—We don't have to.

It was starting to resemble a pouting match.

—Then charge me, and get me a lawyer. Or you both know it's a trumped-up charge and I'm going to walk. Which is it, boyos?

I had them with that. The gong show slammed the door on their way out. I figured whoever was hiding behind the looking glass went into conference mode. To show me who was boss, it took another four hours before I was kicked and looking for someplace to go.

I tried calling Allie. The calls went straight to voicemail. I didn't leave a message. I figured that was a clue even I could recognize.

**Whoever taped the** door to my apartment made it more than easy to avoid. I ducked and walked into the bloodbath I had been in only yesterday as an observer. The only thing missing was Chesterfield's body. She'd be cooling her slippery heels in the morgue.

I wanted Allie here to help me go through the place. She was good at crime scenes. There wasn't much she missed. I dug for my phone and started punching in her number, but thought better of it. Eventually she'd see my call from earlier.

Maybe she'd even get back to me.

I tossed the place like I was starting my own homicide investigation, and I guess I was. I scoured the joint looking for anything that might help get me out of the mess my own PD had so eagerly put me in.

It didn't look promising.

The amateurs had done a pretty good job of messing everything up all by themselves. Blood had been tracked from the crime scene into all of the rooms. Discarded gloves were scattered on the floor like used condoms. The problem appeared to be that I had been the only one seriously screwed over.

If there were any clues left behind, I'd have a hard time finding them without cleaning up the mess left by the clueless. And that's exactly what I did. I cleaned up like I'd been doing it for years. And I had. Everything, and I mean every single thing, went back to where it was supposed to be. But not before I took photographs and examined every last item like my life depended on it.

Come to think of it, it did.

It was getting on to four a.m. by the time I managed to get everything cataloged. Time to wrap it up for the night. I had a burning desire to march down to the precinct. I wanted to show the professionals how stupid they were.

It wasn't much of a stretch now that I had the shell casing in my hot little hand. The squad had missed it. I found it lodged behind a wheel under the bed, sunk into the carpet.

No doubt some heads would roll over this, but I didn't call my supervisor. I called an honest lawyer instead. He said he'd meet up at a coffee shop in the morning. I'd fill him in and we'd proceed to the precinct from there.

Funny how doing all that gave me a new perspective on things. I stretched out on the sofa and didn't come around until ten.

Downtown the next morning wasn't much of a contest. My honest lawyer smacked them with a cease and desist. When I handed them the bagged empty shell casing, they hemmed and hawed and finally admitted that a mistake had been made. The lawyer was smart enough to ask for a receipt. I never even thought of that one.

I was happy. But I still had a case to solve.

**Whoever framed me** had to be a part of the counterfeit ring. Then I remembered the text I ignored while I was busy driving. I hadn't remembered it while I was in the hospital jumping up and down on Hank's leg.

I beat a hasty retreat to vehicle impound and dug out my phone from the floor of my wrecked beater. The text was from land title registration at city hall.

I arrived at the guilty party's place with the same swat team that had overrun my own. I waited while they set up around the house. The pounding the door took went unanswered. When the ram hit, the door gave way and every man stormed in.

Nobody.

Except a body. It looked to be the second twin. I knew because she had a tattoo on her ass and she had all of her fingers. I figured it would be no big deal to prove she was Candace Season.

I wanted Allie to get the callout. Instead, one of her new hires showed up and I wondered if she sent him on purpose to avoid me. I couldn't blame her if that was the case. I had pretty much screwed over her career because of the police raid that found me laying low in her apartment.

I let the newbie do his job without introducing myself. I figured he had no need to know whose crime scene it was anyway. I waited around until I witnessed him taking the victim's prints and a picture of the tramp stamp.

After all that, I had somewhere I needed to be.

**Candice Season, the** victim in the alley, had somehow found her way into the basement of the Fontana Club, quite possibly by mistake. It was possible her sister, Candace, had turned her onto the place to look for a job. That, or the two were switching out.

But why do that?

Candice must have taken a wrong turn and stumbled onto the counterfeiting operation downstairs during a print run. A nervous printer showed some initiative, shot her and then dumped her body. He cleaned up the blood on the floor as best he could and didn't tell anyone about it.

Unfortunately, he didn't notice the counterfeit hundred that found itself dragged upstairs with the girl. It got deposited beneath her when he dumped the body in the alley, not so far from the club.

He couldn't have known the woman was Candice Season.

He couldn't have known she had a twin sister, either, so when he took a break and saw Candace Season doing her routine on stage, he figured she was still alive. And that's why Candace went missing. I wondered how stupid the shooter had to be to think he'd witnessed a second coming.

That wasn't the best part, though.

**The Fontana Club** was owned by old man Season. And he was broke. That's how the heavy-duty printer came on the scene when he advertised space for rent in the basement. It was a perfect cover. So many people came and went at the strip club at all hours that no one would notice.

Until the bodies started piling up.

I still had one problem remaining, though. What the hell was the motive for Chesterfield's murder? And who was the shooter? Someone sure as shit had a hate-on for me.

I took the time to go to Chesterfield's funeral. I figured it was the least I could do considering she was murdered in my bed. The fire department's brass turned out in their finest. Plenty of cops in blue, too. The damned bagpipes finally got to me. I had to walk away to get some space.

A woman I didn't know stopped me. She looked vaguely familiar, but I didn't recognize her. Then it twigged. Chesterfield had a twin.

—You're Jim Nash.

—You're Chesterfield number two.

—Yes.

—I'm sorry about your sister. She was only trying to make sure I was all right after she pulled my unconscious body from the fire at the Fontana Club.

—I know. She told me she was going to check on you. I told her to stay away.

—Maybe we could talk about it sometime—

—Maybe we could. Are you in the book?

—Yes.

—Then I'll call you when I'm ready.

**I made the** long, lonely drive back to my empty apartment alone. I really wanted to talk everything out with Allie. Maybe in the process we'd come up with something new. She still hadn't gotten back to me. By now I figured she probably never would.

The whole trouble with this case was that there were too many loose ends and they were all untied. The most troubling for me was Chesterfield's killing. In my own bed, for Christ's sake. I didn't even know where to start with that one, or if the department would even let me.

For now the best I could do was get some sleep. I went to the sofa and stretched out. First thing in the morning I'd go out and get a mattress.

Second thing in the morning I'd be resigning. Content with that decision, I fell asleep in no time.

I didn't even dream.

###

### Sleeping with a .45

_Detective Nash still has a couple of problems. He doesn't know who killed the woman found dead in his bed. As if that wasn't enough, someone is trying to kill him, and the killer's methods aren't very inventive. In fact, they're pretty old-fashioned. His boss says he's too close to both crimes and won't allow him to investigate. The women in his life fare only a little better. Lucy and Zelda narrowly escape an attempt on their own lives._

~ 1 ~

**ONE OUT OF** two wasn't so bad.

It was time to spend some money and replace my bed. I bought the new one to replace Chesterfield's blood-soaked final resting place that had once been my bedroom. By the time I managed to push and pull everything up the flight of stairs and then drag the blood-soaked mattress down, I forgot all about my commitment to writing up a resignation letter.

My attention span wasn't that short, though. I had a murder to avenge. Bad enough that the murder occurred in my own bed. If that wasn't reason enough to keep on keeping on, I had no idea what would be.

