King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

ImaJinn Books 

www.imajinnbooks.com 

Copyright ©2004 by Virginia Brown 

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King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

Chapter One 

"King's been kidnapped." 

Harley Jean Davidson shifted her cell phone to her other 
ear and sighed. "Diva, what do you mean, kidnapped. 
Wouldn't that be dognapped?" 

Sitting in the drive-thru lane of the Taco Bell across the 
street from the buff brick building where she worked, Harley 
ignored the cashier leaning out the stainless steel window and 
kept sorting through a pile of change with her free hand. 

"Harley," her mother said, "this is serious. He didn't come 
home yesterday. Your father's beside himself." 

That seemed true. In the background, Yogi was yelling 
something about calling PETA to report the local medical 
school for abducting dogs for their research. 

"Tell Yogi not to call PETA again," she said quickly, "they're 
getting tired of hearing from him. I'll come by later." 

Leaning out the car window, she deposited the exact 
change for her burrito supreme with extra salsa and cheese 
into the cashier's outstretched hand. Fingers closed over the 
money, and the arm and cashier disappeared. 

"You need to find King," Diva said, and there was the 
slightest tremor in her tone that indicated her own distress. 
"He's in danger. I sense great trouble if we don't find him 
soon." 

Harley swallowed an exasperated sigh and said instead, "I 
have to stop by the office first, and then I'll be right there. 
Okay?" 

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"Hurry," Diva said plaintively. "We just got a ransom 
letter." 

"A ransom letter—for King?" Her voice went up on the last 
word, high-pitched and incredulous. "Who'd want that goofy 
dog?" 

"Yogi." 

Oh yeah. That was true. Her father adored that maniacal 
mutt. Harley blew out a sigh and mumbled that she'd get 
there as soon as she could. It boggled her mind that anyone 
would willingly take a dog that gleefully dug holes in 
flowerbeds, dumped garbage cans, and—despite being 
neutered—went on regular romantic sprees through the 
neighborhood. Of course, taking the dog could be a form of 
protest against his depredations. That, she'd understand. 
After all, it wasn't like her parents had money. Just the 
opposite. They lived in a small house her father had inherited 
from his parents when Harley was only fourteen, and eked 
out a meager living by selling junk and homemade kitsch at 
the weekly flea markets in the area. No, taking King had to be 
a protest of some sort. It was more likely the ransom letter 
was a list of demands, with keeping King inside a fence at the 
very top. 

A car horn honked behind her, and Harley took the white 
sack being held out to her, and then shifted the Toyota into 
first gear. Jeez, she'd planned on taking the afternoon off. 
Now she'd have to deal with the damn dog. What a waste of 
sunshine on a dog that was probably in the holding pen at the 
Memphis Animal Shelter. Still, it wasn't even noon yet and if 

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she found him quickly, she could still manage several hours of 
sun and relaxation. Stress busters. 

Cutting across eight lanes of traffic on Poplar Avenue took 
the nerve of a Navy Seal and the skill of a NASCAR driver, but 
she managed it, pulling into the parking lot of Memphis Tour 
Tyme offices without causing any wrecks or being seriously 
injured. She nosed the silver '91 Toyota into the comparative 
shade of a hedgerow that ran along one side of the lot, and 
then sat back for a moment to think about her options. 

She had to show up to look for the dog or guilt would 
overwhelm her, so it was a good thing she didn't have a tour 
group this afternoon. As a charter tour bus driver and general 
flunkey, it was sometimes feast, sometimes famine. So she'd 
decided she'd bask in the sun to recover from the week 
before and rest up for the week ahead. Memphis in May was 
always a hectic time of year. This year she'd be ferrying 
people to or from the airport, to Beale Street and the annual 
world-famous barbecue, out to Graceland, and down to Jerry 
Lee Lewis's home in Nesbit, Mississippi, and even down to 
Tupelo, Elvis's birthplace. It wasn't a bad gig, all in all, though 
on occasion—such as when she'd taken an entire Australian 
soccer team on tour—it'd get a little crazy. In mid-August, 
when thousands of Elvis fans descended upon Memphis and 
Graceland for the anniversary of Elvis's death, tour groups 
ran three shifts and it'd be insane. The candlelight vigil on the 
anniversary eve would be the busiest night. A new job might 
be called for by then. Or maybe a convenient coma. 

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"Hey baby," Tootsie greeted her when Harley stepped into 
the receptionist area offices on the second floor, "you've got 
some messages." 

Harley leaned her arm on the ledge a foot above Tootsie's 
desk. "I'm just stopping by to go ahead and clock out for the 
day. Diva called. King's missing again." 

Leaning back in his chair, Tootsie grinned. "It must be 
garbage day in their neighborhood. You know he likes to 
supplement Diva's vegetarian cuisine with his own version of 
takeout." 

"Yeah." Harley picked up the pink squares of handwritten 
messages and shuffled through them. "She claims she got a 
ransom letter for him this time. He's probably being held 
hostage by Neighborhood Watch until they promise to keep 
him fenced." 

"Or he's locked in Mrs. Trumble's garage again." 

"Please. Even the thought of that crabby old lady makes 
my hair stand up." 

"Not today." 

She looked up and caught Tootsie staring at her hair. 
Annoyed, she raked a hand through the short blond strands, 
disgusted when it fell softly over her fingers. "Yeah, I know, I 
got up late and didn't have time to gel it into submission." 

"That's not necessarily a bad thing. You usually look like 
Rod Stewart in drag." 

Harley made a face at him. "Look who's talking—the 
original drag queen. Wasn't it just last weekend I saw you 
dressed as Julia Roberts?" 

"And I was lovely." 

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"Yeah, I have to admit, you really were. It's humiliating 
that you're more beautiful than most women. Not to mention 
that your boobs are bigger than mine." 

"It's magic. I could show you a trick or two, if you like." 

She grinned back at him. "Thanks, but I'll pass. I seem to 
remember you once telling me that it all has to do with duct 
tape, and I don't think that sounds very comfortable. Or 
appealing." 

He wasn't at all abashed. "Duct tape's not too bad," he 
said. Slender, with long auburn hair that he usually wore 
pulled back into a ponytail at work, he dressed in slacks and 
silk shirts during the day, but nights and weekends often 
found him in sequined gowns and full makeup, a stunning 
female impersonator who'd once opened for the rock band 
KISS at a local concert. While Thomas "Tootsie" Rowell was 
five seven, one hundred and fifty pounds to her five six, one 
hundred and twenty, he'd been known to borrow her clothes 
at times. Not often, however. Harley preferred jeans and tee 
shirts to silk and sequins. 

"I'll still pass," she said in reference to the duct tape. 

"At least you don't have hair on your chest, baby." Tootsie 
pulled the wire mouthpiece of his headset forward, and then 
punched at buttons on the phones. "That can be a real bitch. 
Good morning, Memphis Tour Tyme, how may I direct your 
call?" 

Harley went down the short hallway to her office. It'd been 
a storage closet in a previous incarnation, but was now used 
by the drivers. There was just enough room for a desk with 
an old computer, a chair, and a bookcase. On the wall next to 

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the door hung a metal box containing the security system 
brain. Below it was a small keypad similar to one out in the 
receptionist area. She'd hung a large mirror on the wall next 
to the box, more for the illusion of space than for any sense 
of vanity. 

She hung the van keys back in their allotted spot, signed 
out her daily log, and considered taking home the schedule 
for the coming month before deciding against it. Her New 
Rules for A Peaceful Life specified that she not worry about 
tomorrow. Today was usually enough to give her stomach 
cramps. It was a personal rule she hadn't made lightly. 
Leaving corporate banking for a job free of stress had been a 
matter of survival. So here she was, thirty years old and 
burned out, but finally in a job she didn't have to take home 
with her at night. It was a good trade-off—most of the time. 
At least, when she didn't have to deal with her family it was. 

Right now, she'd find that damn dog to appease her 
parents, then go home and relax. 

In the short time she'd been inside, heat had built up 
inside her Toyota. It smelled like a Mexican restaurant when 
she opened the door, waves of bean burrito and salsa rushing 
out in a gush of air. Her stomach growled audibly. She slid 
into the driver's seat, started the car and let it idle a moment 
while she rifled in the sack. Nachos and chips in a little plastic 
container sat at the bottom, and she pulled it out to sit it on 
the empty passenger seat, flicking up the top. Gobs of 
unnaturally yellow cheese oozed over the sides. She scooped 
it up with a salty triangle of chip and popped it into her 
mouth. Then she put the car in reverse, backed from the slot 

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and nosed out into the traffic streaming down Poplar Avenue, 
a main city thoroughfare that angled east from the bluffs of 
the Mississippi River all the way into the next county. 

Turning at the next intersection, she scooted down 
Highland toward the neighborhood and house where she'd 
spent her teen years, an older area of town on the fringes of 
the University of Memphis. She had her own place now, an 
apartment near Overton Park Zoo that was her refuge, but 
this area was a lot more familiar. It was a tidy little pocket of 
houses just across the railroad tracks from the sprawling 
university, with neat green lawns and big trees shading slabs 
of concrete sidewalk. During the years, the area had gone 
through several metamorphoses, from families to hippies to 
retirees. At the moment it consisted of head shops, tattoo 
parlors, a Catholic school and church, a music store and a 
McDonald's, along with the hard-core older residents, an 
influx of college students, and young professionals buying 
their starter homes. 

Harley knew many of the residents, though the inevitable 
changes drew the pocket tighter and tighter. It'd been home 
since she was fourteen. Sixteen years was a lifetime. Long 
enough, she figured, to know where to find a renegade dog. 

Most of the emptied garbage cans had already been 
removed from the curbs, but a few still stood with tops 
thrown back. A trail of broken eggshells, limp paper towels, 
coffee grinds, and other flotsam left behind by sanitation 
workers littered the curbs, but there was no sign of a black 
and white dog gorging on forbidden delicacies. Uneasy 

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suspicion knifed through her, ignited by Tootsie's reminder of 
her parents' cranky neighbor: Mrs. Trumble. 

Whatever it was that drew King to the old widow's house 
might still hold true so she had to check, though if Mrs. 
Trumble had seen him first, King may well be on his way to 
the pound at this very moment. A quick turn down 
Spottswood took her to the two-story white clapboard house 
at the corner of Patterson, the scene of King's worst crime to 
date. It looked quiet, with no sign of the dog or Mrs. Trumble. 
That could be good or bad. It was a toss-up. 

Slowing down, Harley debated stopping and knocking on 
the door. Mrs. Trumble had taken out a restraining order on 
Yogi the month before, but it was restricted only to him and 
Diva and not to her. All because of that damned demented 
dog and a '59 Chevy. Who'd have thought a dog could do so 
much damage in such a short time? Those old cars were built 
like tanks, even the seats, but King had been accidentally 
locked inside Mrs. Trumble's garage with no way out and had 
made himself a nest in the Chevy's back seat, tearing up 
most of the upholstery. Afterward, Mrs. Trumble had met Yogi 
on the sidewalk with a rake, and the problem escalated from 
there. Now there was a restraining order and ill will that made 
the two blocks between the houses seem much closer. 

Still ... what would it hurt to ask the old lady if she'd seen 
King? 
* * * * 

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"What the hell do you want?" Mrs. Trumble greeted her 
through the screened door, and Harley dredged up a smile 
that she hoped was placating. 

"Uh, I just thought I'd ask if you've seen my father's dog, 
as he's—" 

"No." Mrs. Trumble glared at her over the top of her 
rimless glasses. "And you tell your father that I'm calling the 
cops on him." 

Harley took a step back. "Why would you do that? I'm just 
looking for King, and—" 

Shaking with fury, Mrs. Trumble fumbled with the door 
latch, hand quivering and gnarled fingers plucking at the 
metal hook. The door popped open and Harley leaped back as 
stiff yellow broom straws poked at her. The old lady's white 
hair frizzed wildly around her head, and her eyes were 
narrowed and bright blue behind her bifocals. 

"All that money," she screeched, "I'm gonna sue!" 

"All right, all right," Harley said hastily, and retreated 
across the yard and toward her car parked at the curb. "Jeez, 
it's not like Yogi didn't pay you for the damages." 

When it looked like Mrs. Trumble intended to follow her 
with the broom, she got into her car and slammed the door, 
hitting the electric locks. Amazing how much agility and 
energy little old ladies could have. Age hadn't slowed Mrs. 
Trumble down any—she looked like exercise guru Richard 
Simmons if he dressed in a blue flowered house dress and 
clunky, sensible shoes. 

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Mrs. Trumble apparently intended to be sure Harley didn't 
linger. She whacked the Toyota with the broom a few times, 
just to speed Harley on her way. Crazy old bat. 

"You tell your father I'm gonna call the cops on him," Mrs. 
Trumble yelled as Harley got the car started, "and then he'll 
be sorry he messed with me." 

The car lurched forward as she shoved it into first gear, 
and she took the corner so fast the jogger on the curb was 
just a blur. She saw no sign of King in the two blocks to her 
parents' house on Douglass, and by the time she parked out 
front, it had occurred to her that Mrs. Trumble seemed too 
irate to still be griping about her now refurbished car. Had 
something else happened? 

Yogi just blinked at her when she asked him that question. 
His worried green eyes went wide and innocent. "I don't know 
what you mean." 

"Oh God," Harley said, and tossed her backpack to an 
overstuffed chair. "I have a feeling you know very well what I 
mean. Did you violate the restraining order?" 

Yogi spread his arms out at his sides. "Now Harley, why 
would I go over there?" 

Hands on her hips, she stared hard at him. Tall, rangy, 
with a potbelly not very well hidden under a ragged tee shirt 
that said Flower Power over a screen-print of marijuana 
plants, her father still resembled the cartoon bear of 
Jellystone Park fame for which he'd been nicknamed by his 
peers some time in the sixties. Shabby sandals and a pair of 
cutoff jeans that brushed his knobby knees completed his 
customary attire. Gray-streaked brown hair framed his 

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angular face, short on top, long on the sides and with a 
ponytail down the back. Stylish. 

"I don't know," Harley said, "why would you go there? 
Looking for King, maybe?" 

Yogi raked a hand through his hair so that it stood up atop 
his head like a rooster's comb. "Well, I was out looking for 
him yesterday, but that was before we got the letter this 
morning." 

Diva appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. Tiny bells 
tinkled on her long skirts, and her pale blond hair was pulled 
back and held in twin ponytails by strips of ribbon edged with 
tiny bells. At fifty-two, Deirdre "Diva" Davidson was still a 
classical beauty, with high cheekbones and a straight, slim 
nose. She looked like Bo Derek and acted like Sylvia Browne. 
And her wide, cornflower blue eyes also had some magical 
power to render Harley motionless. How daunting. 

"It's true, Harley," she said. Her husky voice drifted across 
the living room cluttered with balls of yarn, half-finished 
dreamcatchers, burning incense, and chunks of crystal and 
wire atop tables and the slipcovered couch. Hound Dog by 
Elvis played on their CD player. Yogi must be really stressing. 
An Elvis fanatic, even his dog was named after the late 
singer, King referring to Elvis's nickname as The King. Now 
Yogi played his favorite Elvis song while Diva added from her 
pose in the doorway, "King's been missing since yesterday. I 
sense darkness, anger, and even ... danger." 

Melodramatic to the core, that was Diva. 

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"All of that follows King wherever he goes," Harley said 
flatly. "The dog is a menace. I'm amazed no one's shot him 
yet." 

"This is different. He's been abducted this time." 

Diva glided toward her. It was spooky how she could do 
that, and how her naturally husky voice could get even lower, 
blending a tinge of mystery like Harrison Ford in drag. She 
stopped in front of Harley and held up a folded sheet of paper 
and an envelope. 

"All right. Let me see the letter." When Diva held it out, 
Harley took the sheet of typing paper and flipped it open, 
expecting a notice from the city animal shelter. Crude letters 
cut out of magazines and newsprint met her startled gaze: 

BrINg WHaT YOU KnOw We WaNT Or ThE DoG diEs 

Do iT Or YoU GEt YoUR DOg BAcK A LItTLE At a TimE 

A huge clump of black and white dog hair clung to some of 
the pasted letters. "Oh, this is stupid," Harley said irritably. 
"It must be some kind of kid's prank. What do you have that 
anyone could possibly want?" 

"Nothing." Distress mixed with anger in Yogi's voice, and 
he flapped his arms in the air in frustration. "There's no 
reason for anyone to take my dog." 

While she could think of a dozen different reasons, Harley 
stuck to diplomacy. "Did you see who left this letter? Where'd 
you find it?" 