I didn't even want to think about who in the department had tried to frame me for the killing. That's one of the reasons I stopped thinking about resigning. Instead, I started thinking about a trip to the gun range.

On the way out the door I picked up a box of fifty and pointed my brand-new black-and-white beater in the direction of the range. The city refused to assign me a regular unmarked since writing off the first. I had to be honest, though. Destruction of city property wasn't entirely my fault.

For the usual reasons, I decided it had to be a crazed former suspect I once crossed paths with who had a hate on. Whoever it was caught up to me while I was going through an intersection. He took it upon himself to seek revenge by parking a semi on top of my brand spanking new unmarked.

Then he disappeared, and I didn't spend any time looking.

It was no big deal, and anyway, I lived to tell about it.

While I was in the hospital, the makeshift box in the squad room started filling up with suggestions to get me a time-exed black-and-white as a poor-man's replacement. Someone higher-up took the hint. The boys in blue lined up three-deep in the break room when the keys were presented to me.

Never at a loss for words, I produced a stem-winder of an off-the-cuff acceptance speech. By the time I finished there was no one left to applaud and I'd turned the joke around on everybody but me.

**My daydream ended** with a loud bang and a steering wheel that began an uncommanded turn to the right. The blowout forced the car to climb the curb and jump onto the sidewalk. I picked an alley, pulled in and called for a tow. My mouth watered at the prospect of a forced coffee break at the great little donut shop I frequented across the street.

It didn't water for long. Instead, my mouth went bone-dry. I started to shake and my knees began rattling. That helped to make it just about impossible to stumble my way back to the car.

Well, all right, it wasn't only that. It was the sound of the gunfire that seemed to be aimed in my direction. That, and the ducking and dodging I had to do did the trick.

The donut would have to wait. So would my trip to the firing range.

I managed to make it to the car and get into the dash to retrieve both large-capacity magazines that the city didn't permit me to own. The shakes dispensed with, I found myself in a position to return fire faster than at the rate it had been directed at me.

I dialed in full-auto on the modified handgun. A shadow seemed to move on the rooftop across the street. It was enough to catch my eye. Not certain, I held fire and waited. Another burst of gunfire did it. My police-issue mag emptied in a matter of seconds.

Those damned magazines were almost useless when you needed firepower, but it let go with enough hot lead to ensure that the shooter kept his head down. It gave me a chance to insert one of the 33-round mags I pulled out of my car. The satisfying sound it made sliding into the grip almost gave me a hard-on.

Maybe it would have if I wasn't so busy.

I checked that the custom lever was still on fun mode. I moved along the wall to the foot of the alley and held. I caught the shooter's head popping up from the edge of the roof for a look-see. I directed the automatic's muzzle to where it would do the most damage. I managed to get off a spray-and-pray. I figured he wouldn't be expecting an answer-back like that.

I dropped the empty mag and slid home the backup.

The sirens weren't slowing down just yet. I still had a few minutes. I hit the street running and made a jump for the fire escape hanging off the side of the three-story. Huffing and puffing, I hauled my out-of-shape ass to roof-level. By the time I got there with my muffin-top intact, I could barely breathe. The only things left on the roof were a mess of empty shell casings and a tripod.

I figured my unapproved pistol in full-auto mode must have sent the shooter packing in a hurry. Hell, I'd do the same when I heard that thing barking, whether I knew it was pointed at me or someone else.

**The empty casings** ended up scattered along the edge of the roof facing the alley. Seven-point-six-two by thirty-nine. Now who the hell was stupid enough to go after a cop with an AK-47 and miss? I picked one up with a pencil, bagged it for future consideration, and left the remainder for forensics.

Given that someone in the department had attempted to implicate me in the murder of the dead woman discovered in my bed, I was pretty much through trusting anyone for the important things in my life. This morning, that turned out to be an attempt on my life.

I wasn't quite sure what I'd do with the casing since losing my connection to the forensics lab. Allie, an old flame and one of the city's coroners, had departed for parts unknown after she got arrested, thanks to me. Unfortunately for Allie, she had been drawn into my situation when I went to stay with her until the department completed the investigation into the murder victim in my bed.

Allie became caught in the crossfire when the battering ram broke down her apartment door. Thanks to my presence, I managed to get her hauled in for aiding and abetting. That's when she disappeared—not only from my life, but from the city, too.

I wondered if someone had convinced her to testify against me, or if she had disappeared on her own when she ended up released without being charged. For whatever reason, someone tried to implicate me in a murder, and by association, her as well. I hadn't done the deed, of course, and just because it was my place, that didn't stop my fellow officers from doing their jobs investigating.

Now I was back at square one in my own personal investigation of the dead woman. It was personal because the woman had only been at my place because she was concerned for my well-being after two knocks on the head and a fire.

That she climbed into my bed wanting to be my personal nurse and keep me warm while checking on me and my concussion made it personal. She only wanted to be sure I was taken care of.

When I went to work that morning, I left her alive and sleeping. Sometime between then and— wait a minute.

Who had called in the 911? My apartment was overtop of a partially vacant strip mall. There wasn't anyone around to hear the sound of a gunshot.

I headed back to my place. I'd check with the 911 system operators later. In the meantime, I had some basic police work to do. I'd start by canvassing the neighborhood on foot.

I stopped at a gun shop on the way. Flashing my badge waived the mandatory wait for approval. I walked out with a nice, shiny .45 magnum short-barreled revolver and a box of shells to go with it. I had a perfect place to hang it behind my bed in case my own sleeping habits were ever interrupted.

Call me paranoid if you want.

Mindful of my personal sniper, I loaded Mr. Big and Mr. Small, two of the mags for my automatic, from the ammo box I had with me from this morning. I slid Mr. Small home and I was comfortable again.

I wasn't sure all the door-knocking in the world would come up with anything useful. Citizens didn't want to talk to cops these days. I couldn't blame them. The crazies were always out in force, and when they saw something they didn't like, sometimes they'd do crazy things to people seen talking to the police.

Sometimes, they drove semis into cop cars.

To hell with the consequences. I had a murder to avenge. That might not be a pretty way for a police detective to put it, but I was beyond caring. The poor woman had been murdered after I left her in the care and comfort of my own bed, for Christ's sake.

That, and it didn't sit well with me that my space had been invaded—not only by the murderer, but by the cops investigating.

One way or another, I'd get even or die trying.

**My door-knocking didn't** reveal so much. Many head-shakings later I discovered a good-looking dishwater blonde working in the pet shop at the far end of the strip mall that I didn't know was there.

The blonde, I mean. I knew about the pet shop.

I didn't own a dog, but that didn't stop the girl from writing her name on the front of one of the Happy Tail's business cards and handing it to me. When I was done asking questions, I handed her one of my own. She said she'd call if she remembered anything.

On my way out the door I flipped the card and looked at the back. The number there wasn't the same as the one on the front. She must keep a stack by the register, because I hadn't seen her write anything on the back. Necessity was still the mother of invention after all.

By the time I got back to the precinct, there was a message waiting. It was blondie, and it seems she had a story to tell, after all. I called her back and let her know I'd stop in on my way home after work.

I parked the beater in front of my end of the building and took the sidewalk to the pet shop. By the time I got there, the store was closed. Obviously a cop wanting to ask questions wasn't a high priority for overtime.

I retraced my steps and discovered a bicycle chained to the foot of my stairs. I was pretty sure it wasn't there when I parked. There was a woman at the top, sitting and waiting patiently like a puppy wanting affection. Her dress was pulled up to let her legs get a bit of sun while she waited. I couldn't wait until she stood up. I wanted to know if the back of her legs was as nice as the front.

In the meantime I felt a strange urge to bring her a bowl of water and scratch her behind the ear.

—Everyone in the neighborhood knows you're a cop and where you live.

Like I needed an explanation, but whatever. I opened the door and she followed me in and wondered about water and food. I knew better, but I wanted to find out what she knew about my stalker and the dead body in my bed.

—Want a beer?

I popped two and gave her one before she could answer. I figured a little lube would loosen her vocal cords. Besides, I didn't want to drink alone when I had a good-looking girl to share—the drink, not the girl.

Lucy introduced herself with a winning smile and a firm handshake. She took a chair and waited patiently to get started while I hosed down the table. I listened for a bit and then got up to check the fridge for leftovers. Judging by the dates I wrote on the boxes, the Chinese looked good.

—We're going to be a while. We might as well get comfortable.

I nuked the plates and turned to face her while I waited.

—Don't stop on my account.

—That smells good. Anyhoo, as I was saying—

Anyhoo? Who said that any more?

The annoying timer sounded. I put the plates on the table, popped two more beers and sat down to share dinner with the girl. For good measure, I opened my notebook.

—Take it from the top again.

She did. She started to talk non-stop. I'd be lucky if I got to eat. At the speed she was going, I doubted I had enough pages left in my notebook.

Lucy had just arrived in front of the pet store where she worked. She noticed a van parking in the street outside my end of the vacated strip mall. She fully intended to go over and let whoever it was know that I wasn't home since my car wasn't out front.

She managed to get sidetracked by a customer and unlocked the door to let them into the pet shop instead. I had no beef with that. Business was business, especially in this neighborhood.

She was about to close the door when she heard two pops. She didn't think anything of it. Most of the cars around here were beaters, just like mine, minus the black and white cop colors. She went into work mode and didn't think anything more of it.

—Why didn't you get involved when you found out what went down?

—I knew you were a cop. I thought you'd be able to figure out what happened and handle it on your own.

—Well, Lucy, just so you know. When I left in the morning, the woman was still warm in my bed, and I mean that in the best way possible. Someone—I don't know who, yet—tried to frame me for her murder. It couldn't have been jealousy, because we only met the day before.

—I don't know any more than I told you. It was a dark-colored van, blue or black. I never thought to look at a license plate.

—Don't worry about it, Luce. You've already told me more than I knew before I found you.

—What do you mean?

—The van. It wasn't in any reports. Probably because no one else noticed it.

—In that case I'm glad I was able to help.

I thought I knew the look Lucy was wearing. It was the one that said, _Scratch me behind the ear and I'll grin and wag my tail_.

—Can I stay here tonight?

That was plain enough, even for me.

I looked her up and down and made sure she saw me do it. Her legs were long and shaped quite nicely. Just the right amount of well-toned, tanned thigh peeked out from the hem of her short summer dress. Notwithstanding all that, she had a gorgeous smile.

All that and the sparkling blue eyes convinced me Lucy would be a good house guest. What the hell, why not? I already had the .45 stashed behind my brand-new bed.

What could possibly go wrong?

~ 2 ~

**I COOKED BREAKFAST** for two and managed not to burn anything substantive while a naked Lucy kept me distracted. She seemed to like being close as I moved around the stove. She nuzzled my neck and generally made things take longer than they should.

Only when she got in the way of the frying bacon spatters did she reluctantly decide she wanted to keep her distance. That only meant she moved off to the side, leaving me with a full frontal. Needless to say, my eyes didn't leave her for long, which was probably what she wanted. So she was with me on that, too.

Eventually I loaded up the tray and followed her into the bedroom with eyes glued to her finely-shaped, slowly-swaying rear. Can I help it if I'm a man?

I was trying not to lose my way.

Patiently waiting while she tucked herself in, I balanced the tray. She held aloft the blankets and I carefully climbed beneath. In half an hour we shared a cold breakfast under warm, damp sheets. I hoped it showed how considerate I could be by bringing her breakfast in bed-even if it was cold by the time she got to it.

I tried dragging her into the shower, but she wasn't having any of that. Perhaps she could read my mind. She had to be a slave to her job since the owner hardly ever showed up. She chased me out of the bathroom while she prepped for her day out of her backpack.

Apparently, not everyone could keep my hours.

When the woman stepped out, she was a different person. Somewhere, she came up with a fresh skirt and blouse. A bit of lip gloss and freshly-brushed hair that sidelined the bedhead from the night before all worked to impress me. And made me wonder if she hadn't been planning for it.

—Good morning, gorgeous. Find your way back after work and we'll scrub down together.

—Count on it, Mr. Detective.

A wide smile adorned her pretty face.

—I think we've moved beyond police procedural. Call me Jim.

—Very well, Mr. Jim. I'll see you on closing for the grand re-opening.

Just to be sure I got it, before she walked out the door, she flashed me, front and back, with a pirouette that forced her dress up to mid-thigh, revealing, well, you get the picture. I sure did.

It was my turn to smile.

Luce departed with a satisfied smirk on her face and a gentle sway to her hips. The woman's happy tail bounded down the outside stairway in the direction of the Happy Tail pet shop. When she turned and looked up, I knew I had her. I think she knew the same about me, too, judging by the second pirouette.

I made a note to get some laundry done before she returned. Perhaps I'd dust, too.

I waved from the door. Lucy walked past her bicycle locked to my staircase and headed in the direction of work. It didn't look to me like she was doing any walk of shame, either. Before she rounded the corner, she looked back again and waved.

—I'm going to close early.

I grinned like a man in a happy place and waved back like I had a fever.

—In that case, I'll try to be here early, too.

How many times had I said that and never made it? I dressed, got into work mode, and left the door unlocked, just in case.

**My neighborhood canvass** hadn't garnered much information. Luckily, I discovered Lucy and her description of the dark-colored van. Whether it was involved was another matter. Without a plate, the information wasn't a huge help.

A records search would turn up a million. There'd be no luck with security cameras, either. None of the few remaining businesses in the neighborhood could afford them.

On my way past the Happy Tail's happy tail, I slowed at the window, honked, and waved in Lucy's direction. She didn't wave back. The black van parked on the side street with doors open didn't look right. And Lucy did mention that the parked van she saw was dark-colored.

Either someone had just dropped off a load of dogs for grooming, or Luce was planning on moving the shop to a new location far from me. I knew right away that wasn't right. We'd both enjoyed each other's company right up until the time she absolutely had to leave.

I didn't hear any barking when I pulled in behind the van. I got out and went searching for some puppy love. A quick look through the plate glass caught Lucy in the arms of a man. I did a double take, shrugged, and wondered how many men she had on the go.

If it wasn't for noting the gun in the man's hand, I'd have walked back to my car. I reached for my own and slipped the action. As far as I could tell, there was only one. Another quick look said there was something more than a simple robbery going on. The man didn't appear to be interested in the contents of the till.