"It was in the mailbox on the front gate," Diva said, "but I 
don't think the mailman left it." 

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by Virginia Brown 

"Well, he'd certainly have a strong motivation to see King 
gone since he gets chased every time he delivers the mail," 
Harley pointed out. 

"It's the cheese," Yogi said indignantly. "He's always 
delivering some kind of Cheese of the Month Club to old man 
Burbage down the street, and King can smell it in his bag." 

"Still, he's had to Mace King twice just to deliver your mail. 
Why do you think the post office no longer delivers to the 
front porch like they used to? Never mind—that's not the 
issue here. This may be a prank, or someone's trying to make 
a point. Did you talk to the neighbors? You know Mrs. Shipley 
sees, knows, and tells everything that happens within a two 
mile radius." 

"Not this time," Diva said with a shake of her head that set 
the tiny bells tinkling. "But our new next-door neighbor is 
involved somehow. It's not his fault. Destiny brought him 
here. Still, it's really too bad Mrs. Sherman had to sell her 
house and go into the nursing home." 

Harley stared at her mother. There were times that Diva's 
belief in karma and her psychic abilities was more irritating 
than enlightening. In fact, most of the time. It didn't help that 
she was right often enough to validate those beliefs. 

"Bruno Jett has King," Yogi said with a dark glance out the 
front windows as if their new neighbor skulked on the front 
porch. "He has to. He's made some threats before." 

That wasn't good—she'd met the new neighbor. Bruno Jett 
was tall, dark, and dangerous in a good-looking, rough sort of 
way. "Threats? To you?" 

"No," Yogi said, "but he did threaten King." 

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"Oh, well, that's understandable." 

"And he had a gun." 

"That's not. Damn, Yogi, why didn't you tell me about this 
before now? No one should be allowed to go around waving a 
gun at people." 

"He wasn't exactly waving it, Harley, but I saw it. And he 
did say my dog was a menace and I needed to keep him up 
before there was trouble." 

"Oh." 

"You're supposed to go talk to him, Harley," Diva said 
softly. 

Eying her mother, Harley bit her tongue to keep from 
asking why. She was sure she didn't want to know. Not that it 
did her any good. Diva reached out to take her hands, holding 
them snugly between her palms. Heat radiated from her long 
graceful fingers. Her eyelashes fluttered, a precursor to one 
of her psychic conversations that were usually obscure and 
always irritating. 

"My spirit guides tell me that there's a strong connection 
with him and King's abduction. I believe it's ordained that you 
speak with Mr. Jett." 

"No, I don't think so." She pulled gently free of Diva's 
grasp, but managed a smile. "Tell your spirit guides to stop 
meddling." 

"Rama and Ovid don't meddle, they advise." Diva smiled 
back to show there were no hard feelings. This was a familiar 
argument. "Speak to Mr. Jett. I think it's vital." 

"If you're looking for a confession," Harley said, "I doubt 
you'll get one. If anybody took King, it's probably Mrs. 

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Trumble. Why is she still so mad after you paid for her car's 
repairs? Are you sure you haven't been back down there?" 

"Maybe just a little," Yogi said after a moment, and his 
face crumpled. The Elvis CD changed to New Age pan pipes 
and bells. "King was gone all night. I thought maybe he'd 
gotten locked in her garage again somehow." 

"Oh, Yogi." Harley shook her head. "She's probably calling 
the cops on you right now." 

"Call Bobby. He'll help us out," Diva said, then turned to 
Yogi and took his hands in hers much as she had Harley's 
only a moment before. A look passed between them that 
made Harley feel invisible. There were times still that they 
were more like the runaway teenage lovers they'd once been, 
rather than middle-aged and holding on to the comfort of a 
world that had long since passed from the scene and become 
questions for Trivial Pursuit games. 

"I don't think Bobby will get involved," Harley said, "He's a 
homicide detective. I can't ask him to look for a dog. But I 
can ask him if Mrs. Trumble has filed charges again." 

Really, there were times her parents asked too much of 
her. Calling Bobby was one thing. They'd been friends since 
they were both kids, and he was familiar with her parents' 
eccentricities. Bruno Jett was an unknown entity, however. He 
hadn't been especially friendly since he'd moved in last 
month, barely acknowledging Diva's neighborly overtures. Not 
that she blamed him there. Diva's idea of being neighborly 
involved principles of feng shui and an offer of a tarot 
reading. It could be daunting to the uninitiated. To be fair, 

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Jett looked like he could use some good advice, or at least a 
shove in the right direction. 

"So, you'll go talk to Mr. Jett, won't you?" Diva said. "Just 
to set Yogi's mind at ease." 

"I don't think he's home," she lied, hoping for the best. 
She needed a distraction, anything to get her out of this, but 
before she could invent one, the front door swung open and 
her younger brother arrived home from his morning classes at 
the university. Reprieve. She actually smiled at him. 

Slouching into the living room, tall and lanky and almost 
too thin to cast a shadow, Eric blinked in surprise at her 
obvious pleasure in seeing him. 

"Hey chick." 

"Hey dude." 

Their standard greetings over, she eyed his hair with 
interest. It was bright blue, almost matching his sleepy eyes. 
An improvement over last week, when he'd dyed it purple. 

"You'll be bald before you're thirty if you keep abusing 
your hair," she said next, and he shrugged. 

"I'm thinking of shaving my head anyway." 

"Great. Another interesting look. What's that?" 

He lifted his hand, stared down at the chain with neon 
green plastic strips woven into the metal links, then said as if 
just remembering, "Oh yeah. I found this on the curb in front 
of scary dude's house." 

Yogi's hand shook slightly as he reached for it, and Harley 
recognized the shape of the required rabies tag on its S hook 
dangling from the end of the chain. Uh oh. This could not be 
good. 

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by Virginia Brown 

"It's King's," Yogi choked out, fingers closing on the chain. 
"So Jett does have my dog." 

All eyes turned to Harley. 

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Chapter Two 

"Maybe King just lost his collar," she suggested, but not 
even she believed that. "It could be true. It could. Really." 

It was obvious they thought otherwise. Yogi turned toward 
the kitchen, and Harley heard him mutter something about 
finding a tire iron. Alarm bells rang in her head. 

"Uh, Yogi, I hope you remember you're a pacifist," she 
called after him, but the slamming of the door leading to the 
screened porch was his only reply. Oh holy shit, she thought, 
and gave her mother a pleading glance. 

"Perhaps you'd better talk to him," Diva said softly, and 
Harley wasn't sure if she meant Yogi or Bruno Jett, but 
decided not to take any chances. Yogi first, then Jett only if 
she had to. Her brother was right. The man really was kinda 
scary. 

Harley glanced toward her brother for help, but he was 
already on his way to the kitchen. Private moments eluded 
him, as he dwelled in a world of art classes at the university 
and his own diverse entertainments, which usually included a 
baggie of weed at some point. His real name was Eric but his 
friends called him Toke, for obvious reasons. He'd be no help, 
that was plain. 

She found Yogi in his workshop sorting through piles of 
discarded wire and coffee cans full of the crystals Diva used 
to make her dreamcatchers, beaded jewelry, and suncatchers 
for the windows. They took the stuff to the local flea markets 
every week or so and made a tidy sum that Yogi then hid 

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somewhere. His trust in banks was on par with his trust in the 
Federal government—at a very low level. If not for the fact 
he'd inherited this house from his parents, they'd probably 
still be living in communes out in California. 

Communal life was a memory she'd tried hard to forget, 
but occasionally it reared its ugly head at unexpected times. 
Tarantulas stood out vividly in her mind, as did foraging rats 
as big as raccoons, and a near-fall from a high cliff while 
looking for the outhouse in the dark. The move to Memphis 
had been one of convenience for her parents, and an Act of a 
Merciful God for her. She thrived on things like clean sheets 
and indoor plumbing, even though Diva had never seemed to 
mind having the stars for night-lights. But Yogi had been as 
glad as Harley to move into a real house, she thought, and 
seemed happiest making his metal sculptures and jewelry out 
here in his workshop behind the garage. 

"Hey," she said, and Yogi glanced briefly up without 
pausing in his search through wire, crystals, and half-finished 
pieces of jewelry, "what are you looking for?" 

Empty McDonald's hamburger wrappers fell onto the floor 
from the big plastic trash can, and he picked them up quickly 
and stuffed them back into the bin. So much for sticking to 
Diva's vegetarian regime. No wonder he liked hiding out here 
so much, with King always at his feet hoping for crumbs, no 
doubt. A couple of closet cow carnivores. 

"A weapon," Yogi muttered. He stopped when he found an 
iron bar as thick as his thumb. Anger flickered in his eyes. 
"Someone took my dog. If not the new guy next door, then 
who'd do such a thing?" 

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by Virginia Brown 

"I don't know, but I'd say Mrs. Trumble's a pretty safe 
bet." She let Yogi absorb that for a moment, then added 
gently, "If you'll stay here, I'll go talk to Jett first. Okay?" 

After a tense moment, he nodded. "Okay." 

"Good. Give me the tire iron." 

"It's part of a hydraulic jack," he said, but handed it over 
and she tucked it under her arm with a relieved smile. Most of 
the time Yogi adhered to his pacifist leanings, but as there 
had been a few notable exceptions that were still sharp in her 
memory, there was no point in taking any chances. Especially 
when it came to his dog, a maddening creature with 
absolutely no redeeming qualities that Harley could see—save 
for inspiring such intense devotion from her father. 

That knowledge sent her tromping through the front yard a 
few moments later. This small section of real estate 
comprised Diva's ecological statement. Crabgrass, dandelions, 
chickweeds, and nutsedge grew right along with four o'clocks, 
asters, purple coneflowers, and cannabis. The latter was 
cultivated in the backyard, lovingly tended right next to the 
tomato plants. Salsa with a real buzz, another holdover from 
the sixties counterculture. 

While the Davidson house on Douglass was comfortable, a 
bungalow style built in the thirties, with a wide front porch, 
thick stone columns painted white, and a stained glass 
transom over the front door, Mrs. Sherman's former house 
was smaller, a two bedroom deal with wrought-iron bars on 
the front windows, and a small front porch. 

The last time she'd been on this porch had been to retrieve 
poor Pooky for reburial in Mrs. Sherman's back yard after 

22



King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

King had thoughtfully dug up the dead cat and put it on her 
porch—an event that had immediately preceded Mrs. 
Sherman going into a nursing home. But then the door 
windows hadn't been blacked out like they were now. It 
looked a little eerie. Some kind of dark curtains hung in the 
front bay window, as if Bruno Jett didn't want anyone peering 
in, not even the sun. What was he, a vampire? 

Dredging up her rapidly flagging courage, she opened the 
screen door to rap sharply on the front door. Nothing. She 
used the brass door knocker. The sound seemed to echo 
through the house. He had to hear it if he was home. She 
knocked again. Hope flared. Maybe she'd been right after all 
and he wasn't home. Maybe he was having trouble getting the 
coffin lid up— 

The front door jerked open. Not exactly short herself, 
Harley had to crane her head way back to see his face. Her 
eyes widened, probably looking a glow-in-the-dark green by 
now. 

He stared down at her with a scowl normally reserved for 
someone finding a bug on their fried bologna sandwich. Or 
half a bug. It took her back, but she didn't intend to leave 
without at least asking about King. 

"Mister Jett," she said in an embarrassing squeak that 
made his eyebrows go up, "have you seen the dog that 
belongs next door?" 

It was difficult to stay focused on his face. Not only was 
she getting a crick in her neck, but she was far too aware that 
Bruno Jett was one nice hunk of masculinity, with broad 
shoulders and a chest that were unencumbered by any hint of 

23



King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

a shirt, a washboard set of abs she'd only seen on TV 
commercials, and stonewashed Levi's unsnapped at the waist 
and suggesting even more raging masculinity below a 
nonexistent belt. Jeez, at close proximity, this guy was sexy 
enough to give her night sweats for a month. 

As she'd expected, he denied seeing King. His voice 
seemed to come from his toes, deep and raspy: "Not since I 
chased his ass away from my garbage cans." 

"Was that recently?" 

"Yesterday. Can't you keep him inside a fence?" 

"He's very resourceful. So, you haven't seen him today?" 
Bruno Jett made her fidgety. He had black hair in need of a 
trim, a beard-shadowed jaw line, and dark blue eyes that 
seemed to see things she didn't want him to know. Like the 
way her heart had started beating double time and her 
breathing went shallow. Lean, hard muscle seemed to do that 
to her lately. She really needed a steady boyfriend. It'd been 
way too long. 

Straightening from his lazy slouch against the doorframe, 
he shook his head. "I don't keep up with neighborhood pests. 
That includes my next door neighbors." 

Her brows snapped down over her eyes and she opened 
her mouth to say something sharp, when a sparkle of rainbow 
light behind him caught her attention. She stood with her 
mouth open, coherence vanishing like smoke. 

A pile of glittering stones lay heaped in the middle of his 
coffee table, gleaming in the light through the open door. 
Necklaces and bracelets—diamonds, sapphires and emeralds, 
all winked in the shaft of sunlight that warmed a black velvet 

24



King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

cloth on which they lay. It took a moment for her sluggish 
brain to absorb the implications, and by then Bruno Jett 
obviously came to the conclusion that she'd seen more than 
he liked. 

His hand closed on her wrist and he yanked her close, the 
screen slamming against her. He towered over her, a wall of 
muscled intimidation that left her reeling and scrabbling for a 
way to get out of what could be more trouble than she'd 
anticipated. 

"What do you really want?" he demanded harshly, his eyes 
narrowed and spearing her with accusation. "You didn't come 
here looking for a damn dog." 

Yunh huh, she wanted to say, yet though the spirit was 
willing, nothing emerged from her mouth but a whoosh of air. 
And worse, as if drawn by a magnet, her eyes kept straying 
to the coffee table and pile of glittering jewels, despite her 
efforts to pretend they didn't exist. 

He still held her wrist trapped in one hand, and he gave 
her a little shake. "Well? What's up with you?" 

The shake dislodged the strange paralysis of her tongue, 
and she said, "There's nothing up with me, but I don't think 
you can say the same thing." 

"Yeah? How d'ya figure that?" 

Pulling free, she rubbed at her wrist, feeling a little better 
when he crossed his arms over his chest and abandoned 
brute force. Momentarily distracted by the smooth flex of 
tanned muscle on his bare chest, her eyes crossed and her 
lungs emptied of air. Wait. He'd asked her something, and 
seconds ticked past while she tried to marshal her thoughts 

25



King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

into a semblance of coherence. Oh yes. He wanted to know 
why she thought he was up to something. 

Taking a deep breath, she said, "Well, that pile of stuff on 
your table, for a start." 

For a minute he just stared at her with narrowed eyes and 
his mouth thinned into a tight line. Tension vibrated in the air, 
and she had the uneasy thought that she'd made a grave 
error in judgment. Oh damn. Was that the butt of a gun 
sticking up from the back of his Levi's? Why hadn't she kept 
her mouth shut and pretended not to see anything? 

Then Jett relaxed a little, apparently deciding she was 
harmless. "Yeah, well just so you don't get any wrong ideas, 
it's costume stuff. Cheap knockoffs." 

She glanced again at the coffee table. In the dim light, the 
jewelry certainly looked real, but she wasn't exactly an 
expert. That didn't explain the gun, however. Was he licensed 
to carry concealed? Was it considered concealed if he was in 
his own house? Did she really want to know? 

"Okay," she said, ready to be agreeable at all costs, "I 
didn't know you're a salesman." 

"So now you do." He reached behind her to push the 
screen door wide. "I also like my privacy. Do us both a favor 
and remember that. And don't come snooping around here 
anymore." 

Common sense prompted her to accept his invitation to 
depart and she did so, but with a parting shot once she was 
safely in the front yard again, "If you've done anything with 
King, you'll be sorry." 

26



King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

His reply was a derisive snort and slamming of the door. 
She heard the bolt shoot home with a loud click. Interesting. 
And if he was a jewelry salesman, she was Anna Nicole 
Smith. 

At any rate, she'd eliminated him as a suspect in 
dognapping. He definitely wasn't the kind of man to send 
hokey ransom notes. Now she had to call Bobby in case Mrs. 
Trumble had already contacted the police to file a complaint. 
As a detective in the West precinct, Bobby might be able to 
head off any major problems. Unfortunately, he could also be 
cranky at times, and a challenge to motivate. But first—she 
had to deal with her parents. 

"So what are we going to do now?" Yogi asked, pausing in 
his relentless pacing to fix her with a tragic gaze when she 
told them their neighbor didn't have King. 

"We aren't going to do anything, Yogi. I'll see what Bobby 
suggests, okay? Just give me some time. I'll find King, I 
swear I will. No one will keep him too long." Without 
strangling him, she added silently, but knew better than to 
even hint at that fate. 

He looked relieved. "Okay. So you'll go down to Trumble's 
house to look for him, too?" 

She hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah, I'll go down there. If 
she's got him, I'll call Bobby. So you stay here and don't go 
back down there." 

"Sure." 

"And don't go next door, either," she added, a little 
suspicious at his quick capitulation. "Promise me." 

"I promise, Harley. I won't go next door." 

27



King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

"Next door being Mrs. Sherman's old house—say it." 

A little peeved, he repeated it just as she insisted, and she 
gave a satisfied nod. Now she'd committed herself to one 
more visit to Mrs. Trumble, but it saved a bushel of trouble. 

When she drove up, a big black Lincoln was parked in the 
driveway leading to Mrs. Trumble's one-car garage in the 
back yard of the house, and Harley sat indecisively for several 
moments. The old lady had been unpleasant enough alone. 
With reinforcements, she could get downright nasty. Maybe 
now wasn't such a good time. Jeez, what a coward she was, 
afraid to face a little old lady with a hefty swing. 

Well, maybe a trip to Bobby first to find out if charges had 
been filed was the best course of action for the moment. It 
beat the heck out of dodging a broom. 

* * * * 

"You gotta be kidding." 

Bobby Baroni looked at her like she was nuts. It was a look 
with which she was familiar, and Harley patiently tapped a 
finger on the sheet of paper. 

"The person who sent this is serious." 

Bobby smoothed out the paper she'd brought in to the 
West precinct on Union Avenue. It was crudely done with 
letters clipped out of newspapers and magazines, a parody of 
every bad TV program ever shown. "This is stupid," he said, 
the expert opinion of a Memphis detective. 

"Not to Diva and Yogi." 

"Yeah, well, your family's never been wrapped too tight." 

"Is that an official opinion?" 

28



King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

Bobby gave her another "you gotta be kidding" look and 
forbore an answer. Just as well. She pretty much knew some 
people suspected her parents were kooks. And Bobby Baroni 
was in the unique position to confirm that suspicion. After all, 
he'd practically lived at her house when they were horny 
adolescents, despite his strict Catholic parents' every effort to 
keep him home. 

"So, Mrs. Trumble hasn't filed any charges against Yogi?" 
she asked. 

"Not since the last time. He hasn't been down there again, 
has he?" 

Ignoring that, she said, "Look, Bobby, Yogi's threatening to 
track down the person who has King. Do you really want to 
risk the mayhem he could cause if he runs amuck?" 

"Shit." Bobby looked disgusted. And a little bit worried. 
"How serious can this be if they aren't asking for anything?" 

"But they are. Look." She dragged a finger over the pasted 
words in the first line: 

BrINg WHaT YOU KnOw We WaNT Or ThE DoG diEs 

"So what the hell do they want?" 

"Damned if I know. Yogi says he doesn't know either." 

"Bring it where? Harley, this letter doesn't say anything. It 
was probably written by kids, or someone who knows that the 
dog's missing and is trying to get something from your 
parents." 

"Like what? Jeez, Bobby, what could they have that 
anyone could possibly want?" 

"Not a damn thing that I can think of, unless they're 
growing opium in the back yard, too." A pointed reference to 

29



King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

the fact that he knew about the wacky weed growing beside 
the tomatoes. "But it's probably just a way to get rid of the 
dog. It could be any of your neighbors." 

"True enough. But what about this?" 

She plucked a wad of black and white dog hair from the 
envelope. Bobby sneezed. She'd forgotten about his allergies. 

There were things she did remember about Bobby, though. 
He still looked like the cocky kid he'd been when she first met 
him, although he'd grown taller and muscled up and wasn't 
the gangly boy he'd been then. But he still had a thick head 
of black hair with a slight curl to it, and heavy-lashed brown 
eyes—the gorgeous looks of a movie star and the swagger of 
a rock star. 

"What about it?" he said between sneezes. "It's freakin' 
dog hair, Harley." 

"It belongs to King. There's a lot of it here." 

"How can you tell one clump of dog hair from another?" 

"I can't. But Yogi can." 

"So it's dog hair. How bad can that be?" 

"Read the last sentence. It has Yogi ready to go on a 
search and destroy mission." 

He squinted at the letter again. 

Do iT Or YoU GEt YoUR DOg BAcK A LItTLE At a TImE 

"Still sounds stupid. Just some kids playing a mean trick." 

Harley sighed. "You're not going to be much use to me, 
are you?" 

Bobby managed a watery grin. "Babe, you gotta know 
better. I can still be useful if you feel the need." 

30



King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

Once they'd shared a very close relationship, but that was 
years ago, a trial-type thing that hadn't worked for long. 
They'd both enjoyed each other and moved on without 
recriminations or regrets when the time came. 

"What about Angel?" she asked, scooping up the dog hair 
and the letter and sticking it all back into the envelope. 

"She has nothing against my old friends." 

"Maybe. Maybe not. She looks like she could be tough if 
she wants to be." 

"Hey, someone in her career has to be." 

"It's hardly what I'd call a career, Bobby. She dances stark 
naked at Platinum Plus." 

"She's not completely naked. The law requires that she 
wear shoes." 

"Oh yes, what was I thinking. And to answer your original 
suggestion, no, I don't think so. We've both moved on." 

"Besides," Bobby said, obviously still focused on Angel's 
choice of career, "she's not dancing anymore." 

"No? Is that good?" 

"Yeah. I get private lap dances now." 

"Swell." 

"And the couch dances—" 

"Listen Bobby, don't say anymore. I don't care for the 
unsavory images this conversation is conjuring up." 

He grinned. She suspected a case of arrested 
development. Maybe he was right and she had started him on 
a life of sexual perversion. French kissing at fourteen was 
pretty erotic stuff. 

31



King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

"So you haven't heard from Mrs. Trumble yet," she said. "I 
thought she'd have called the cops on Yogi again by now." 

"That's becoming a weekly thing. As long as he doesn't 
violate the restraining order, he—oh damn. Don't tell me." 

"Okay, I won't. It's probably best neither of us knows the 
truth. If you haven't heard from her yet, expect a call soon. 
I'll try to head things off, but you know how Yogi is about that 
dog. I can't guarantee anything." She folded the ransom 
letter around the wad of dog hair and stuffed it back into the 
envelope. Not looking up, she said, "What can you tell me 
about some guy named Bruno Jett? He moved into Mrs. 
Sherman's house last month." 

"Is that a real name?" 

"As far as I know." She looked up then, smiling brightly to 
hide her motivation. It was always best to be cautious with 
Bobby. He often forgot old friendships and went all cop on 
her. "I just need to know if he's the kind of neighbor that 
might make trouble." 

Or the kind who might be involved in fencing stolen 
jewelry. That made more sense than anything else she'd been 
able to think of since seeing that pile of jewels on his coffee 
table. 

"What are you up to, Harley?" 

"Why do you always think—" 

"Hey. This is me, Bobby, you're talking to. I've known you 
too long not to recognize when you're trying to pull a scam on 
me. What do you really want?" 

32



King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

"Okay." She leaned forward, voice lowering. "I've got a hot 
tip for you. Know all those home burglaries and jewelry thefts 
in East Memphis recently? I think Jett's involved somehow." 

"You do." Bobby nodded seriously, and the teasing light in 
his eyes had vanished. "And why would you think that?" 

"Look, before I say anything, we need to make a deal 
here. I just paid off Wells Fargo and wiped out all my savings. 
Crime Stoppers is offering a nice reward. So, anything you 
find out, you have to share with me, as long as I gave you 
the info to follow up on. Deal?" 

"Not in a million years. You tell me what you know, and if 
possible, I'll tell you what I don't mind you knowing." 

She sat back. "That's not a deal. That's extortion." 

"No, extortion is—" 

"Don't give me a damn definition, Bobby. This isn't police 
cooperation. Never mind. I'll just keep my information to 
myself and share it only with Crime Stoppers." 

"So, this Bruno Jett—you think he's fencing stolen jewels?" 
Bobby scribbled something on a yellow pad, ignoring Harley 
when she protested, then asked, "What did you see or hear to 
lead you to that conclusion?" 

"He had an emerald as big as a walnut stuck in his belly 
button when he was dancing naked on the front lawn." 

Bobby looked up at her. "Cute. Where's your civic spirit?" 

"Sitting in Wells Fargo's vault. I need that reward, Bobby. 
I'm broke. You tell me what you know, and I'll tell you what I 
know." 

He smiled. "Ah, I like my version of that game better." 

33



King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

"I was fourteen. 'You show me yours' had more attraction 
then. Well?" 

He considered a moment, then nodded. "Within reason. So 
talk." 

"He had a wad of jewels big enough to choke a mule lying 
right in the middle of his coffee table. He tried to tell me it 
was costume stuff, but it wasn't." 

"How do you know that?" 

"Costume stuff doesn't have the same kind of sparkle. I'm 
sure I'm right on this, Bobby. Check him out. I'm willing to 
bet he's got a record." 

"Loose jewels?" Bobby looked skeptical. 

"No. Necklaces and bracelets—diamonds, sapphires, and 
emeralds. If the stuff is real, it's worth a fortune." 

"And he just let you in to look at it?" 

"Of course not. I knocked on his door to ask him if he'd 
seen King, and even though he tried to block the door, I ... uh 
... looked around him and saw it lying on the table." 

"So, a jewel thief—or fence—sits in his living room with a 
fortune in jewels lying on the table, and opens the door wide 
enough for any stranger to see it? Doesn't wash, Harley." 

She glared at him. "Well, maybe he was expecting 
someone else. Maybe he was stoned. Or maybe he's just 
stupid." 

"Or maybe it was costume jewelry." 

She stood up, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. 
"Right. Thanks for the help. If this is how the MPD solves 
cases, it's a wonder any crooks are ever caught." 

"Aw Harley, don't go away mad." 

34



King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

"I know—just go away. The least you could do is look up 
his name and see if he's some kind of ax murderer living next 
door to my parents. Is that too much to ask?" 

Grinning, Bobby shook his head and leaned toward his 
computer. "Guess not. Not that I expect to find him listed, but 
since his name isn't that common ... hm." He'd been tapping 
away at the keyboard, and something flickered on the 
monitor screen. Light played over his face as the screen 
scrolled. Finally, he said, "You may be on to something." 

"Really? Oh, I just knew it. I'm right, aren't I? Oh yeah, 
I'm right. Remember, share and share alike here. If this leads 
to a bust, I get the reward. I need it." She smiled. "Maybe I'll 
go back over there, sneak around and see what I can find out 
about Jett. That'd probably help out, wouldn't it?" 

Not taking his eyes from the monitor, Bobby just nodded 
absently. When he finally turned to look at her, his eyes were 
guarded. "Wait. No. Stay away from there, you understand?" 

She blinked. "Why? Is he ... that dangerous?" 

There was a moment of taut silence, then Bobby said, "I'll 
show you the printout." 

Harley didn't know what to think when he gave her several 
pages listing charges that ranged from simple assault to 
embezzling and even theft. It wasn't just unnerving, it was ... 
well, disappointing. It wasn't that Bruno Jett meant anything 
to her; it just seemed a waste, that's all. A man with a killer 
body like his shouldn't really be a killer. She looked up at 
Bobby to find him watching her with an appraising look in his 
eyes. She frowned. 

35



King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

Wait a minute ... she'd seen that look before. It was his 
poker stare, the one he used when he had a pair of fours and 
was trying to bluff her down from a full house. She studied 
the papers again. There had to be a catch. 

The name on the printout said Bruno Jett. The description 
looked the same, and he'd been arrested for fencing stolen 
jewelry. It had to be the neighbor. Yet ... She flipped through 
pages and then looked up at Bobby. 

"Where are the last few pages? It says there are nine 
pages, but there's only six here." 

"There are only six pages." 

"Right. That's why it says 'one of nine, two of nine—' don't 
play cute, Bobby. Where're the other pages? Why don't you 
want me to see them?" 

He stood up. "I've got to be in a meeting in two minutes. If 
you find out anything, let me know, and I'll keep you posted if 
I hear anything." 

"You're a lyin' dog, Bobby Baroni. I can always tell when 
you're lying." 

He smiled, plucking the pages from her hand as he turned 
her around toward the door. "I gotta go. So do you. Bye, 
Harley." 

Oh yeah. There was more to this than he was telling. But 
what? 

When she reached her Toyota, she saw a ticket stuck to 
the windshield. Illegal parking. Where had that Reserved for 
Police sign come from? It hadn't been there when she'd 
parked, she was sure of it. Damn. Since it was pretty unlikely 
the sign had been sunk in concrete in the half hour she'd just 

36



King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

wasted talking to Bobby, the odds were pretty good she just 
hadn't noticed it. Now she did. And obviously, so had a cop. 
Double damn. 

What a great addition to her day. Now she had to tell Diva 
and Yogi the police weren't going to get involved in King's 
abduction. Like she hadn't known that before she'd ever 
walked into the precinct. 

It went just about like she expected. 

Yogi stared at her in disbelief. "You mean they're not going 
to do anything? Are these the same police who arrest citizens 
for littering and conducting peaceful protests? Shit, it's just 
like living in Bosnia." 

"Exactly. But without the minefields and massacres." 

Ignoring Harley, Yogi turned away, shoving his clenched 
fist into his other palm. "My dog is going to be killed if 
somebody doesn't do something. This is incredible." 

"Yogi, we don't know that. If they were going to kill him, 
they'd have sent more than a clump of hair with the letter, 
don't you think?" 

"You must be able to do something, Harley," Diva said 
calmly. 

"Oh no, let her go. She doesn't care if King is slowly 
hacked to bits by some madman." Yogi choked slightly on the 
last words. 

Harley sighed. "Do you have any idea what it is they want? 
The letter says you know." 

"How would I know? How would I know?" He looked a little 
wild with his hair straggling from a ponytail on his nape to 
frizz out around his head. "Anyone could have him. If it's not 

37



King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

Jett or Trumble, who could it be? I may never see him again. 
You've got to find him!" 

"All right, all right, calm down. Jett doesn't have him, so 
I'll go talk to Mrs. Trumble again." 

"No," Yogi said quickly, putting his hands in the air palms 
out. "Stay away from there. She ... she's crazy." 

"She's always been crazy. She's a neighborhood legend. 
Don't worry. I'm used to cranky citizens. I have Mace if she 
gets too violent." 

"Harley—" He paused, staring at her, his eyes white-
rimmed and dilated. She frowned at him when he shook his 
head, his arms falling to his sides. "King's not there." 

Alarmed, she said, "You went down there again?" 

"It doesn't matter. Someone else has him. They have to. 
Diva's seen things." 

Harley's attention shifted to her mother. Diva stood with 
her hands clasped in front of her, a calm expression on her 
face. "I've made a psychic connection, Harley. King is in a 
dark place. Small, cramped ... He can hear us but can't see 
us." 

It took a supreme effort not to roll her eyes. Harley settled 
for saying, "So tell him to get his scruffy ass home." 

"He's being held against his will." 

"Right." She'd given up a sunny afternoon for this. There 
should be some kind of reward other than a pounding 
headache. 

"You'll rescue him," Diva said after a moment. "I know you 
will." 

Maternal confidence. Or a major guilt trip. Harley sighed. 

38



King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

"I'll try." It was the best she could do under the 
circumstances. 

When she left, she drove past Mrs. Trumble's house again 
on the off-chance that the dog would be in the yard. The 
black car she'd seen earlier was gone, and the back porch 
light was on even though it wasn't near dark yet. Afternoon 
shadows clung to the side of the garage, and limp towels still 
hung on the clothesline that stretched between two metal 
poles. It looked quiet and still. Too quiet for King to be there, 
that was certain. 

She walked up to the back of the house, hopping over the 
cracks in the sidewalk with the weeds growing through, and 
opened the screened door. Several sharp raps on the door's 
peeling paint managed to give her a splinter, but failed to 
summon the old lady. Probably inside calling the cops. 
Determined, she knocked again, harder. 

"Enough is enough, Mrs. Trumble. Answer the door. I know 
you're here. You've still got clothes on the line." 

When there was still no answer she rattled the door knob 
in frustration, and to her surprise, it swung open. She 
paused, considering. What was one more restraining order? 