I eased the door open and let it go against my back. I led with my pistol and carefully entered the store. Lucy caught sight of me and right away I knew it wasn't her first day at the rodeo.

She bent at the same time as she stomped hard on the man's foot. Her body twisted as she went for the floor and hit hard. I got one off in the man's direction. The explosion in the confines of the store deafened everyone. I didn't hear him hit the floor, but he went down like a slab of meat falling off a hook. His pistol went flying.

He twitched for a bit before I figured it was time to dial 911. He twitched a bit more while I waited for someone to answer. For shits and giggles I worked a finger into the hole. You know, to stop the bleeding. I wiggled it and the poor bastard couldn't start talking fast enough.

I caught Lucy looking over my shoulder and then she slid down my back and thumped onto the floor. I wasn't worried though. I hit what I aim for.

When I pulled my finger out I had all I needed. It was just as well. The ambulance arrived and EMTs began scrambling through the door. Thankfully my interrogation was complete.

—Take a look at the woman and tell me she's all right.

The EMT didn't miss a beat on his way to the bleeding man on the floor beside Lucy. He took one look, didn't see any blood, and said, _She's all right. Cute, too_.

A comedian.

He was right, though. I took the initiative and rolled Lucy over for a better look. I didn't see any holes. I'd have to call her lucky Lucy from now on. She'd put her panties on, too.

Good girl.

When she came to she struggled against me, in a hurry to go into flight mode. I managed to hold her in my arms until she settled down and made up her mind to stay. Good for her. I liked the brave ones—especially when they knew how to handle thieves and dodge bullets. I didn't mind that she wanted to stay in my arms, either, when she snuggled closer.

—I owe you another dinner for that performance, and I'm not talking about the one we had last night.

I caught a glance from the EMT. He shook his head and went back to work. Lucy formed a weak smile.

—For the rest of my life, you can have anything you want.

Both EMTs high-fived me and grinned as they wheeled out the cradle. On the way by I snapped a pic of the guilty party's face for good measure. I had a lot of mug shots to search through.

—Hey Luce. When you're finished tonight can I pick you up?

I was pleased as punch when she nodded in a hurry and said yes. I was even happier when she asked if she could keep her bike chained to my staircase while she waited.

I hoped she wouldn't think I was too eager. I heard it was good form to wait a few days before asking for a second date. Then I began thinking that perhaps Lucy wouldn't have imagined last night to be a date.

—I left my door unlocked for you.

Little did she know that the yes she gave me would force her to eat fast food while she spent the night at the precinct.

Was this a blossoming romance or what?

**With my social** life locked up, I headed for the van by the side of the building. I pulled on the rubber gloves and began with the driver's side. There wasn't anything too exciting there. I opened the opposite door and empty beer cans rattled onto the ground.

So maybe he'd been on stakeout.

There was something about the green and yellow bandanna hanging from the driver's mirror that piqued my curiosity. Nothing about it jumped out at me right away. I tucked it into my pocket along with the rental receipt. It corresponded with the sticker on the rear bumper.

The good stuff turned up when I moved into the back. I found a spent cartridge. A pool of dried blood on the floor had to have been whispering my name, too. There was some spatter on the side and the roof. I made the call and waited for someone to show up who would know more than I did.

In the meantime, I went to check on Lucy. There wasn't a sign of the struggle remaining. The blood had been cleaned up and everything straightened up. I found her in a back room, bathing a dog in a mess of shampoo.

She looked up and grinned when she saw me.

—You sure do know how to treat a girl.

—I thought you'd appreciate it. That's why I asked you out right away for tonight. I wanted the shock factor. The fact that you didn't hesitate said you were good to go.

She smiled up at me again and I knew I was home.

—Is it going to be a regular date, or will I need body armor?

—I think we'll be safe. In fact, I can almost guarantee it.

—Good to know.

She kissed me on the cheek. It was a tossup which of us beamed the brightest.

—Now get out of here.

She gently eased me in the direction of the door.

—I have a dog to wash. I already changed my underwear.

I grinned and she grinned and all was good with the world.

The coroner's vehicle arrived as I walked out the door. I waited while they sampled the blood in the back of the van. I called for a tow to haul the van to impound and high-tailed it to the rental company. No one behind the counter recognized the photo of the results of my target practice. The renter's ID turned out to be fake.

Back to square one.

The text from the department's vehicle shop informed me that yesterday's blowout in front of my favorite donut shop hadn't been the result of a bad tire. It was due to a gunshot. I hadn't figured on that. Someone knew I'd be going past and took advantage. What I couldn't figure is how they knew.

Then it dawned on me that whoever it was had the place staked out. It was one of my favorite places to take a break. I liked it because the little hole-in-the-wall was one of my hideouts for a quiet cup of coffee and innocent flirting with Mabel, the owner. I never told anyone about it.

It was time to get up on the roof across the street for a better look. Sure enough the sleeping bag behind the chimney was the first clue. The second was the pile of cans and the gas burner. Christ, they were patient, to say the least. That spelled grudge to me. I missed it earlier because it was on the long end of the strip mall, almost directly overtop of my place.

I ran through a list of who in my world hated me enough to set out to kill me. Being a cop, the list wasn't short, but even so. To go to this much trouble meant some serious problems on the part of the shooter. Nobody I knew had the patience for this.

At least, I didn't think I knew anyone.

Hell, even in my wildest imagination I couldn't think of anyone wanting to be rid of me this bad.

Not even the ex-girlfriends, and that was saying something.

**With no lead** beyond fingerprints on the empty cans, I packed a couple away in a plastic bag and headed back to the precinct. To kill time, I scrolled through mug shots. Nothing jumped out at me. I turned off the monitor.

I hoped the extra set of eyes I'd be bringing to the game tonight would do the trick. At least, with Luce it wouldn't be as boring. I hated to admit it, but I was starting to like the girl.

As far as the actual case went, I didn't have much to go on.

What I did have was a dead body. As far as I knew, there was no motive for the body to be in my bed, other than the fact that Chesterfield had invited herself into it while she was alive. I had a roof shooter who camped out for God-only-knows how long to get his crack at me. Fortunately, he missed. And I didn't know what I did to piss him off, either.

The campsite on the roof was another thing. The way the shooter had that positioned gave him an opportunity to listen in on what went on in my apartment. I started to wonder if he knew I had a woman in bed with me, and for some sick reason decided to make it personal.

I should probably go back to Chesterfield's place to take a look for boyfriend photos, but I put it off. Something else was bugging me.

The neckerchief I found hanging in the van was waving like a red flag, even though it was green. It was only a damned bandanna. Nothing special there. Even Lucy used one as a sweat band when she rode her bike. I know because every once in a while before I knew who she was, I would check her out when she rode on by.

At the time, I remember thinking she was kind of young. And I sure as hell didn't realize that she worked at the pet shop.

That was then. Now I knew Lucy was just right.

I picked up some Chinese and headed back to the pet shop. She left her bike in the store and we drove to the precinct. I let her have the chair at the keyboard and produced the takeout.

—You really go all out when you ask someone on a date, don't you?

—I don't want to spoil you right off the bat. I want to work up to it.

—In that case, you must have brought me here for a reason. Either that, or you're testing me.

—Maybe a little of both. I need your help.

—You'll have to feed me first.

So I did.