Two steps into the kitchen, she yelled for her again. "Mrs. 
Trumble. It's Harley Davidson, and I've come to talk to you 
for a few minutes. Hey, Mrs. Trumble? You okay?" 

No answer, just an odd sound like someone coughing. She 
inched further into the kitchen. It looked a mess. Dirty dishes 
were stacked in the sink and on the stove. The smell of turnip 
greens hung in the air, a peculiarly strong stench that she'd 
never gotten used to. It had to be something you grew up 

39



King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

with to truly appreciate. A pot sat on the stove with the 
greens still in it. A black iron skillet of golden corn bread had 
been upended on a plate, with one pie-shaped wedge 
missing. A plastic prescription bottle sat beside it. She picked 
it up, frowning when she saw the label. Give one twice daily 
for sedation, it read. Now this was very interesting—and 
suspicious. 

"Mrs. Trumble?" It was eerily quiet. The strange coughing 
sounded again, and she thought the old lady might be having 
some kind of fit. She eased through the kitchen to a dim 
hallway and called for her again, not wanting to sneak up on 
her and scare her into a heart attack. This time, when the 
strange coughing sounded, she realized it was more like a 
bark. A bark? 

Her head jerked up. Pills for sedation—he was here. She 
called King's name and this time the sound was distinct. A 
definite bark. She made her way down the hall opening doors, 
calling his name, and when she came to a locked door with 
frantic barking on the other side, she pulled out her trusty 
little metal pick. Those formative years helping Yogi in his 
work shop came in so handy at times, she thought as she got 
it unlocked and open in a matter of seconds. 

The first thing that hit her was the smell. The second was 
a black, white, and pink thing lunging at her, smelling like 
dog shit and deliriously happy to see her. Excited barks and 
whines filled the air. Staggering backward under the assault 
of canine joy and excrement, she managed to keep King from 
knocking her down. Barely. 

"Down, you wretched mutt." 

40



King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

He barked at her, turning in circles. He didn't look so good. 
He looked like he'd been attacked by a bevy of boll weevils. A 
Border Collie mix, he had long shaggy hair. Usually. Now, 
huge patches of fur were missing, and pink bald spots as big 
as her palm splotched his body like crop circles. Other than 
that, he looked fine except for dried poop clinging to his back 
legs. Apparently his ordeal hadn't curbed his exuberance. 
Relieved, she found herself grinning like an idiot. Stupid dog. 
She shouldn't be so glad to see him relatively unharmed. 

"Well, won't Mrs. Trumble be surprised when she gets 
home to find her hostage missing," she said to King, and he 
barked an excited agreement. "Yep, serves her right, the 
scary old bitch." 

She peeked into a room off the hall, but there was no sign 
of Mrs. Trumble. King raced down the hallway, barking 
dementedly. If she was here she was as deaf as a post, that 
was for sure. 

"King," she said severely when he disappeared into 
another room, "stop that. Come here. Come here, you goofy 
dog." She followed him, grabbing at him when he skidded 
across the floor and up under a dining table. He barked again, 
spinning in a circle like a wind-up toy possessed by demons— 
Chucky's dog. She resorted to cooing sounds to coax him 
closer, but he avoided her. She grabbed at him again, barely 
missing him as he raced past, barking crazily. She landed on 
her knees, swore loudly, and glared at the deranged dog still 
racing in circles. This wasn't going well. 

She looked around. The room was messy, with newspapers 
and magazines strewn on the table, and scissors lying on 

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by Virginia Brown 

pages that looked like rats had chewed them. Drawers were 
open and stuff thrown on the floor like Mrs. Trumble had been 
in a hurry or looking for something. Big dark furniture 
squatted against the walls and in the middle of the floor. 
Musty light penetrated windows closed off by heavy drapes. It 
smelled old. Rusty. 

King darted past again, barking his fool head off. This was 
getting ridiculous. She should have left him in the closet. Why 
on earth did Yogi love this insane creature so much? He was 
the most annoying animal she'd ever encountered. 

"Come on, little shit," she cooed, snapping her fingers, and 
when he came close, she made another grab for him but got 
only a fistful of hair. As if he had some to spare. "Okay, this is 
war," she said when he darted past again. She got to her feet 
and waited, looking everywhere but at the dog, and when he 
made another circle through the dining room, tongue lolling 
out the side of his mouth and his eyes gleaming with joy, she 
lunged again, but tripped over a pile of old clothes on the 
floor near the wall. Falling flat this time, she banged her 
knees and elbows. 

"Shit!" she yelped, glaring at the manic dog as he zipped 
past her again in another mad circle. Shoving her hands 
against the floor to rise, she kicked at the pile of clothes. It 
didn't budge or yield. She turned to see why. Among towels 
and a blanket, was something familiar. 

Oh shit. Her heart tripped into overdrive. She recognized 
that blue and white flowered dress. Last time she'd seen it, it 
had happened to be on Mrs. Trumble. It still was—on a very 
dead Mrs. Trumble. 

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King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

Chapter Three 

Harley couldn't stop shivering with reaction. Bobby Baroni 
wasn't being very nice. In fact, he seemed very irritated. He 
had his eyes thinned at her in a way she considered hostile. 

"Hey," she said finally, "I didn't kill the old lady. I just 
happened to find her body." 

"Just happened to come into her house, I suppose, when 
she invited you?" 

"Well. No. I guess not. But you see, I was right. She had 
King locked in a closet." 

The former abductee had been tied with a length of 
clothesline to a table leg to keep him from jumping all over 
the clean blue uniforms worn by police, but he'd managed to 
drag the table across a door and block access to the hallway. 
One of the officers was busily cussing and untangling the dog, 
the table leg, and his own leg, trying to avoid touching a 
stinky King in the process. Other officers watched and 
laughed, and even Bobby grinned when the dog leaped up to 
lick the cop entangled in a web of clothesline and caught him 
with his mouth open. 

Spitting and gagging, the officer tried to leap back, but his 
foot was held fast by a snarl of rope and he went down, King 
gleefully atop him. It took two other cops to rescue him. 

"I should arrest you for breaking and entering," Bobby 
said, turning back to Harley and the point he was trying to 
make. "You've already caused enough trouble." 

"Me? How?" 

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by Virginia Brown 

"Let's just say that there's been a complaint made against 
you for trespassing." 

"Maybe it's not nice to speak ill of the dead, but she was 
guilty. And besides, I didn't file a complaint against her for 
chasing me with a broom and assaulting my car, so—" 

"Harley. The complaint wasn't made by Mrs. Trumble." 

"Not Mrs. Trumble?" She blinked at him. "Then who—no. 
That rat. Why would Jett file a charge against me when all I 
did was ask him about the dog?" 

"He didn't file charges. It's just been mentioned to me that 
you're snooping in places you have no business being. This 
only makes my point." 

She started to defend herself, and then had the thought 
that it certainly was a coincidence that Bobby would already 
know about a complaint. There was something really strange 
going on here. 

"How does it make your point?" she asked. "Mrs. Trumble 
having a heart attack shouldn't have anything at all to do with 
Bruno Jett. Should it?" 

Bobby didn't say anything for a moment, then pinned her 
with a narrow look that warned her he wasn't playing around 
and said, "She didn't die of a heart attack. It was more like 
lead poisoning." 

"Lead poisoning? And how would you know that without 
some kind of autopsy?" 

Shaking his head, Bobby said, "A bullet, you twit. Mrs. 
Trumble was shot to death." 

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by Virginia Brown 

Harley reeled. All the blood that had rushed indignantly to 
her head dropped to the region of her stomach and sat like a 
stone. Shot... 

"Then ... then it's murder," she got out in a strangled 
whisper. 

"Ever the master of the obvious. Did you see a weapon by 
the body?" 

"No. I already told you exactly what happened. After 
seeing ... her ... I didn't hang around to look for anything 
else. I ran to the kitchen to call nine-one-one. Wait. Are you 
sure she was shot? I didn't see any blood." 

"There's blood." Bobby wrote something down on a pad, 
flipped it closed and said, "I need you to give a complete 
statement to one of the officers. And go outside." 

"No problem. I can do that." She felt a little lightheaded, 
and her ears rang. She'd never seen a dead body before. Not 
lying on a dining room floor with a bullet wound, anyway. 
Murder bore no resemblance to the sanitized version she'd 
seen on TV, even with all the fake gore. 

"You look like you're about to pass out," Bobby said, and 
snagged a passing officer. "Get her outside for a statement 
before she pukes on evidence." 

It wasn't the time to protest. An officer hustled her out the 
back door and into the fresh, cool air and deepening shadows. 
Lights flashed from several cruisers, a blue blur that lit up the 
sky. Her stomach rolled. Nausea rose and fell, fading finally 
after a few deep breaths. 

"Are you gonna hurl, lady?" The officer at her side sounded 
impatient, and she looked up with a scowl. 

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by Virginia Brown 

"Maybe. Worried about your shoes?" 

He took two hasty steps back. "Yeah. You okay?" 

"Fine. Except that I've been known to suffer from projectile 
vomiting." 

Two more steps took him out of range, but he still looked 
worried. "Look, I can take your statement later." 

Harley thought about that. This officer was young, baby-
faced, and obviously rattled. It'd be to her advantage to get 
this over with now, and with a cop who might not ask too 
many of the wrong questions. Like, had her father violated 
the restraining order against him. 

"I'll be fine," she said. "So—where do I start?" 

"With your name and why you came to visit the victim." He 
flipped open a pad. "Then I need to hear what transpired from 
the time you arrived until you found her. And anything she 
might have said." 

"That last one will be easy enough. Dead people aren't 
very talkative." 

"Yeah. So, what's your name?" 

"Harley Davidson." When he looked up at her with a 
skeptical smirk, she said slowly and distinctly, "Harley Jean 
Davidson." 

"You're not kidding?" 

"Do I look like I'm in a festive mood? I just want to get 
this over with, okay?" It had occurred to her that while she 
wasn't too worried about being a suspect, eventually Yogi's 
feud with Mrs. Trumble would be investigated. Bobby would 
remember that Yogi leaned toward a pacifist inclination, but 
he might also remember there had been a few times her 

46



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by Virginia Brown 

father had been less than peaceful. While she didn't think for 
a minute that Yogi would shoot Mrs. Trumble, she couldn't 
say with complete certainty that he wouldn't threaten 
violence. He frequently let his mouth overload his ass. It was 
just rhetoric most of the time. 

Yet she couldn't help recalling that he'd violated the 
restraining order and come down to talk to Mrs. Trumble 
about King, and that later, he hadn't wanted Harley to come 
back. That was odd. Had he seen Mrs. Trumble's body? Had 
he seen—the murderer? Oh God. What if he was an 
eyewitness? 

Looking up when the officer asked her again why she'd 
come down to Mrs. Trumble's, she said, "I was looking for my 
dog. I thought maybe she'd seen him." 

"Why would she have seen him?" 

"Sometimes he gets loose, and she complains. So I 
thought she might know where he was. I was right, 
obviously." 

"She didn't tell you she had the dog?" 

"Uh, she was very dead when I got here." 

"So the first time you saw her today was when you found 
her body?" 

This wasn't working out quite as she'd hoped. She took a 
deep breath. "No. I saw her a little earlier when I was still 
looking for King." 

"And what was that conversation like?" 

"Brief. Loud. She chased me with a broom." 

He looked up, pen poised over the pad. "So you were 
pretty mad at her, huh." 

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by Virginia Brown 

"More along the line of terrified. For an old lady, she was 
extremely energetic. We didn't really have a conversation." 

He started writing again. Harley tried to focus on anything 
but the ideas that kept popping into her head. Yogi wouldn't 
hurt anyone. He knew Mrs. Trumble's threat to sue was just 
spite with nothing to back it up. Abducting King was just 
spite, too. Yogi knew that. Right? 

To her relief, Officer Delisi only asked a few more 
questions, and she described how she'd heard a noise and 
gone inside—only a slight stretch of the truth—and found 
King, then stumbled over Mrs. Trumble. He finished up by 
telling her not to leave town, that she'd need to be available 
for more questions. 

She was glad to see Bobby approaching, crossing the lawn 
to the driveway where they stood. "I called your parents to 
come get the dog," he said. "Some of the guys are getting a 
little irritated with King. There's talk of an accidental shot in 
his direction." 

"I completely understand." 

"Harley—I'll need to talk to Yogi about why and when he 
violated the restraining order." 

"What are you talking about?" 

"Look, I know he came down here. Someone saw him." 

Damn. "Maybe it was a mistake." 

"No, it's not a mistake. A jogger saw Yogi leaving this 
house around two-thirty, give or take a few minutes. Time of 
death is around then. You understand, don't you, that we'll 
have to question him?" 

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by Virginia Brown 

For a moment she couldn't answer. Panic gripped her, cold 
and paralyzing. Finally she said, "Bobby, you know he's 
incapable of killing someone. He's a conscientious objector." 

"Yeah, with a record of arrests for sit-ins and protests that 
often led to violence." 

"But he wasn't violent. Okay, so he gets excited 
sometimes, says things he shouldn't and even makes 
occasional threats, but he's never ever hurt anyone. He won't 
even kill spiders." 

"He's not under arrest, Harley. We just need to clear him, 
okay?" 

"I can't believe this." 

"Do you know anyone else who might have a grudge 
against Mrs. Trumble?" 

"Other than almost everyone in the neighborhood that 
she's terrorized at one time or another, no. For pity's sake, 
Bobby, you remember what she's like. Remember the time 
she called the police on you and me and Cami for stealing 
cherries off her cherry tree?" 

"Yeah. We did steal cherries." 

"That's not the point. We were fifteen, the tree hung over 
the sidewalk and we took a few cherries. Why call the cops?" 

"I'm not arguing that she was a petty, spiteful old lady. 
But she's been murdered. I've got to check out all angles, and 
that includes the feud with Yogi. If he didn't do it, we'll find 
that out. But he was here, and he may have seen something 
or someone that's important. Or maybe she said something 
we need to know." 

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by Virginia Brown 

He was right. She knew that. She didn't like it, but she 
knew it. 

"Fine. But do me a favor—you talk to him. He gets all 
defensive and obstinate with the police most of the time. He 
knows you and trusts you." 

"I'd planned on it. I don't think he shot her, but he may 
have seen someone leaving when he got here, or—" 

"Bobby. I saw someone. Earlier ... before I came to talk to 
you. There was a car here, a big new car. Black. That's the 
reason I didn't stop then, I thought maybe I'd catch her alone 
instead of while she had company." 

"What model car?" 

"Black. Big, like a ... a Lincoln. Not a limo or anything, but 
one of those long cars." 

"Did you get a license plate number?" 

"Oh please. I'm doing good to remember the color. Wait— 
it was a personalized plate. I remember seeing that but not 
paying much attention since I was thinking about other 
things. GR8 something." 

"Great?" 

"G-R-eight. Great ... I don't know. I only remember the 
first three letters. Some of those personalized messages on 
license plates are confusing." 

"That'll help." He'd taken out his pad and was writing 
again. "When Yogi gets here, tell him I'd like to talk to him 
before he leaves. Might as well get it over with now." 

"I'll tell him. He's not going to be happy." 

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by Virginia Brown 

Bobby nodded, eying the street now crowded with news 
vans and reporters. "Damn media. They get to a scene before 
the ME most of the time." 

Evening shadows slowly sucked away the afternoon 
sunshine. Strobe lights illuminated the yard. Cables and wires 
snaked across pavement, and cameras balanced on shoulders 
and tripods. A man in jogging shorts spoke into a microphone 
being held by a leggy blonde reporter in a stylish red suit. 
Bobby swore softly. 

"My witness. Shit. What's he doing talking to the media?" 

He stalked across the yard toward the unsuspecting 
reporter eagerly asking questions, and Harley stood 
indecisively. The jogger was a neighbor who lived several 
houses down from Yogi and Diva. There had never been any 
problems with George Reed that she knew about, and he was 
probably just repeating what he'd seen. Yogi could be in 
serious trouble. Why hadn't he stayed home? 

Diva came with Yogi, and they arrived in the big lime-
green Volkswagen van her father had named Vanna, parking 
down the street. It was probably best. The van was 
recognizable, as it had been decorated with Picasso-like body 
parts painted by her brother, some of the art in rather 
questionable taste. 

Scurrying toward her, Yogi's face was a mixture of relief 
and worry. "Where is he? Is he all right?" 

"I presume you mean King. He's fine. A little smelly and 
shabby for having only been gone two days, but other than 
that, he's his usual self." Harley put out a hand to stop Yogi. 
"Uh, did Bobby happen to mention Mrs. Trumble to you?" 

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by Virginia Brown 

"She's dead." Yogi nodded. "I know. But that doesn't have 
anything to do with King. Can I go get him now?" 

"I'm sure they'd be grateful, but I have to tell you that 
Bobby wants to talk to you before you leave. He just wants to 
ask a few questions." 

"Like what?" 

"Well, probably something along the line of, Do you have 
an alibi, and maybe even—why were you seen down here 
earlier today? Damn, Yogi, you promised." 

She'd meant to remain calm, but irritation and worry made 
her voice rise. Yogi darted a glance toward Diva, then said 
with injured dignity, "I didn't really lie to you, Harley. I 
promised not to go next door, not down here." 

"So if you knew she had King, why didn't you tell me?" 

"I didn't know she had King. I couldn't sit home not doing 
anything. I came down here to ask her. You seemed so sure 
she had him, and I thought I'd save us all some trouble if I 
could just ask her what she wanted from me. I didn't know 
she was dead. Not when I first got here." 

"Jesus. So you saw her lying dead on the floor and you 
didn't tell anyone?" 

"I didn't know what to do. She was already dead. When I 
didn't find King anywhere, I just took off. I still don't 
understand why he didn't bark or come when I called him." 

"He was drugged and locked in a closet." 

"Oh. That explains it. Look, I need to go get him now." 

Harley glanced at her mother, but Diva was watching Yogi 
walk toward the house, a tiny frown marring the smooth line 
of her brow. "Be careful," she murmured, and then turned to 

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by Virginia Brown 

Harley. A gentle smile replaced the frown. "Things often are 
not what they seem. But there are times they're exactly what 
they seem to be." 

Well, that was a strange thing to say. Harley frowned. 

"So, which applies here? You're not trying to tell me—" 

"Good heavens, no. Of course not. I'd never say anything 
like that. Rama and Ovid assure me that all will be well." 

"Rama and Ovid need to go back to their own world," 
Harley snapped, losing patience. "I don't think the police will 
buy that particular line of reasoning. If there's anything you 
need to tell me, I'll be glad to listen. Is there?" 

The faint tinkle of bells accompanied Diva's graceful sweep 
of one arm through the air. "I think you already know all 
that's necessary. Listen to the universe." 

"I feel like I'm listening to the Sphinx. Diva, please don't 
talk to me in riddles. This has been a terrible day for me. I'd 
planned on a few hours lying in the sun, doing a little laundry, 
nothing too stressful after last week. It hasn't worked out 
well. I'm afraid the police may think Yogi killed Mrs. Trumble. 
Doesn't that worry you at all?" 

"I trust in the universe." 

A dull throb moved from Harley's temples to spread behind 
her eyes. She rubbed at them with her fingertips and sighed. 
When she opened her eyes, she saw Bruno Jett. He stood 
across the street, wearing a black tee shirt and Levi's, leaning 
against a light pole and watching the scene with interest. 
What was he doing here? He didn't seem the type to be 
gawking with the rest of the neighbors. A man with a rap 

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by Virginia Brown 

sheet as long as his should avoid police, not come watch 
them at their work. 

Unless he was somehow involved. Was he? This might be 
her best opportunity to see what she could find out. After all, 
she wasn't trespassing and there were plenty of police 
around. Could it get any safer? 

"I'll be back in a minute," she said to her mother, 
reminding her that Bobby wanted to talk to them and not to 
leave yet. "Just wait here for me." 

Without waiting for a reply, she crossed the street, 
weaving a path through reporters and curious bystanders. 
One of the reporters stopped her, thrusting a microphone in 
her face to fire questions at her. 

"We saw you talking to the police, and wonder if you can 
tell us anything about this tragic death of your neighbor." 

"Uh, not really." Harley blinked in the blinding light of a 
strobe bobbing overhead. 

"We understand the victim was discovered by a neighbor. 
Do you know who found her?" 

Harley blinked again and shook her head. "The police 
aren't saying. Excuse me. I feel a little dizzy." 

It wasn't a complete lie. 

By the time she reached Jett, Mrs. Shipley had managed to 
corner him. Her skinny arms were waving as she talked 
animatedly, and fading sunshine and strobe lights glittered off 
the rhinestones studding her long yellow tee shirt. Sixty-
seven and widowed, she wore tight orange leggings, sandals, 
and too much makeup. This week her hair was a spectacular 

54



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by Virginia Brown 

orange, the brittle dry strands sticking up like flames. She 
looked like a lit match. 

"Hello, Harley Jean," Mrs. Shipley said when she stopped 
on the curb, "I was just telling Mr. Jett that nothing like this 
ever happens on our street. It's very quiet there, especially 
now that you've all grown up and left home. Oh my, when 
you and Bobby Baroni were kids, though, the things y'all did. 
I remember when—" 

"How's your gallbladder, Mrs. Shipley?" Harley interrupted, 
recognizing the trapped expression in Jett's eyes. "You know, 
Diva was telling me about a new treatment researchers have 
come up with recently. I'm sure she'd be glad to tell you 
about it so you can ask your doctor." 

"New treatment? Well, it's about time. The things I've 
suffered, just because my doctor refuses to keep updated. I 
certainly will talk to her." 

"Now would be a good time. She's standing right over 
there all by herself." 

As Mrs. Shipley hustled across the street toward Diva, 
Harley turned back to Bruno Jett. A faint smile pressed one 
corner of his mouth. 

"You obviously have no shame at all, Harley Jean." 

"Harley. Only old ladies who've known me since the sixth 
grade can call me Harley Jean. What are you doing here?" 

A shrug lifted his shoulders. "Saw the commotion when I 
was passing by and decided to stop and check it out. Any 
objections to that?" 

"I'd have thought you'd avoid this kind of situation. What 
with being a salesman, and all." 

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by Virginia Brown 

"Then you'd be wrong, wouldn't you." Shifting slightly, he 
studied her with a deliberately rude stare, his gaze traveling 
from her feet to her face, then dropping to her chest. "So 
what grade are you in now, Harley Jean?" 

Glaring at him, she crossed her arms over her chest. "Very 
funny. I was just wondering if you have a catalogue or 
brochure for the costume jewelry you sell." 

"No. I'm more a wholesale kind of business." 

"A pity. What company did you say you're with?" 

"I didn't. Look, just what is it you really want to know? 
You're about as subtle as a tank, and it could take all night for 
you to get to the point. I have things to do, places to go, 
people to see." 

He didn't seem at all nervous or worried, or even guilty, 
but stood staring down at her with a faintly superior 
expression that she found irritating. Her eyes narrowed. 

"Why do you think I want to know anything? You've 
obviously misunderstood. I'm just making small talk with a 
neighbor and being polite, that's all. You really do think a 
little too highly of yourself." 

"Yeah, I might, but I know a con when I hear one, and 
you, Harley Jean Davidson, are trying to run one on me. A 
word of warning—don't even try." 

She opened her mouth to deny it, but he grabbed her chin 
between his thumb and fingers and kissed her full on the 
mouth. Too shocked to do more than make a choked noise, it 
was over before her reflexes recovered, and he stepped back 
while she just stared at him. 

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by Virginia Brown 

"If I'd known it was this easy to shut you up, I'd have done 
that earlier. Later, Harley Jean." 

He'd already gone three steps by the time shock wore off 
enough for her to call after him, "I could have you arrested 
for assault, Bruno." 

If he heard her, he didn't acknowledge, but disappeared 
into the crowd lining the curb and jostling in the street, all 
trying to see what was going on in Mrs. Trumble's house. 
Fuzzy pink light flicked on as the street lamps hummed into 
service, and still she stood staring after Bruno Jett. He sure 
didn't act like some criminal needing to be discreet, but what 
did she really know about jewel thieves? Not much. 

Maybe she should rectify that. 

* * * * 

"You want me to what, baby?" 

Patiently, Harley repeated into her cell phone, "See if you 
can hack into some information about Bruno Jett. If anyone 
can do it, you can, Tootsie. You're a computer whiz." 

"Look, you're asking me to do something illegal. Not only 
that, but I'm not entirely sure you need to be stepping on this 
guy's toes. He sounds like he could be dangerous." 

Sitting in her car, Harley squinted out the windshield as 
Mrs. Trumble's body was wheeled out on a gurney and put 
into a coroner's van. Yeah, even fatal. But somehow, she 
didn't think whoever had killed the widow would show up to 
watch the police investigate. 

"Then we won't tell him I peeked, okay? Look, a killer 
could be living next door to my parents. I'd feel so much 

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by Virginia Brown 

better if I knew he's just a thief. Please? Just for my peace of 
mind." 

Tootsie sighed. She held the cell phone closer to her ear 
and crossed her fingers. Then he said, "All right. But nothing 
classified. Jail time is not my idea of fun time." 

"Good enough for me, Tootsie. You're a doll." 

"Yeah, well you owe me." 

"Anything. Within reason, of course." 

"Your black sequined gown?" 

"You'll look much better in it than I do, but okay. Want the 
matching slingbacks?" 

"I'll have the information for you first thing in the morning 
at the latest, baby." 

When she hung up, she sat in the car for a moment, 
unwilling to go back to the house and unable to move her car 
for all the news vans and police cars still parked in the street 
and driveway and yard. Maybe she'd ride with Yogi and Diva 
when they were through talking to Bobby, not that it was that 
far to walk. She just didn't think she had the strength. 

Once the doors had been closed on Mrs. Trumble, she got 
out of the car and went to find Bobby. It'd been over an hour, 
and by now, he had to know everything Yogi could tell him. 
She found the officer who'd questioned her earlier as he was 
loading stuff into his trunk. 

"Hey, Officer Delisi, do you know where I can find Bobby— 
uh, Lieutenant Baroni?" 

Closing the trunk lid, he said, "If he's still here, he's 
probably inside with the techs. It takes them a while to finish 
up." 

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by Virginia Brown 

At the back door, a uniformed officer barred her way. "No 
one allowed inside, lady." 

"I'm the one who found the body, and I need to speak with 
Detective Baroni." Her eyes narrowed when he gave her a 
disbelieving look and shook his head. "Look, officer, my 
parents are in there being questioned, and I need to speak 
with Lieutenant Baroni." 

"There's no one being questioned in here, and I suggest 
you go get your kicks somewhere else. Damn ghouls, always 
comin' around screwin' up a crime scene just trying to get a 
look...." 

By the time she found Bobby, he was standing by his car 
talking to some guy with a huge tool box, and she was pretty 
irritated. 

"Hey, who's questioning Yogi and Diva? I thought you 
promised you'd do it. You know how Yogi is, and he could end 
up saying the wrong thing and—" 

"What are you talking about, Harley?" he interrupted. "I 
haven't seen Yogi. He took off with the dog and said he'd be 
back, and that was well over an hour ago." 

She blinked. "He did?" Turning, she looked down the 
street, but there was no sign of the big lime-green van. She 
hadn't even noticed they'd left. "Well, I guess they're waiting 
for you at home, then. I'll go check on them. He was pretty 
stressed when he was here." 

"I'm headed there myself." 

"Good. Give me a ride. My car's blocked in and I don't 
really feel like walking." 

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by Virginia Brown 

Bobby shook out a cigarette and lit it, squinting at her over 
the curl of rising smoke. "If he doesn't cooperate, it's going to 
look pretty bad, Harley." 

"Don't borrow trouble. He didn't do it. She was dead 
when—I found her." 

Damn, what an idiot she was. She'd almost betrayed Yogi, 
and that wouldn't be good at all. It was up to Yogi to tell 
Bobby everything. 

Narrowing his eyes at her, Bobby studied her face so hard 
she was grateful for the fuzzy street lights. The bad thing 
about knowing someone so long and so well was that they 
could pick up on stuff you'd rather they didn't. It was a 
double-edged sword. 

"Right," he said, and she knew he suspected her of holding 
out on him. 

When they pulled up in front of the house on Douglass, 
light gleamed through the stained glass transom over the 
door and in one upstairs window. It looked quiet and serene, 
with only the faint tinkle of Diva's wind chimes on the front 
porch making any sound. As she fumbled for the car's door 
handle, Bobby said, "You're gonna have to tell me where they 
went." 

"Who?" 

His head jerked toward the house. "Yogi and Diva. They're 
gone." 

"No, they're here—aren't they?" 

But he was right. No lime-green van stood in the driveway 
in front of the garage, and no dog barked out the front door. 
King always barked at visitors. Or passing cars. The house 

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looked empty. The heavy night air still held a trace of the 
day's heat, but a cold chill seeped through her. Oh no. 

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King's Ransom 

by Virginia Brown 

Chapter Four 

"So where did they go?" Harley jostled her brother's arm 
again, impatiently and much more energetically, so that he 
rolled over on the couch, blinking sleepily at her. 

"Who? Go where?" 

"Yogi and Diva—have you slept through everything? 
Useless, that's what you are," she said when he nodded 
blearily. She looked over at Bobby. "What now?" 

"It doesn't look good when a key—witness—isn't available 
for questioning." 

"You were going to say suspect, weren't you." Her throat 
tightened with fear and worry. This was terrible. The police 
suspected Yogi of murder, she just knew it. 

"I didn't say that. I said witness." Bobby sounded irritable. 
He raked a hand through his hair and narrowed his eyes at 
her. "Where could they have gone? If you know, or even think 
you know, where they might be, it'd be better for them if you 
go ahead and tell me now. I'll do what I can to make things 
easier for them, Harley, you know that." 

Flopping down into an overstuffed chair with huge pink 
peonies rioting over the ivory slipcover, she blew out a heavy 
breath of frustration. Crystals and half-finished 
dreamcatchers made of wire, feathers, and yarn were 
scattered on the coffee table. Magazines were piled in a 
wicker basket, and her mother's hair ribbons with the tiny 
bells lay curled atop a Southern Living magazine from 1998. 
It was Diva's favorite issue, with plans for verandas 

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by Virginia Brown 

surrounded by flowers. It was abnormally quiet in the house, 
no New Age music coming from the CD player, no Elvis music, 
no Yogi grumbling about politics or the government, no goofy 
dog barking at passing cars, joggers, other dogs, or falling 
leaves. It was more than just quiet—it was depressing. 

She looked up at Bobby, who'd propped one leg on the 
arm of the couch and sat staring at her. "I have no idea 
where they'd go," she said truthfully. "They could be 
anywhere." 

"Did Yogi ever threaten Mrs. Trumble?" 

"Daily. But not like you mean. He said she was a mean, 
spiteful old lady and he shouldn't ever have trusted her, but 
he never said he wanted to kill her. He did say he wished her 
bad karma would hurry and catch up to her, but that's about 
it." Leaning forward, she put her head into her hands and 
closed her eyes against a stab of pain. "I need an aspirin. Or 
morphine." 

Bobby stood up. "Diva still keep the aspirin in that frog-
shaped bottle?" 

"Yes. Listen—Bruno Jett was down there. I saw him. I 
talked to him." 

"Forget Jett." Bobby disappeared into the kitchen, and 
when he came back, he had a glass of water and two aspirin. 
As she sat up, he added, "And don't go over there, either." 

"Why are you on Jett's side?" she asked after swallowing 
the aspirin. "He's not very nice. He's a smartass, too." 

"That's not against the law. If it was, you'd be serving hard 
time. Look, Harley, just stay away from Jett. I want your 
promise on that." 

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"He lives next door to my parents. How far away am I 
supposed to stay?" 

"You know what I mean, dammit. Don't go looking for 
trouble in dangerous places." 

She flopped back into the comfy chair cushions. "You've 
changed, Bobby. This is not an attractive side of your 
personality." 

"Get used to it. It's the side you're most likely to see if you 
trespass over there again." He frowned, and she recognized a 
certain wariness in his expression. Why? What was there that 
he didn't want her to know? 

"What's going on, Bobby? What is it about Jett—besides 
his surly personality and long rap sheet—that I should know?" 

"That's it. You already know all you should. He's not 
someone you need to go snooping around, Harley. Trust me 
on that." 

"Ah yes. The trust factor. I remember when my good 
friend Bobby trusted my parents, when he knew my father 
was not the kind of man capable of murder." 

"Jesus, Harley. I never said I thought Yogi did it, I just said 
I need to question him. A witness put him coming out of 
Trumble's house about the time of her death. He needs to 
give me a solid alibi or reason for being there, especially 
when he's got a restraining order out on him." 