We exchanged dog stories and cop stories and before we knew it, it was midnight and we'd been laughing almost the entire time. It seemed to me as though we both enjoyed each other's company.

Maybe even a little too much.

—I thought you said you changed your underwear.

—Umm, yeah, about that.

She looked at me. It was a while before I said anything.

—You're not wearing any.

It was a while before she asked.

—How do you know?

It had to be pretty obvious to both of us by now.

**Lucy was a** small-town girl who grew up on a farm. She was even a former 4-H girl. She moved to the city for adventure and education. She was taking a year off before her final year and graduation. The pet shop was the perfect job where she could still work with animals and yet be free to finish her education when she was ready.

—I still wear the 4-H bandanna.

So that's what it was.

—I don't like to brag, but I'm a former Cub scout.

—You didn't finish the program, did you?

—Not really.

—Why not?

—That's a story all in itself.

—Well, since we'll be here all night, and I'm going to be busy trolling the mug shots, you can entertain me.

I got Lucy set up and comfortable with snack food and water and she was good to go. When I could see that she was settled in and familiarized with the software, I set her free.

—You're going to get the condensed version.

—You listened to me ramble on about my boring life in a small town. Now it's your turn to bore me about growing up in the bright lights and big city.

—Well, not exactly. I grew up in a small town, too. Not as small as yours, though. It was a factory town. One industry. A lunch-bucket town. Shift work. The plant ran twenty-four and seven.

I stopped to remember how all of us in the same crowd got the hell out as fast as we could after high school. We couldn't put that place in the rear-view fast enough.

—Keep going. I can type, use a mouse, look and listen, all at the same time.

—Sorry. I got lost.

I smiled, and she smiled, and I was smitten all over again.

—Anyway, in grade three or somewhere near to it, I belonged to Cubs. One of the guys I met there, Gordie, eventually became a pretty good friend. He lived out in the country and rode the bus to school. When he could he hung out at my place and we'd do the usual kid stuff in town.

—Now you're just a city slicker trying to kiss up to a country girl, aren't you?

—I swear on a stack of 4-H posters. One day Gordie shows up at my place and starts telling me about his older brother. Ron. Gordie told me Ron picked on him all the time. He said when he'd get real mean he'd load the .22 in front of him and threaten him with it.

—These days they call that bullying.

—I know that. I'm talking a generation ago, at the very least.

—Just how old are you?

—If you're patient, maybe I'll let you count the rings later tonight.

She looked around the deserted floor lit dimly by the glow of blue computer screens.

—If you don't keep talking, I just might take you up on it right now.

I considered for only a moment before going on. I was a professional, after all.

—Well, Gordie didn't show up at school for a couple of days. Then out of the blue, the principal announces that Gordie wouldn't be coming back to school. The poor kid had committed suicide.

—I'm sorry, Jim.

—Yeah, well, all the Cubs were at Gordie's funeral. His folks wanted him buried in his uniform, so we got to do the honor guard thing and all.

I had forgotten how long ago it happened.

—The funny thing is, after it was all over with, Gordie's brother, Ron, somehow happened to show up at the playground one day. I'm not sure if he was looking for me, or just passing by. But, when I saw him, I could tell by the way he looked at me. Gordie must have told him that I knew what was going on.

—Are you sure? That was a long time ago.

—I'm as sure as I can be. Ron gave me a look that went from almost saying hello to abject fear in about a split second. I never saw or heard anything about him after that.

Lucy interrupted my storytelling.

—Here's the mug shot you're looking for, Jim.

—Are you sure?

—As sure as I can be.

**It had to** be the _Ouch-ow-dammit!_ that woke me up. Like the good cop that I am, I immediately set out to investigate. I crossed paths with a naked Lucy. She was standing in front of the stove, trying to dodge spatters coming off of the bacon frying in the pan.

I had to admit, she had some damned fine hip action going on.

—You've never done that before, have you?

—What do you think?

I took off my robe and wrapped her up, but not before copping a feel. Top and bottom.

—I'll be in bed if you ever get finished with that.

—By the time I'm finished with you, you'll be wanting to stay there to rest up.

—Promises.

The faint sound of stones crunching underfoot filtered down through the ceiling. I'm not known as the best housekeeper, but even I managed to keep rocks out of my palace.

—Come on, woman. Turn it off and get in the bedroom right now.

—But I'm not finished yet. I wanted to surprise you.

—You did. You can finish the rest of your surprise later. There's someone on the roof.

I pulled Luce into the bedroom and pushed her down on the floor in the space between the bed and the wall. I threw clothes in her direction and tried to keep calm. It didn't work until I managed to get my pants on.

Just soon enough.

The front door crashed onto the floor. Heavy footsteps calmly marched in and walked through my living room. Luce started to get up. I couldn't allow her to do that. I knocked her down and reached for the brand-new .45 stashed at the head of the bed.

—Stay down this time. And don't come out of here until I tell you it's all clear. Understand?

Lucy didn't answer. Damn. I must have knocked her out when I pushed her down the second time. I cocked the hammer, slowly made my way into the kitchen, and tried not to give up my position.

Nobody.

I led with the .45 and edged around a wall into the living room.

Nothing.

I looked in the closet. Nothing there, either.

I eased the hammer down and tucked the .45 into my pants and called out to Lucy.

—It's all right now. You can come out.

I propped the door up in its frame and tried making it look halfway secure. I couldn't, and it wasn't. Blue sky showed through the edges where it had been torn out and separated from the frame.

I went searching for Lucy. I found her still in the bedroom. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, naked, holding her head in her hands. I eased her down, lifted her feet and covered her with the sheet. I grabbed a bag of frozen peas out of the freezer, retrieved what was left of breakfast, and made a production of presenting it.

—I'll have flowers with your breakfast tomorrow, Luce.

She wasn't having any of it. She skipped breakfast and instead held the ice-cold bag against her swollen eye.

—The way things are going around here, we might not have a tomorrow.

I didn't want to contemplate that.

—We'll have plenty of tomorrows. I know it, and so do you.

I slipped under the cool sheets and snuggled up. She stretched out against me and stopped shaking after a bit when everything warmed up.

~ 3 ~

**LUCY WAS ASLEEP** on her stomach when I slipped the covers off. With her firm, untanned rear staring me in the face, I couldn't resist giving it a little squeeze. I followed up with a firm slap.

—Ouch! You. Stop that.

—That's not what you said last night.

To kiss up, I squeezed the other cheek. Damn but that was one firm bit of woman. Distracted as I was, I traipsed to the kitchen and rummaged through her backpack. I came up with a wallet. I never really thought age was a problem, but now I knew for sure.

I blinked twice and opened the wallet again. Triplets?

—What are you doing out there?

—I'm making breakfast.

—I don't have time. I have to get to the shop.

—I'll bring it to you.

—Such a sweet man. How come no one's got you in their pocket?

—Well, so far, you seem to be the one to have filled all of your pockets with me.

—I'm leaving my stuff here. Is that all right?

—Of course it is— oh, you're wearing another dress.

Luce twirled. Her skirt billowed and settled against tanned legs. I couldn't stop grinning, and the subtle smile on her face convinced me that she liked me, too.

—Yes, I like. Now stop teasing and get going. I'll see you in a couple with breakfast.

—You're spoiling me.

—Yes I am. Will I regret it when you get home?