"You know Mrs. Trumble took his dog. Maybe that's not a 
great reason for being there, but it's certainly a valid one." 

For a moment, Bobby didn't say anything. The mantel 
clock ticked loudly, and outside on the front porch, Diva's 
wind chimes made a musical sound. 

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by Virginia Brown 

"They took King with them," her brother said, and she and 
Bobby both turned to look at him. Sprawled on the couch, 
evidence of the reason for his total relaxation burned out in 
an ash tray on the floor, Eric blinked sleepily. "Yogi and Diva 
took King with them when they left." 

"Where did they go?" she and Bobby asked almost in 
unison. Harley got up and went to stand beside the couch. 
"Did they say where they were going, dude?" 

"Said they'd be back in a few days." He waved a languid 
hand. "Told me to be sure I go to all my classes." 

"So you saw them leave?" Bobby asked. "Did they take 
anything unusual with them?" 

Harley glared at him. "You mean like a gun? Cripes, 
Bobby, give it a rest." 

"I was asleep," Eric said, and gestured toward the dining 
room table. "They left us a note." 

Bobby got to it before she did, but she read over his 
shoulder, recognizing Diva's firm, looping scrawl: "Gone for a 
few days, we'll be fine. Eric, stay with Harley while we're 
gone, and don't miss any of your classes." She'd signed it 
with love and a postscript that they'd taken King with them. 

"Just great," Harley muttered. She ran a hand through her 
hair, letting the short strands slide through her fingers as she 
studied the note. Baby-sitting a twenty-two year old held little 
appeal for her. 

"No offense, chick," Eric said, "but I don't want to stay 
with you. You won't let me smoke in your apartment." 

Turning, she nodded. "Not even a Marlboro. I wonder why 
they don't want you to stay here." Then a glance at the 

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overflowing ash tray and empty Coke cans on the floor 
answered that question. She shuddered. "So, where do you 
want to stay?" 

"I can go to Snake's place. He lives just off-campus. I need 
a few bucks, though. I'm broke." 

It was worth a twenty not to have to clean up after him, 
she figured, and Harley gave him her stash money without a 
qualm. Bobby was on his cell phone, talking in his cop voice 
where she couldn't quite hear what he was saying, and she 
slung a leg over the padded arm of the couch to lean close to 
her brother. 

"Hey, where do you think they went?" 

Stuffing the money into the pocket of his baggy, low-riding 
black pants, he shrugged. "I dunno. Pickwick, maybe. They 
like it up there." 

Pickwick dam and lake up on the Tennessee River was a 
favorite camping spot for a lot of Memphis residents. This 
time of year, it'd be crowded on the weekends. It was entirely 
possible they'd gone up there to meet friends, but in the 
middle of the week, unlikely. Still, would they go alone if they 
felt threatened here? Yeah, that seemed more likely. 

"Don't say anything about that," she murmured when 
Bobby clicked off his cell phone and turned around, and her 
brother nodded agreement. 

Bobby looked at the two of them huddled on the couch, 
and his eyes narrowed. "What are you up to, Harley? And 
don't try to deny it. Maybe you should go to the precinct 
tonight to make your official statement. Take your 
toothbrush." 

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by Virginia Brown 

"Bobby, this cop routine is getting old fast," she said. "You 
might try remembering that you were my friend before you 
were a cop." 

"You might try remembering that Mrs. Trumble was 
murdered. If Yogi didn't do it, hasn't it occurred to you that 
he might be an eyewitness? And if he is, whoever pulled the 
trigger will want to find him, too, but not for the same 
reason." 

It had occurred to her. And it was a terrifying thought, but 
so was Yogi being arrested for murder. She felt trapped 
between two terrible possibilities, and didn't know which was 
worse. It was possible Yogi hadn't really seen anything or 
anyone, just been at the wrong place at the right time. That 
was the best worst case scenario. The police would find the 
real killer and all this would blow over. She didn't even want 
to think about the two worst case scenarios. Not now. She 
just wanted a little time to think about her options first. 

"If I see Yogi or hear from him, I'll tell him you want to 
talk to him," she said finally, and Bobby blew out an 
exasperated breath. 

"Fine. Play it that way. Don't come whining to me when it 
blows up on you. And don't be asking me for any favors any 
time soon, either." 

"Gee, Bobby, are you sure? I have this parking ticket I 
need fixed—" 

He cut her off with a very rude comment that would have 
been an insult from anyone else. She smiled and batted her 
eyelashes at him. 

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by Virginia Brown 

"We've already discussed that, and you need to talk to 
your girlfriend about that kind of service." 

Stalking to the door, Bobby turned to look back at her. 
"This isn't a game. We're not kids anymore. This is grown-up 
stuff, Harley. A wrong choice can have serious consequences. 
Think about that." 

He was right, and she knew it. Indecision clutched at her, 
and she couldn't think of a thing to say in return. The screen 
door banged shut behind Bobby, echoing in the still house. 
After a moment, her brother stood up and stretched. 

"Can you give me a ride over to Snake's place?" 

She turned. "Where's your car?" 

"In the shop again. It always seems to be breaking down." 

"I think you're supposed to do more than just put gas in it. 
Try using oil, water, things like that." 

"Yeah. The brakes went out. One of the rotors." Yawning, 
he moved slowly toward the kitchen. "Want something to 
eat?" 

"Aren't you worried the least bit? God, Yogi's practically 
accused of murder, or he has some murderer after him, he 
and Diva have taken off for God only knows where, and all 
you can think about is something to eat?" 

Turning in the doorway, he blinked in mild surprise. "If I 
don't eat, will all that go away?" 

"Never mind." She didn't have an argument for his line of 
logic, not that it mattered. "My car is over by Mrs. Trumble's 
house. Get your stuff together, and we'll go get it. You can 
borrow it for a day or two, but you have to put gas in it and 
not gun it or ride the clutch, or—" 

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by Virginia Brown 

"I hear ya, chick." His muffled voice came from the 
kitchen, sounding like his head was stuck inside the open 
refrigerator. "What are you gonna use for transport?" 

"My bike. No smoking in my car, either. I put potpourri in 
the ash tray." 

"Chiiick," he said, dragging it out to show his disapproval. 

"I mean it. Last time I let you borrow it, you set the ash 
tray on fire. Be ready to go in ten minutes or I leave you 
here." 

Without waiting for a reply, she went out the front door 
and across the porch. It was quiet and peaceful here, when 
only a few streets over Mrs. Trumble's house was churning 
with police activity and curiosity seekers. Mrs. Shipley's lights 
were on across the street; she was probably at her window 
with binoculars. It'd be just like her. She had to know 
everything that went on, and then had to tell it. If she lived 
near Mrs. Trumble, she'd have been able to tell the police 
everyone that had visited within the past month. Just as well 
she didn't. Yogi would be arrested by now. 

A single car garage sat to the side and behind the house. 
At the rear was Yogi's workshop, and since the van was too 
tall to fit inside the 1930's era garage, it had become a 
repository for all kind of odds and ends. Fitting a key into the 
lock hung on the old-fashioned double garage doors, she 
flung one open to slip inside. It was dark, and she fumbled for 
the light switch and clicked on a single bulb overhead. 
Stacked chairs, ladders, cans of paint that were probably 
older than she was, metal cabinets, PVC pipe, and various 
and sundry other of Yogi's collections cluttered the concrete 

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by Virginia Brown 

floor, but in the center, draped in a soft cover, stood her pride 
and joy. It represented years of working at a high-stress job 
before she finally ended up at Memphis Tour Tyme, but she 
didn't regret one single day of headaches and grinding teeth 
she'd suffered to make payments. She pulled off the cover. 

A tricked-out Harley-Davidson Softail Deuce with 
over/under dual exhaust, paid for, by God, and all hers now 
after two years of payments that would stagger Donald 
Trump. Gleaming chrome and gold and black in the dim light, 
the machine waited in shiny splendor. 

She took the helmet off the back, strapped it on her head, 
and straddled the bike, firing it up with a flick of her thumb. 
She coasted out of the garage, Twin 88 cam clicking so 
perfectly it was only a humming throb. 

When she looked up, Bruno Jett stood directly in front of 
her. Her stomach dropped, and the breath locked in her 
lungs. The motion light gleamed brightly on his dark hair, 
illuminating his face and bemused expression. 

"A hog?" he finally said. "This yours?" 

She flipped up the visor of her helmet. "Why not? Think I 
can't ride it? And it's not a hog. It's a Softail Deuce. About 
three hundred pounds lighter than a hog." 

"A biker chick. That explains your name." 

"My parents were into motorcycles when I was born. With 
the last name of Davidson, it was a given. May I help you 
with something? Why are you over here?" 

"I'm not pretending I lost a dog, I just got distracted by 
the bike." 

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by Virginia Brown 

His car was still in the driveway, a silver Jag that looked 
far too expensive and new for a man living in this 
neighborhood. Just one more detail to add to the growing list 
of Reasons To Suspect Bruno Jett of Nefarious Activities. 

"Yeah, well," she said, narrowing her eyes at him, "I'm 
thrilled you like it. Now, if you'll just get out of my way and 
go on home, I've got things to do, places to go, people to 
see." That was a replay of his smart-ass comment when 
they'd been in front of Mrs. Trumble's house earlier, and she 
was gratified to see he recognized it. 

The corners of his mouth tucked in slightly. If he smiled, 
his face would probably crack. That thin scar on his jaw might 
just be the beginning. "What an excellent memory you have," 
he said. 

"Long memory, short fuse. Excuse me? I believe you're 
still blocking my way." She gave the bike a little gas, gunning 
the engine enough to indicate her willingness to run him over, 
but not enough to actually do it. He made her nervous. Very 
nervous. Criminals should be ugly, not look like Bruno Jett. It 
was that lean, muscled look that got to her every time. And 
the eyes. An old song said the devil had blue eyes. She 
believed it. How else could women be seduced into sin so 
easily? Every disastrous man in her life had had blue eyes. 

"Chick," her brother said at her side, and she remembered 
that she was taking him to get her car. 

"Hop on back," she said without taking her eyes from Jett, 
who seemed to know he had an effect on her libido because 
he leered so wickedly it left her breathless. And slightly 
queasy. 

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by Virginia Brown 

"Running away so soon?" 

Ignoring him, she waited until Eric was securely behind 
her, then eased out the clutch on the bike and rolled forward. 
Jett stepped out of the path, a little more quickly than she 
was sure he had intended, and she felt him watching as she 
gave the bike a spurt of gas and zoomed from the driveway 
into the street. Eric grabbed at the seat strap to hold on, 
leaning back. 

There were still a few cars clustered on the street in front 
of Mrs. Trumble's house, but the van with her body was gone. 
Yellow tape swagged between several trees; police milled 
about, mostly inside, though earlier, they'd prowled the yard 
for clues. It was nerve-wracking. 

What if Yogi had left something behind? Something that 
might be misconstrued as evidence against him? Whatever 
her father was, he was no killer, she knew that much. He 
couldn't be. Oh yeah, he might bluster and threaten, but he 
was just too softhearted to actually act upon his threats. 

Stopping her bike behind the Toyota, she put her feet 
down for balance. Her brother eased off the bike, and she 
took her car keys off the key ring and handed them to him. 

"No speeding, no riding the clutch—" 

"Chick," he said, and rolled his eyes. "Call me as soon as 
you hear from Yogi." 

Ah. A sign he cared. Some of her irritation with her brother 
eased. 

"Sure. You've got my cell number. Keep in touch." 

"I thought your cell phone was broken again." 

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by Virginia Brown 

"Replaced it. No thanks to that snotty clerk spouting off 
about a limit on replacements." 

Lugging a small backpack that probably held more weed 
than clean underwear, he loped the short distance to her car, 
and she headed back to the house. She'd left her backpack 
with all the necessary things like her driver's license in the 
living room. When she pulled up in the drive, she noticed that 
Jett's silver Jag was gone and his garage door down. Light 
gleamed in his kitchen window that looked out over the 
driveway and her parents' house. 

What was up with that guy? She hated to think he was a 
criminal, but his rap sheet sure did say otherwise. And that 
pile of jewelry on his coffee table spoke volumes. It'd be too 
big a coincidence that a jewel thief had turned to a 
respectable career as a costume jewelry salesman. Oh yeah. 
But even if he was part of the ring of thieves now plaguing 
East Memphis, that didn't mean he had anything to do with 
Mrs. Trumble's death. Old assault charges still weren't 
murder. As far as she knew, Jett had never even met Mrs. 
Trumble. Still.... 

There was something about him, something that didn't fit. 
While she didn't really believe in psychic ability like Diva did, 
instincts went a long way in her book. And instincts warned 
her that Bruno Jett was up to something. 

Cutting off the bike, Harley sat staring at Jett's house for a 
long moment. There was no sign of activity, no indication he 
was home other than the kitchen light. Since moving in he'd 
had plenty of visitors show up, cars parked in the drive or in 
front of the house. Was he at home? 

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by Virginia Brown 

If he was gone, maybe she could do a little snooping 
around, just to see if he had anything of interest to the police. 
Bobby didn't seem inclined to worry about Jett, but there 
were times he leaned toward the belief that Harley had too 
active an imagination. While that might be true, this time was 
different. It didn't make any sense, but she felt Diva was 
right, that Jett was involved in all this somehow. There was 
no plausible reason for her suspicion of him other than the 
jewelry he hadn't satisfactorily explained ... and the feeling 
she had that Bobby was holding something back. Maybe Jett 
did have a murder conviction on his record, and Bobby didn't 
want her to know. He had this macho thing about "I know 
what's best for you" going on most of the time, so that was 
probably his reasoning now. It was very irritating. 

A cool breeze that smelled of freshly cut grass and jasmine 
tickled her nose and the back of her neck. Diva's wildflower 
garden rustled softly, her wind chimes tinkled a melody, and 
in the distance, a dog barked. That made her think of King. 
And her father. 

Yogi could always tell King's bark from other dogs, but she 
had no idea how he knew. It had to be because he doted on 
the furry beast. Where could they be? And did their abrupt 
decision to disappear have anything to do with Bruno Jett? It 
was possible. Maybe not probable, but possible. Maybe Yogi 
had seen Jett come out of Mrs. Trumble's house. After all, Jett 
had shown up to watch the cops, and he had a lengthy rap 
sheet, so it wasn't too far a stretch that he was involved 
somehow. 

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by Virginia Brown 

It'd be too big a coincidence if Jett had disappeared at the 
same time as Yogi and Diva—wouldn't it? She remembered 
Bobby's warning that he was dangerous and to stay away. 
Right. 

It took her another minute or two to work up the nerve to 
risk trespassing again. Since he wasn't there, however, it 
didn't seem quite as daunting. She crossed the pavement and 
strips of grass newly clipped to the usual suburban height in 
his yard, a marked contrast to the Davidson lawn's eclectic 
look. A peek in the garage window assured her his car was 
gone. Good. 

Standing once more on the porch, she knocked sharply 
and waited. There was no answer, no sound of footsteps. She 
gave it a few more moments, and then moved around to the 
back door. 

An aluminum awning curved over the back porch, and the 
storm door was unlocked. She mulled over using the metal 
pick she always carried for those times she locked her keys in 
the car, but decided against it. Breaking and entering was not 
something she wanted to show up on her résumé. But how 
else would she find out anything about Jett if she didn't 
investigate? Bobby was no help. What if Jett had her parents? 
Or was responsible for their flight? What if he came back? 
Should she go in? 

Do. Don't. Which one? Her agony of indecision was brief. 

In a short moment, she had her metal pick in the lock and 
the door clicked softly open. She stepped inside, consoling 
herself with the firm reminder that she was trying to save 
Yogi from being arrested for something he didn't do, or even 

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from Bruno Jett. And after all she didn't intend to steal 
anything, even if she was trespassing. 

Somehow, she just knew Bobby Baroni would never accept 
the logic in that. Nor, she thought as she stood for a moment 
in the dimly-lit kitchen, would Bruno Jett if he came home 
and caught her prowling around in his house. Feeling more 
like a sneak thief by the moment, and convinced she'd never 
have been able to turn to a life of crime, she moved quickly 
through the gleaming kitchen toward the living room. It was 
doubtful the jewels would still be atop the coffee table, but he 
might have them hidden in a drawer or something. 

Soft silence enveloped her in the living room. It was 
furnished with masculine preferences in mind, as she'd 
expected: large screen TV against one wall, black leather 
couch and recliner, a generous coffee table with a few 
magazines, and a thick blue rug atop buffed wood floors. A 
little tidier than she'd expected. Okay, a lot tidier than she'd 
expected. Most men of her experience were slobs. Jett had 
seemed no different. Yet his house felt almost as if he didn't 
even live in it. She peered at the magazines. He subscribed to 
Field and Stream? He didn't seem the type. 

A quick search of the two bedrooms reinforced that 
impression. Absence of clutter gave it a stark, Spartan look of 
emptiness. Nothing atop his dresser, bed neatly made, only a 
few clothes hanging in the closet, three pairs of shoes on the 
floor. The second bedroom held a set of weights and a 
bookshelf empty of books. That explained the tight abs and 
choice of profession. The single bathroom was bright and 
efficient, with blue tile on floors and tub and sink, and a built


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in towel closet behind the door. A bare window held frosted 
glass panes and a small rectangular disk. She stepped closer, 
and saw to her dismay that the disk was a burglar alarm 
sensor. 

Oh just great. But why hadn't it gone off when she opened 
the back door? Usually, sirens wailed and foghorn blasts 
sounded to scare away intruders, but it was silent as a tomb. 
He hadn't even turned it on, most likely, but an uneasy 
feeling made her antsy anyway. 

There was no sign of a wall safe, and she checked 
hurriedly in drawers and atop closet shelves before moving to 
the kitchen again. Another quick check through cabinets and 
even in the freezer came up empty of jewels. She headed for 
the back door, and then saw a door leading to the basement. 
Not all houses in the area had basements, but now she 
recalled this one did. She hesitated. It made her really 
nervous to be here, but as long as she was, she might as well 
check everywhere before leaving. 

"No stone unturned," she muttered, and pulled open the 
basement door. 

A light switch on the right illuminated the basement with a 
bank of fluorescent tubes that gave off a bluish glow. The 
staircase was open beneath, wood risers descending to a 
painted concrete floor. On the opposite wall, a pair of narrow 
windows were ground level with the lawn, and flanking the 
other wall were a washer, dryer, and laundry tub. No packing 
boxes, nothing in storage, just that feeling of eerie vacancy. 
She hesitated on the third step down. 

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Opposite the stairs, a small gray box was set into the 
cinder block wall. Most likely it was a fuse box, but then again 
... she'd just check it out, then she was done. It was too 
creepy in here to linger long. The wood steps creaked 
beneath her weight, and she leaped over the last two to land 
on the basement floor. 

The fuse box stuck out from the wall a few inches instead 
of being recessed. That was odd enough, but there was 
something about it—she pried at the panel behind the glass 
top fuses, just on a whim. Her heart thudded into overdrive 
as it popped open to reveal a small safe behind fake fuses. 
Pay dirt. Futile, of course, to even try, but she did anyway, 
turning the small dial that clicked without success. Not that it 
mattered. This must be where Jett kept his jewels stashed. 
Oh boy, she could almost smell the Crime Stoppers cash. 

Before she had too long to savor her discovery, the 
unmistakable sound of a car door slamming shut jerked her 
back to the danger of her predicament. Uh oh. If that was 
Jett, she was in big trouble. 

She raced back up the stairs, taking them two at a time, 
and shoved hard at the door at the same time she twisted the 
knob. It didn't budge. The force of her assault on it sent her 
bouncing back so that she teetered precariously on the edge 
of the step for a moment before she caught her balance. One 
of those self-locking doors ... God, how could she be so 
careless? 

All right, no need to panic. She still had her trusty metal 
pick. Nervously picking at the lock, she fumbled, and the pick 
went over the edge of the stairs to land on the concrete 

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by Virginia Brown 

basement floor with a brittle ping. No time to get it and try 
again. The footsteps sounded close—too close. Okay. Now it 
was time to panic. 

A horrified glance at the basement window told her she'd 
never wedge herself through it, and even if she could, there 
probably wasn't enough time. She leaped over the side of the 
stairs to the floor, and then scooted up against the cold cinder 
block wall beneath the wooden steps, trying to blend into the 
concrete as she heard the unmistakable sound of someone in 
the kitchen above. 

She flattened herself against the wall. It seemed an 
eternity, but the footsteps stopped at the basement door and 
she took a deep breath. The basement door opened. Looking 
up, she saw Jett through the cracks in the wooden stairs. 

For a moment he just stood on the top step, the door 
propped open with his foot, then he let it close softly behind 
him but remained still and silent. He knew someone was here. 
The lights ... she'd left the lights on. She barely breathed, just 
shallow breaths to keep from passing out, afraid he'd hear 
her. Bruno Magli shoes descended to the second riser. She 
briefly closed her eyes, thoughts of OJ and his infamous 
shoes reverberating ominously in her brain. Surely, it was 
coincidence. 

What if it wasn't? Were the shoes preferred wear for 
killers? Some kind of uniform? No, of course not. That was 
ridiculous. 

The shoes descended another step, then another, and she 
held her breath until her ears rang and her lungs ached. If he 
crossed the room, she might be able to spin around and get 

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up the stairs before he caught her. If she was fast enough, 
quiet enough, lucky enough.... 

The shoes stopped on the second from the bottom stair. 
She saw denim though the gaps, dark socks, long legs—she 
looked up and her gaze locked with dark blue eyes peering at 
her through the risers. Oh damn. 

He smiled, but it wasn't a very nice smile. "Well," he said, 
taking the last stairs leisurely, giving her too much time to 
contemplate his next words and actions, "I seem to have an 
uninvited visitor." 

"I ... uh, was just looking for you." 

"And now you've found me." He reached the floor and 
turned to look at her where she'd edged out from beneath the 
stairs to feel for an escape route in the concrete block walls. 

"Why yes," she said, aware she spoke too brightly, "here 
you are. Now that you're home, I'll just be going." 

"No, I don't think so." He moved a few steps closer; near 
enough she could see the cold, dangerous gleam in his eyes. 
Uh oh. 

"Oh, I don't mind," she said, "really. I think I hear my 
mother calling me." 

"They're not home." 

She stared at him suspiciously. "And how do you know 
that?" 

"Because that obscene, puke green van is gone from the 
driveway." 

"Oh." That sounded logical. After all, it had been Bobby's 
first clue. So maybe he hadn't done anything to them or was 
responsible for them leaving. Maybe. 

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"Just what the hell are you doing here?" 

"I was looking ... for ... for King. The dog. Diva thought 
she saw him come in here. He got loose again." 

"King needs a keeper. Or a heavy chain tying him down. 
Kinda like you." 

"That isn't very nice." 

"I'm not a big fan of nice." He loomed over her. "I don't 
like you being here, and I don't like my privacy violated. 
Usually, I tend to get nasty about things like this." 

Uh oh. Not at all a promising conversation. He'd moved so 
close she could almost count his eyelashes. He didn't look 
friendly. At all. She shrank back against the wall with the 
futile hope she'd just be absorbed and disappear through the 
concrete. Since that didn't seem to be an option, she formed 
another plan. 

When he took one more step closer, she exploded into 
some kind of pseudo-judo move, a foot flashing toward his 
crotch. He caught her ankle before she could connect, fingers 
closing firmly and jerking her leg sideways so that she fell 
backward. Suspended in midair, her arms pinwheeled. His 
grip kept her from smacking her head onto the concrete floor, 
but she felt herself flopping wildly like a fish on a hook before 
he suddenly let her go. With a grunt, she landed on the 
concrete in a graceless sprawl. 

Immediately, he straddled her, knees on each side of her, 
his hands grabbing her wrists and pinning her to the floor. 
She wriggled, hips arching helplessly up, banging into him in 
a move that could be considered erotic if she didn't intend to 
knock his balls into his throat. He rode her like a bull at the 

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rodeo until she ran out of energy, panting for breath and 
glaring up at him. 

"Get ... off ... me," she said slowly and distinctly, but he 
didn't seem so inclined. It didn't help that her voice came out 
all wrong, kinda breathless and uncertain instead of a firm 
demand. 

Sitting back, he looked down at her with obvious 
satisfaction, irritatingly smug. She ignored him, looking past 
him to a spot on the far wall, studying a shelf that held 
detergent and fabric softener, thinking how satisfying it'd be 
to coat him in April Fresh scent then roll him in Color-Fast 
Powder with Bleach Crystals. 

"If I let you up," he said, drawing her attention back to 
him though the fantasy still danced provocatively in her head, 
"will you be still and listen to me?" 

Only a fool would refuse. She promptly nodded, though 
she had no intention of complying with anything that involved 
active participation on her part. 

"Good. Here's what you're going to do. You're going to 
leave once I let you up, and if you ever so much as even look 
this way again, you and I are going to talk locked barrel and 
the sound it makes going into the river. Understand?" 

Well, how anticlimactic. She'd expected questions, not a 
firmly stated demand that she vacate the premises. It was 
deflating, but acceptable. 

"No problem, Bud." 

"Bruno." He looked a little skeptical, but released her 
wrists and stood up, holding out his hand as if to help her up. 

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She looked up at him suspiciously. It was going to be this 
easy? Oh no, she wasn't going to fall for that. He had 
something else in mind, she was sure, so she just waited for 
his next move. 

"Lie there too long, sugar," he drawled at the speed of 
molasses, "and I'll get to thinking you want me to join you. 
No problem, if that's what you want." 

When he started to bend over her, instinct set in and she 
caught him right between the legs with a hard jab of her foot 
that brought him down like a sack of wet cement. Collapsing, 
he clutched his crotch and made interesting retching sounds. 
If he hadn't threatened her, she'd feel pretty bad. Well, 
maybe she did feel a little bad about it anyway, but no time 
to show weakness. 

She rolled to her feet and said through gritted teeth, 
"That's what you get for threatening to put me in a barrel." 

He only groaned, rolling on the floor and holding himself. 
So maybe she'd overreacted. A twinge of guilt struck her, but 
self-preservation was stronger. She headed for the basement 
door before Jett could come around enough to stop her, 
skimming the stairs like a scared cat, and shoving at the 
door. Her momentum nearly knocked her back down the 
stairs when the door stayed resolutely shut. Again. Dammit. 
Catching her balance, she turned to look back at Jett still 
curled on the basement floor and making those retching 
sounds. 

After a few moments, he looked up. His eyes focused, and 
when he found her at the top of the stairs, he glared at her 

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and held up his hand and a key dangled from his finger. "Is 
this what you need?" 

Uh oh. 

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Chapter Five 

This was trouble. Big trouble. Apprehension made her 
knees quiver and her mouth dry, but from somewhere she 
dredged up bravado that bordered on hysteria. 

"So, Bruno," she said with an insincere smile that felt 
wobbly, "here we are. Hope I didn't hurt you too badly." 

"I may never be able to father children, but I'll be just 
fine." He sat up slowly, a look on his face that didn't bode well 
for pleasant conversation. 

"Children are overrated," she said perkily. "Just as well you 
won't add to the population." 

His dark glance in her direction made her stomach flip. 
"Yeah, the population is out of control," he said flatly, "so 
maybe one less person would be doing the world a favor." 

Not a promising response. Would anyone hear her if she 
screamed? Surely, Mrs. Shipley would hear her; she heard 
everything. Unless she'd taken her nightly medication of 
Benadryl and a couple of shots of vodka. What time was it, 
anyway? 

Harley edged closer to the door when he heaved himself 
up, looking grumpy and pretty uncomfortable. He slowly 
managed the steps, his gaze riveted on her the closer he got, 
and she gauged the distance to the basement floor and 
wondered if she could jump from the top of the stairs and 
land without twisting her ankle. Or breaking her neck. 

"If you move over," he growled, "I can unlock the door." 

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"Oh. Yes." She hesitated, eyes darting between him and 
the floor, and he put out a hand to block her leap. She 
flattened herself back against the door, breathing in shallow 
little gasps as she balanced on the edge of the steps. Don't 
panic, don't panic.... 

"Not that far over," he said. "I don't feel like holding the 
door while you limp back up the stairs. Just an inch or two 
will do." 

She edged aside and he stuck the key into the lock and 
turned it, swinging open the door with her clinging to it like a 
baby spider monkey. 

Immediately she made a dash for freedom, but he caught 
her by the back of her tee shirt and suspended flight to growl 
a final warning. "Go home and don't come back, Miss 
Davidson. Next time, I can't guarantee you'll get out in such 
good shape." 

She looked him up and down, and offered the opinion, "I 
don't seem to be the one who's limping like a three-legged 
goat," then escaped before he could respond. She heard the 
back door bang against the wall, muffling his scathing reply. 
It was just as well. 

* * * * 

She decided to go home rather than look for Yogi and 
Diva. It was after nine, and she was tired. The day had been 
too much. She wasn't used to losing and finding a dog in one 
day, dealing with a murder and maybe even a murderer, as 
well as the mysterious and suspicious disappearance of her 

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parents, all in a ten hour span. It was exhausting. She 
needed a hot meal and a cold drink. 

On the way home, down Poplar Avenue past the Brooks Art 
Museum and the entrance to the zoo, she pondered Mrs. 
Trumble's motives for dognapping. Granted, she could be a 
vicious old biddy, but why would she go to such extreme 
measures just to get back at Diva and Yogi? After all, they'd 
paid to have her car repaired, and while it might not have 
been in the same pristine shape as it was when it rolled off 
the assembly line in 1959, it had looked nearly as good. As 
good as a car that old could look. 

But Trumble seemed to have gone to a lot of trouble to 
cause Yogi and Diva grief. It just seemed like a bit much to 
get revenge for King's depredations. Maybe Mrs. Trumble 
hadn't felt the same. All her days probably ran together. It'd 
no doubt been a grand diversion for her, if not for Yogi. Still, 
abducting the dog had been a bit of a stretch, even for Mrs. 
Trumble. 

She rolled into the parking area behind her apartment 
building and slid into an empty spot under an oak. Peering up 
at the tree, she wondered if oaks had sap. She didn't think 
so. Not the drippy kind, anyway. The garage slots were full, 
the Sprague's neat little red BMW gleaming in their space, 
and on either side of it, Mr. Diaz's blue Honda CRX, and a 
dark green Pontiac sedan that belonged to the reclusive Sarah 
Simon, the human groundhog. If there was a Simon sighting, 
six more weeks of winter were sure to follow. 

The huge red brick house was flanked by massive oaks and 
a magnolia tree that had to have been a sapling during the 

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Byzantine era. Creamy white blossoms that smelled lemony 
and sweet were just beginning to open, spicing the soft night 
air. 

Divided into apartments, the gracious house had a stately 
air of dignity that appealed to her, and when she'd seen the 
ad offering to lease to suitably qualified tenants, she'd known 
it was perfect. Only five tenants occupied the house, none 
with children, pets, or substance abuse problems. That were 
obvious, anyway. It was quiet and serene and answered her 
need for peace and an orderly existence that Diva said was 
sterile and depressing. 

Her apartment was on the second floor, with a small 
terrace that overlooked Overton Park Zoo. At night she laid in 
bed, listening to lions roar and pretending she was in the 
African delta. At first she'd thought they must be feeding the 
lions live meals, for the most piercing cries could be heard. 
When her landlord, Mr. Lancaster, had told her it was only the 
peacocks strutting their stuff, she'd felt much better. A vivid 
imagination could be so disruptive at times. 

High ceilings and glossy wood floors gave her apartment a 
spacious feel. French doors opened onto a terrace that could 
also be reached by the hallway doors. White concrete planters 
divided her side of the terrace from her neighbor's, and 
verbena and ivy spilled over the sides. On her side of the 
terrace she'd put a comfortable chair and a small table just 
large enough to hold a cute little metal frog and a glass of 
wine or iced tea. 

The silence and serenity did a lot toward relaxing her. No 
incense cloyed the air, no crystal beads and dreamcatchers 

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dangled from ceilings or in front of windows. The only 
coverings on her windows were white, sheer draperies that let 
in welcome breezes when it was cool enough to leave the 
doors and windows open. When it wasn't, she had a 220 air 
conditioner that simulated the Arctic tundra in January. Feast 
or famine. So far, it hadn't been hot enough to use it. When it 
did get hot—as it certainly would, for after all, this was 
Memphis, Home of Heat and Humidity as well as the Blues 
and Barbecue—she'd get out her flannel nighties and thick 
socks and crawl under a blanket to sleep comfortably. The 
grim alternative was boiling in her own sweat. 

But for now, the ceiling fans and tabletop fans kept it 
pretty comfortable. She flipped on an oscillating fan to 
circulate cool air in the living area, and then crossed to the 
kitchen to see if there was anything appealing for supper. 