_Home?_ That slipped out, somehow, but then I was always saying things like that to the women I liked. I couldn't help myself.

—Most likely not.

She twirled again, lifted the door out of the frame and leaned it against the wall.

—I won't need a key.

—Smartypants.

Lucy flashed me and rushed out the door, knowing I'd probably drag her back to the bedroom if she lingered. She clip-clopped down the steps until I couldn't hear her. I started to think I might be falling in like when the sound of an explosion echoed off the building across the street.

**Lucy. In a** panic I raced down the stairs two at a time. She had to be in the street on the way to work. My mind went full speed to comprehend what happened. What was happening.

It was an echo. It had to be. It wasn't so strong of an explosion. I hit the street running and rounded the corner of the building. No broken windows across the street. No crashed vehicles on fire. Maybe it was only a door come out of a frame to crash onto the ground. Still, it couldn't be good.

The cloud of dust, black smoke and destruction hit me like a brick. The sudden realization that Luce must have just that instant put her key in the lock and pushed open the door would have brought me to my knees were I not running so fast to get to her.

I wanted to keep on going. I wanted to run past and keep running. I knew if I did, I wouldn't stop. I couldn't. My legs would keep putting one foot in front of the other. I didn't have a guess as to where or when I might stop.

Instead, I dropped to the ground beside her. Her pulse was strong and racing. Her breathing shallow. Her face and arms were covered in small cuts and scrapes consistent with shattering glass. From what I could see, blood loss appeared minimal.

Her dress was in tatters. I put my coat over her and took her in my arms.

—You're going to be all right, Luce.

—Easy for you to say, you bastard. You're not the one wearing the shredded summer dress that I pulled out of my backpack just for you.

—If it's any consolation, it still looks pretty good on you.

—You're just saying that because you can see right through it.

—Well, now that you mention it—

The ambulance screeched to a stop beside us and I left Lucy to the professionals. The EMT recognized me and shook his head. Lucy had a last wish for me.

—Jim. See if there's a dog in there. She came in last night. Her name is Zelda.

—I'll be over to see you in a bit. And yes, I'll take care of Zelda. I promise.

The fire trucks parked farther away and men scrambled to lay hose and take up positions. There wasn't much fire left for them. It was almost as though the blast was meant to cause minimal damage by blowing out the store's windows and nothing else.

Zelda limped into the picture for Lucy just before the door slammed on the ambulance. Not sure what to do once she lost sight of Lucy behind the closed ambulance door, she sat down beside me. I scratched her behind the ear. Her wet nose found my hand and she snuffled.

Still unsure, she looked up at me with sad brown eyes and a hangdog expression.

—Yes, Zelda. That's pretty much how I feel about it, too.

She woofed and sat up and followed me home. We slowly made our way up the stairs. She lapped up the water I put out. When she finished, I took her on a tour of the place. She sniffed and snuffled her way into the bedroom.

Zelda looked up at me once, jumped up onto the bed, and settled in to stretch out on my side.

Women.

I smiled and thanked my lucky stars—for women, not the dog. Okay, well, maybe just a little for the dog, too.

**Zelda seemed to** be settling in nicely. She was on my bed, wheezing, dreaming of green fields and shallow ponds. At least, that's what I'd be dreaming about if I was in her place. I headed off for dog food and duct tape.

I used all of the tape to give the door a jaunty tilt. With a bit of help it closed from both inside and out. I'd worry about locking it later.

For my own safety I needed to find out what the hell was going on. It wouldn't hurt if Luce and Zelda could learn to relax around me, too. I drove into the seedy part of town and checked into a couple of bars that I thought might turn up the shady characters I needed.

I came up empty. Then I hit the Blue Parrot.

Jerry, the Parrot's bartender, was a former customer. He ended up on the wrong end of a heist gone bad and did five with time off for good behavior thanks to me. He put his time inside to good use and learned woodworking. When he got out he approached me for a loan.

I was dubious at first. What cop wouldn't be given the human disasters dealt with on a daily basis?

The first thing I did was check Jerry's prison record. It was a good one. He kept his nose clean the entire time. His wife and family stood by him. He showed me a rough business plan. He'd worked it up on the back of a couple of big brown envelopes.

I took a chance and loaned Jerry some of the cash after he convinced me he could make a go of it. He set up shop in a rental unit and did custom woodworking for kitchen rebuilds. When business was slow, he tended bar to take up the slack.

He owed me, even though he'd paid the bill a long time ago. He knew it, too.

**I offered Jerry** the opportunity to fix my door. He accepted on the spot. I filled him in on what was going on. I told him about the shooting attempt on my life by the sniper. The break-in at my place could have been anyone. The explosion at the pet shop that injured Lucy was pretty bold. He agreed.

In about a second he nodded his head in the direction of two men hunched over a table in a dark corner. They were deep in conversation, oblivious of anyone else in the bar. It was time to take care of business.

The new guys in the precinct liked those spring-loaded extending saps. I never wanted to waste time pulling it out and waiting for it to expand. While it could administer a good rap, it took too long to swing.

My preference was for the old leather and shot variety. I wore it in a pocket fitted on the left side of my pants. Short and flexible, in close quarters it made it easy to flip out and break a collarbone or badly bruise a forearm at the drop of a glass.

That's what I did when the moron jumped out of his chair and waved a fist in my direction. The fist changed into an open hand as he went down on his knees while clutching a badly bruised collarbone. For good measure, I let him have a quickie on the side of the head. There was no complaining when he went all the way down.

By the time it was all over the second bozo decided he had to put up or shut up. He moved into a fighting stance and I knew right away he wasn't going to be a patsy. I didn't mess around. When he saw the automatic leveled at his chest he straightened up the chair he was in and sat his ass back down.

—I've got a witness that puts you pretty close to where someone was killed.

—Tough luck for her, then.

I smacked him on the collar with the butt of my gun and he fell out of the chair and went down like a cow walking into a slaughterhouse. I called for the wagon and stood guard at the bar with Jerry.

—You better hope they keep those two. They look to me like the type that holds a grudge.

—That's the trouble. They've been holding a grudge for too long.

**I went by** the station to clear up the paperwork mess I had on account of the two in the bar. I finished and it was time to pick up Lucy. I stopped for flowers on the way. The old girl behind the desk gave me a tip about a dress shop across the street and already I figured I was one up on Lucy's last beau.

The gift wrapping took a couple of minutes, and I was on my way. Lights flashing in the grill managed to move some of the cars out of the way and next I knew I was beside a fire hydrant like it was reserved parking just for me.

I checked in with registration and ended up in a waiting room. Luce appeared in a hospital gown, limping but otherwise unharmed. She and Zelda would be a couple for a bit, sharing limps and my bed.

—How long have you been here?

She didn't look so bad. A bit pale, perhaps. I would be, too.

—An hour or so. I wasn't going to leave until I got to see you. What happened to your clothes?

—A nurse threw them out.

—In that case, you'd better put that gown on the opposite way. Every man in this place is going to be asking for your phone number after they get a gander at your fine rear end walking itself out of this pop stand.

—I'll give them yours. In fact, I did already.

She smiled impishly and I didn't doubt it for a minute.

—Are those for me?

I grinned like a teenager caught out before he was ready to hand over the flowers. Lucy's grin wouldn't let her close her lips when she kissed my cheek.

I debated about letting her have her presents so soon. I figured if I wanted to be on her good side—which right about now in that gown was her backside—I'd better let her have the dress. She wasted no time ripping open the box, smiling the whole time.

—Did you get underwear?

Damn. I never even thought about that. Then I remembered.

—You stopped wearing underwear when you started seeing me. Don't you remember?

Luce gave me a devilish look.

—Right. How could I forget?

I patted her rear. Luce skipped a couple of steps and an old girl at reception smiled in our direction. It made me very happy.

—I rounded up the man you identified in the mug shot. For good measure I added the guy he was with.

I opened the car door and she eased her way down into the seat.

—I'm sore all over. I can't wait to get home.

—You took quite a beating.

—I'll manage with a bit of help.

—Zelda is waiting faithfully. You should have seen her performance until she picked up your scent and headed straight for the bedroom and my side of the bed.

—Remind you of anyone in particular?

The last time I checked, Lucy was fast asleep where she belonged, on my side of the bed. The black lab, Zelda, had been relegated to having her doggie dreams while sprawled on the floor beside her.

The dress hung on the door frame, waiting for her to wake up. If I was a lucky man, and I thought that I was, I'd get to help her into it before too long.

I'd be even luckier when I got to help her out of it for the second time.

~ 4 ~

**POUNDING. POUNDING. WHAT?** No. It couldn't be. My brain asleep couldn't fathom it. Groggy and half-awake, I swung feet to floor, stood up, unsteady, and stumbled to the kitchen. Lucy's hands were around the grip on the .45 that belonged behind my bed.

—What the hell-

The strong smell of gunpowder tainted my nostrils. Obviously the pounding had been gunshots, thanks to Lucy and no thanks to my rudely interrupted dream.

—How many?

—Two.

—You hold that thing like a pro.

—My dad taught us.

—Good to know.

She cast her gaze to the ceiling.

—There's a hole in the roof. I hope it doesn't rain.

I followed her eyes.

—Yeah, those .45s kick up a pretty good recoil.

—I'll do better next time now that I know how to keep it down.

—So-

—So I thought I heard someone trying to get past our duct-tape door. I couldn't wake you up. I figured it was my responsibility to take matters into my own hands.

—Has anyone told you lately you look like a barrio girl?

—It's the missing eyebrows, isn't it?

I grinned at her.

—Yeah, but it can be fixed with a little eyeliner.

—How long have you been checking out the chulas in the barrio?

—Long enough.

Lucy held out the .45 butt-first. I slipped the cylinder and reloaded.

—For next time.

I tucked the .45 into the hiding spot behind the bed before calling the precinct. I inquired about the two from the bar I bruised and hauled in earlier. I waited on hold until someone came back and said they were still in lockup.

All right, so there had to be something else going on. Whatever it was, I was in the dark. I figured I'd better get a clue pretty fast before I ended up getting Lucy killed for my ignorance.

Raindrops began hitting the windows. I moved Zelda's water dish to where I thought it might collect some of it. With the dog looked after, I gave my full attention to Lucy.

—I'm kind of getting accustomed to seeing you naked around these parts.

She lowered her eyes.

—By the look of it, I'd say you're not so accustomed to it just yet.

Which, as it turned out, was a pretty good thing as far as we were both concerned.

**My tired ass** reluctantly crawled its way out of a bed warmed by the two women in my life. Okay, so one of them was four-legged. Snicker if you want, but the other one was no dog, I can guarantee that—even if she was still a little worse for wear and missing just a bit of her eyebrows.

My pub crawl began early and started with every bar I could remember that opened at six a.m. The rewards weren't great. One was the odor of stale beer and cigarettes with the occasional bit of puke thrown in for free. Sleepy, disinterested bartenders revealed nothing.

When I finished with that run of mildly unhappy bartenders, it was time to move on to the ten a.m. crowd. Ditto on the results.

No big surprise.

If I learned anything so early in the morning, it was that being in the bar industry meant that profit, if there was indeed any, never ended up being reinvested in the business. Rather, it seemed to go into shiny vehicles, drugs, and the occasional good-looking waitress, and not necessarily in that order.

Bullshit seemed to play a big part in it, too.

By high noon it began to look like my leg-work would be wasted. Then I hit the Blue Parrot again, and wouldn't you know it, jackpot. And I didn't even play the lottery.

Maybe I'd start.

The only two customers in the place must have thought I was blind. They edged out, and I edged out behind them, hot on the trail. My reward was a knock on the head. The last thing I remembered seeing was dirty asphalt and stars—and we're not talking the walk of fame here.

I came to in the back of a step van. It was parked across the street from my apartment. The barking dog clued me in that something was going on that I wouldn't like. Even if I couldn't, at least Zelda was trying to look after Luce.

I knew she'd done her job when the .45 she must have hauled out from behind my bed did its job. I wondered how many holes there'd be in the roof after this episode. I shouldn't have worried, because when the door opened and Lucy was thrown in with me, I knew there'd be no holes manufactured by my .45.

—You're definitely attracting the wrong crowd with that chula makeup you're wearing.

—Thanks to you again. I think I'd better find another guy while I still can.

—Oh come on. What's not to like about a man and his faithful companion?

—Might I remind you that it was me who came up with the dog.

—You could, but it won't do you any good now.

We were in deep shit, and we knew it. We knew it was entirely my fault, too. The only positive thing to come out of it was that they had used my own handcuffs on me.

I had just the solution for that.

**The criminal element** driving the van obviously hadn't seen any cop shows on TV. They completely missed the backup in the holster strapped to my ankle. I snuggled up to Lucy and got the cold shoulder.

—If you think that's going to help your cause, you're sadly misinformed.

—You say that now, but let me whisper in your ear for a minute.

When I was done she maneuvered into position to wiggle fingers into my pocket. She reached bottom and came up empty-handed.

—Maybe it's the other one.

I struggled like a porpoise in an aquarium out of water. I huffed and puffed myself into a position where I figured Lucy would be able to search the opposite pocket. Despite her encouragement for me to lose a few pounds of muffin top, I had difficulty positioning myself for her to reach the key.

The van bumped and groaned down alleys and across back streets. By the time it stopped we were in no better shape. We'd been subjected to more bumps and bruises than a bad pole dancer and we still hadn't found the key or a way out.

With both sets of hands behind us, reaching the gun on my ankle wasn't an option.

Both doors slammed and we were alone again. We readjusted and this time Lucy dragged the key out of me. In no time she had one side undone and I slipped my wrist free, twisted away from her and slipped off the other cuff.

First things first. I freed my backup and had to set it down to struggle with the duct tape wrapped around Lucy's ankles. I moved to her wrists. She recognized one of her captors walking past the front of the van. Her eyes locked on and her free hand snaked to the gun on the floor.

In the van's confined cargo deck the explosion was deafening.

—Did you get him?

—I think so.

I took my chance and did a quick look out the back. There wasn't a thing around but a couple of cars parked close to one lonely storage shed made from a series of linked cargo containers. They sat on a cement pad, at just the right height for the van.

—Do you think you can back this thing up against that door?

—You know it. Say when.

Lucy squeezed through the narrow door into the cab. I lifted the rear door all the way up. I had a clear view behind us. She backed the van until it bumped against the loading dock door.

The overhead door wound up and two men began throwing bundles into the back of the van. Faithful employee that I was, I helped stack them in the truck.

There was half a load by the time we finished. I slapped the divider and Lucy shifted into drive and we were off. Where the hell we were going was anyone's guess if you didn't know I was a cop.

—Take us to the precinct, Luce. I'll ride shotgun.

I climbed into the front, adjusted the mirror, and settled in. I knew it wouldn't be long before someone started wondering who it was driving off with the missing cargo.

—What I wouldn't give for a pay phone right about now.

—Good luck with that.

**A couple of** things bothered me. I didn't have a clue what was going on. Yes, we had extricated ourselves from handcuffs and duct tape. Yes, I had a truckload of dope and I was headed in the direction of the nearest cop shop. Yes, we had a meth lab and a body that needed to be called in.

So then, why had we been taken in the first place?

—I know I'm in the clear on this, and I don't like to cast any stones, but is there something you're not telling me that I should know?

—Well-

—Spill, woman.

—The murdered woman in your bed, the fireman, was my sister.

So that was it.

—And I feel guilty as hell about that. I can't figure who killed her, or why. And by the way, I checked your ID and discovered you had the same last name. Until then, I only figured as much. You don't look anything like her.

—Our parents lost our home in all the financial shenanigans that went on. My dad had to find another line of work, so he went on a road trip to Mexico and carted home a load of coke.

—Okay, I'm covering my ears now.

—He made enough to pick up a distress sale and we ended up with a smaller home at a good price. The roof didn't leak and there was just enough room for the five of us.

I could see where she was going with this already. The locals took offense with having their business profits cut, and wanted to leave a message. The one they left dead in my bed was it. With Lucy working just down the street, it wouldn't be long before the message got out.

Now I was stuck with a drug-dealing family, and two of their offspring had ended up in my bed. I figured I was doing good, though. Only one of them was dead.

So far.

**At least now** I knew that drugs played a part in the shit I had going on in my life. It never ceased to amaze me how drugs could screw up even a simple piss-up in a brewery. I wasn't even a serious drinker.

—There's a truck behind us. Do you think it'll be trouble?

—There's no doubt. Someone finally figured out the drugs have left the building, and not with who they thought.

It all happened too fast. The dualie swerved and pulled out to pass. Lucy's attempt at pushing harder on the pedal went to nothing on the underpowered step van. The driver of the dualie came up beside Luce. He cranked the wheel and the unstable, top-heavy step van careened off the pavement as the vehicles made contact.

Lucy swerved in a vain attempt to keep the heavy van on the asphalt. The front tire left the road and dug into the loose windrow of sand at the side of the road. She cranked the steering wheel around, overreacted and over-corrected, and the van flipped onto its side. It continued on its way, careening into a ravine. It finally slid to a stop.

When the dust settled, the driver's door was gone. I couldn't see Lucy. She had disappeared. Either she skipped out or she wasn't wearing her seatbelt. I climbed out and almost fell on top of her limp body. I checked for a pulse.

Lucy was gone.

Ditto for the dualie.

I quick-marched my bruised ribs down the road, eventually ending up at a house. I called in a SWAT team to raid the meth lab if the fools hadn't moved out already. Perhaps they'd think it all blew over when the van disappeared. That, or they were too stoned on fumes to realize their operation had been compromised.

**I allowed Lucy** to rest in peace. I did my duty as a cop and a man and explained the situation as best I could to her folks. To myself I pleaded ignorance and let them think I knew nothing.

I stayed away from the funeral.

How could I do anything else? I was responsible for the deaths of two. They still had one sister left, but I was going to stay far away from her for as long as I could.

To me, that meant forever.

Even if it was her turn for some comforting.

**I'm not a** television cop. Those guys solve their cases in an hour. Less than that, actually, if you included all the sales pitches for beer and groceries. Forty minutes plus a couple—that's all it took.

For me, it worked out to a lifetime.

If it feels like it's time to go, it usually is. The day before, I had handed in my badge, my gun, my cell phone and the keys to the black and white beater.

I was going.

She must have known I was packing. She came and looked into the bedroom a couple of times. Every time she would stop at the door, turn around and walk away. It was as if she didn't believe it, or wouldn't believe it, or wasn't sure.

Eventually, she got tired of waiting and stopped coming in. By then I'd finished packing. I hauled my bag and Luce's backpack down the steps to a waiting Zelda. She sniffed the bag and wagged her tail.

There was no way I could tell her that Luce wouldn't be coming with us. I threw her bag into the trunk and opened the door for the dog. Zelda happily jumped in and sat up front.

I wasn't so happy, and wondered if I ever would be again.

###

More by P X Duke

Twisted Sisters

Detective Jim Nash has a problem. He has a murder victim in an alley and a dead woman in his bed. His own homicide division wants to charge him with murder. To say he's got serious commitment problems would be an understatement. He's on the lookout for twins, but he doesn't want to date them. He wants to know who murdered them. A modern pulp short story.

Dreams Die Fast

Frank is headed home after spending a long winter on the Baja. When his motorcycle breaks down, he's trapped in an old ghost town on the west side of the Salton Sea. A woman takes pity on Frank and invites him over for a home-cooked meal. Before he knows it, Frank is knee-deep in cartel drugs with a woman itching to pull the trigger on the gun she's pointing at his back.

Dreams Die Hard

Frank is back on the road with a reformed junkie on the run from a cartel hit squad riding bitch on the back of his motorcycle. When the duo end up working at a strip club, the seedy edge of the city finally catches up, forcing Frank to dig deep within to triumph over drugs, greed, arson and murder. Some adult content.

Fast Food Slow Waitress

A biker hits all the high spots (or the low spots, depending on your point of view). These short stories find him at a peeler bar off the 15 in Montana; encountering a hitch-hiker off the 10 in New Mexico; being sweet-talked by his landlady; romancing a truck-driving sweetheart in a sleeper at a California truck stop; flirting with a waitress in a restaurant in the high desert. This is an updated and revised version of First Time and other stories previously published.

Dead Reckoning

During a well-deserved R&R on mainland Mexico, Harry picks up something he doesn't own that forces him to flee across the Sea of Cortez to the Baja. While hiding out on an isolated beach, two mysterious gringas show up to complicate Harry's life by attempting to implicate him in their own scheme, resulting in a mad dash up the Baja to escape the consequences of their actions.

Long Way Home

When Harry's ex-wife, Sasha, and their daughter accompany her oil-company boyfriend on a working vacation to Africa, the trio goes missing. They get out a call for help that will lead Harry on an air and ground chase across the Horn of Africa to rescue his family before kidnappers can move them to their den on the Indian Ocean.

Out of the Past

Harry's comfortable family life is turned upside down when he gets a phone call from a former comrade he thought long dead. When the second call comes in an hour later, the caller asks for his help. He knows his life will never be the same until he can learn what happened to the woman who launched a rescue mission to save his life after his plane was destroyed during a firefight on a bush landing strip in East Africa. Third short novel in a series.

About the author

Aviator. Motorcycle rider. Vagabond. Drifter. Trouble-maker. Jack of all trades and master of none. I've been riding and writing about the places I've been and the people I've seen for a few years now. Some of my writing is factual; some of it isn't. I'll leave it up to you to decide for yourself which lies are the truth.

http://pxduke.com

author@pxduke.com