She put pasta on to boil and made pesto sauce, then 
slathered a slice of French bread with lots of butter. While 
waiting for the pasta, she poured a small glass of Chablis. A 
light meal might just make up for the Burrito Supreme she'd 
had for lunch. Working close to Taco Bell could be deadly to a 
diet plan. 

After finishing off the pasta and pesto, she took the glass 
of wine out to the terrace, flopped into a wicker chair and 
propped her feet up on the wide balustrade. A nice breeze 
blew and the mosquitoes weren't a problem yet. Street lights 
gleamed like a string of pinkish diamonds down Poplar 
Avenue, visible through the tree leaves in the park. 

She thought of the jewelry on Bruno Jett's coffee table. 
There wasn't really a plausible reason for it to be there unless 

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it was stolen goods. What other reason made sense? He had 
to be involved in some kind of jewelry theft, especially with 
his rap sheet. So why did she keep thinking differently? It 
was possible he was a jewelry salesman, but not probable. 
That was just a cover. Just something he'd let her think to 
keep her from asking more questions. There were only a few 
reasons for a man to do that, and she didn't think the reason 
he'd given her was the right one. 

And then there was Yogi and Diva's unexpected 
disappearance. If they were innocent, why'd they run? And if 
they weren't innocent—but that was unlikely. They may be a 
lot of things, but they weren't murderers. Either of them. Yogi 
had made a career out of avoiding violence except for the 
occasional dispute with authority figures over environmental 
issues or animal rights or human rights—and once, a zoning 
ordinance gone badly. But that was mostly it. It was really 
odd they'd take off like they had without a good reason, but 
she couldn't think of one. Not a logical one, anyway. 

She poured a second glass of wine. Music seeped from 
next door, violins and piano. It must be another romantic 
night for the Spragues, a newly married couple that were so 
cute she wanted to puke. Their balcony joined hers, and she 
heard them far more than she wanted through open doors— 
throaty moans that made her want to take a cold shower. In 
between bouts of hot sex—or during—they listened to a lot of 
New Age stuff, with panpipes and dulcimers and bells. That 
usually reminded her of her parents, and often left her feeling 
caught between affection and irritation. There were times she 
enjoyed the reminders, and times she wished they'd play rap 

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or heavy metal instead, anything but New Age. It wasn't very 
reassuring that she was still so conflicted about her parents, 
but her love and concern for them was never in doubt. Her 
telephone rang and she grabbed the cordless, hoping it was 
Yogi and Diva. Tootsie said, "Hi baby," then launched into a 
recitation of information he'd ferreted out about Bruno Jett. 
Grabbing for a pen, she scribbled what she could, stopping 
short when he finished with, "and is currently in Federal 
custody in Virginia." 

"What? Are you sure?" 

"Baby, this is the only Bruno Jett I found that fits your 
specs." 

"Damn. There's got to be a mistake. I mean, I saw 
magazines at his house with his name on them. Could you 
check to see if there are two men by that name? Or if Jett 
made a deal with the Feds?" 

"You'll owe me some sexy lingerie next," Tootsie said, but 
didn't sound too put out. He'd do it if he could. He was really 
efficient that way. Harley had told him more than once he'd 
missed his calling, but Tootsie preferred to work on his own 
terms, and he only kept his job at Memphis Tour Tyme for a 
steady income he could invest in his real love, computers. It 
also left him plenty of free time to indulge in his off-duty 
pastimes as well, dressing up in women's garments and 
strutting runways or singing at local clubs. As conservative as 
Lester Penney could be, he'd never care what Tootsie did on 
his own time unless it directly affected the company. It was a 
symbiotic relationship that worked rather well, she thought. 

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She hung up, confused and oddly perturbed as she took 
the cordless out to the terrace. Something wasn't right. All 
her antennae were quivering with suspicion. 

Another bell trilled as she sat down, this one insistent and 
playing Dixie. Her cell phone. Damn. She should have brought 
it out, too. Sighing, she went back inside and found it still 
lying on the counter by her keys. Hope soared. Intuition 
suggested it was Diva. 

Intuition was mistaken. 

Bobby Baroni demanded, "Just what the hell do you think 
you're doing?" 

"Uh, nice to hear from you, Bobby. I'm drinking wine. It's 
okay. I'm over twenty-one." 

"Look, smartass, you know exactly what I mean. Jett. I 
told you to stay away from him." 

"He called in another complaint?" That was a surprise. A 
man in Jett's line of work should hardly be so chummy with 
cops that he'd keep complaining—oh, of course. All the pieces 
clicked into place. She must be some kind of idiot. Why hadn't 
she figured it out before? 

"Dammit, Harley, I warned you about—" 

"So, he's undercover, huh. Why didn't you tell me? It 
would have saved me a lot of worry and you a lot of trouble, 
and you'd have probably saved yourself a few explanations, 
too." 

Silence answered her. She smiled. She could read Bobby 
so well at times. It was nice to be right. That probably 
shocked the shit out of him. Frankly, it did her, too. 

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"What the hell are you talking about," Bobby said then, but 
she knew she had him. It was in his voice. 

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. Bruno Jett's in 
Federal custody. That means the new neighbor's undercover. 
What I don't know is how he figures into all this. Why don't 
you enlighten me?" 

"There are times, Harley Jean, that your imagination works 
overtime. What's in that wine you're drinking, or are you 
smoking Yogi's funny cigarettes?" 

"You're so amusing and so transparent, Bobby Baroni. Any 
time you call me Harley Jean, I know I've got you. So come 
on. Tell me. What's Jett up to? What's his real name, 
anyway?" 

"Look, you can screw everything up if you don't watch your 
mouth. Even hinting that a man is undercover can get him 
killed." 

"Bobby, Bobby, you know me better than that. I won't say 
anything to anyone. Other than Mister Jett, that is. You 
should have told me, you know. I would have stayed away 
from him if you had." 

A derisive snort indicated disbelief on Bobby's part, but all 
he said was, "Keep away from Jett and your mouth shut, 
Harley. I mean it. Or I could always bring you in for 
questioning and forget you're here for a while." 

She made a face at the cell phone, but couldn't help saying 
in her slowest drawl, "Why Bobby dahlin', you know I'd nevah 
let anyone find out you blabbed police business. Bye now." 

Quickly hanging up while he was still shouting something 
nasty at her, she smiled again. It was really nice the way 

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some things clicked into place on occasion. Now she had to 
figure out just why Jett had moved next door to her parents, 
and if he was somehow involved in Mrs. Trumble's murder. 
Was there some sort of connection? If so, what? He must be 
investigating the jewelry thefts, or he wouldn't have had that 
big pile of stones on his table, but how did that mix with Mrs. 
Trumble? Maybe they weren't connected. It could be two 
different cases. Possibly. Or not. And how were Yogi and Diva 
involved? 

Oh, if only Diva were here. Sometimes she had an 
uncanny knack for putting things together, no matter how she 
claimed it happened. Too bad Rama and Ovid didn't 
moonlight. 

Within five minutes she'd poured out her second glass of 
wine, grabbed her backpack, and was straddling her bike. 
Time for a little visit with Bruno Jett, or whatever his name 
was. This should be good. 

* * * * 

Sometimes, luck was really with her. Tooling down 
Highland Avenue on the way to Jett's house she happened to 
pass a very familiar silver Jag parked in front of Newby's. 
How absolutely fortuitous. There were times it was good to be 
alive. 

She parked behind the bar next to a Dumpster overflowing 
with cardboard boxes, taking a spark plug with her to ensure 
the bike would still be there when she returned. It was pretty 
well lit back here where employees usually parked, so she 

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wasn't too worried, but still, some people had a rough time 
resisting temptation. 

It was darker inside than it was in the back alley, and it 
took a moment for her eyes to adjust. It had the usual crowd 
of college kids, and not many empty tables. On one side, an 
English style red telephone box sat against the wall under a 
moose head. The moose looked rather glum. The long bar 
was backed with the usual mirrors and rows of liquor bottles. 
She nudged close and ordered a beer, looking casually around 
the packed room until she found him. 

Bruno Jett sat alone in front of the low windows, watching 
the traffic and nursing a beer. If he'd seen her, he gave no 
indication of it. Was he waiting on someone? Was he on the 
job or off the clock? It was hard to tell with undercover guys. 
She'd heard Bobby say on more than one occasion that some 
of them were pretty crazy. On the edge a lot, getting so far 
into their roles as one of the bad guys that it was hard to 
separate the two. She figured this cop had it down pat about 
being a bad guy. It was the good guy part that made her 
hesitate. 

Still.... 

Grabbing her beer, she shouldered her backpack to 
saunter over to the booth. 

"Well, well, what a nice surprise," she said, and ignored 
Jett's uninviting stare as she added, "Mind if I sit down? 
Thanks." 

"I'm expecting company," he said shortly, but she smiled. 

"Of course you are." She slid into the seat and tossed her 
backpack to the floor under the window, leaning over the 

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table a little to say, "So, Bruno or whatever your name is, 
whazzup?" 

"Obviously, not you. That's an old catch-phrase." His eyes 
narrowed at her. 

"Really?" Annoyed, she slid her beer onto the table and 
some of it sloshed onto her hand. "Since you're so up on 
trends why don't you tell me what's new in jewelry these 
days? Rings? Necklaces? Do I place an order, or just wait to 
see what you drag in—Officer?" 

It was sort of like throwing out a fishing line to see what 
bit, and he bit quick and hard. 

Before she could sit back to watch his reaction, he reacted. 

Jeez, she didn't know any guy could move that fast, but he 
was up and out of his seat in a heartbeat, his hand clamping 
down on her right wrist and pulling her up with him, her arm 
bent behind her back at an odd angle as he escorted her 
across the crowded bar toward the restrooms at the rear. 
There was a narrow opening between the end of the bar and 
the wall, ending in two doors, one for the men, and one for 
the women, marked with those cutesy little stick figures. 

It happened so fast she couldn't form a proper protest, 
only made some kind of squeaking sound like a baby chick. 
Witnesses ... why weren't people paying attention? 

Shoving open the door to the Ladies room, Jett pushed her 
inside and went with her, the door slamming shut behind 
them. The lock clicked ominously. Only large enough for one 
stall, a sink, and a metal trash receptacle, she was forced into 
such close proximity she could feel the heat of anger coming 
off him. 

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"Management probably won't appreciate you terrorizing a 
paying customer in their bathroom," she pointed out for lack 
of anything better to say. 

"I don't," he said softly, "give a damn. Are you following 
me?" 

"You sure do think a lot of yourself." He loomed over her 
like Bigfoot, too big, too angry, too ... male. Waves of 
testosterone hit her, and she did her best to hold her ground. 
It was more difficult than she'd anticipated. 

Pushing her up against the wall between the vending 
machines dispensing condoms and fake designer perfumes, 
he held her there for a moment, staring at her with those ice-
blue eyes that made her nervous. Her stomach plummeted to 
her toes and she shivered. None of which made him back off. 

"Just why the hell did you call me 'officer?'" 

Might as well go for broke. "Aren't you? I heard that Bruno 
Jett's in Federal custody. Yet here you are, plain as day. So— 
you're a cop." 

The heels of his hands dug harder into her shoulders. "I 
don't like snoops. Know what happens to snoops? Curious 
little girls who stick their noses where they don't belong? It's 
not a happy ending. Tell me who's been giving you 
information, and why you're so damned curious about me." 

"No one has to give me information. I know how to get it 
on my own." At his look of disbelief, she said, "What? You 
don't think I'm smart enough? I can be quite resourceful, 
Mister Jett, or whoever you are, believe me." 

"Yeah, I can see you think you are." He gave her a narrow 
look, easing back some on her shoulders. "If you know that 

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Bruno Jett's in custody, you've got an inside source. Who is 
it?" 

When she didn't answer, he said ominously, "I'm sure I 
can think of a few charges that'll get you some jail time while 
you try to remember." 

She said something that sounded like "Eek!" then clamped 
her lips tightly together. She wouldn't rat out Tootsie. She 
never ratted out friends. 

His eyes narrowed even more, and a muscle leaped in his 
clenched jaw. He looked mad. Really mad. Harley tried to 
blend into the wall, but the cold white tiles stayed firm. Her 
head bent to one side a little because of the vending machine 
that dispensed fake Giorgio, Beautiful, and White Diamonds 
perfume, and she tried to ignore the condom machine that 
advertised Ribbed Lambskins for Added Pleasure on her other 
side. 

"You're irritating me, Miss Davidson," he said again, softly 
this time. It was eerie how he could sound like a cobra. She 
closed her eyes when he put his hand up to her throat, his 
fingers closing gently on it, his thumb pushing her chin up so 
that she had to face him. "Open your eyes. Tell me what I 
want to know and you can go." 

She opened her eyes, but kept her lips firmly together. He 
was a cop. He couldn't really hurt her. Then again, Bobby 
hadn't actually affirmed that Jett was an undercover cop. 
What if she was wrong? The thud of her heart sounded 
suddenly too loud, thundering in her ears, so that she could 
only watch his lips move without hearing a word he said, lost 
in the loud buzz in her head. She understood he was 

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threatening her. Wild threats. An occasional word slipped past 
the high-pitched whine in her ears: "...incarcerate ... 
obstruction ... prison.... "She hoped Tootsie appreciated her 
stab at courage and loyalty. It was waning fast. 

Then, remarkably, he released her and stepped back, 
though the space between them was still close enough she 
felt his breath on her face. The small confines of the Ladies 
room felt like a sauna. The mirror was probably fogged, and 
she wondered if he could see his own reflection in it anyway. 
She sucked in a deep breath. 

"You're doing a sting operation, aren't you? I won't tell 
anyone. I can be trusted. I'm bonded." 

He leaned a hand on the door, looking down at her. "And 
that's supposed to impress me?" 

"I was hoping." 

He was quiet for a moment. Maybe he was thinking about 
it. 

"I'll make you a deal," he said, and she straightened with 
hopeful anticipation. He leaned close, his hand catching her 
chin between his thumb and finger. "Keep your mouth shut. 
Or else." 

Not exactly what she had in mind. 

"How can a girl refuse an offer like that?" she cooed, 
batting her eyes at him and resisting the urge to bite. "But 
I've got a better deal. We can help each other. Think of it this 
way. We both have something to gain, so why not turn this 
little inconvenience to both our benefit? I want to keep Yogi 
out of jail, and you want to catch some bad guys. If it works 
out, we both get what we want. Deal?" 

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Silence. Well, heck, she'd tried. She hadn't really thought 
he'd go for it, but it'd been worth a shot. And he hadn't 
arrested her for anything yet, so maybe the day wasn't a total 
loss. 

"Fine," he said shortly, startling her. "Deal." 

Shocked, since she really hadn't expected agreement, she 
stared at him. 

"We'll talk over a beer," he said, and flipped open the lock 
on the door. "After you." 

She hesitated, then straightened her shoulders and gave a 
nod. "Sounds good to me, sport. You buying?" 

His gaze had dropped to her chest when she flung back her 
shoulders. Now he dragged his eyes up to her face and 
nodded. "Sure." 

* * * * 

While it wasn't the most awkward time she'd ever spent 
with a man, it hardly ranked with the Top Ten Best. Bruno 
Jett bristled each time she dragged the conversation back to 
who he was and why he'd moved next door to her parents. 
Not exactly the cooperation she'd hoped to find. 

"Look," she finally said in exasperation, "you're not living 
up to our deal. If you want me to answer your questions, you 
have to answer some of mine." 

"Oh, is that the way it works?" He eyed her over the rim of 
his beer. 

"Yes. In a perfect world, that's the way it works." She 
leaned closer. "So—who are you and why did you move next 
door to my parents?" 

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He seemed to consider his reply carefully, then said, "Mike 
Morgan. The house was available and inconspicuous. We had 
no idea your parents would be fugitives from justice." 

"They're not." She glared at him. "They're victims, not 
fugitives." 

"Appearances to the contrary." 

"Things aren't always what they seem, as you should know 
quite well. After all, who'd have thought you'd actually be on 
the right side of the law?" 

"Point taken. And enough of that line of conversation. 
We're not exactly in a secure place to be discussing 
business." 

"Then maybe we should go to one. It's late, I'm tired, and 
I'd like to go to bed tonight and not worry that my parents 
are going to be arrested for being in the wrong place at the 
wrong time. You can help with that." 

"I'm sure I can." He leered at her, and she gave him a 
disgusted look. 

"Don't get any bright ideas, big boy. You're not my type." 

"No? What's your type? Baroni?" 

"Bobby? We're old friends. He has a girlfriend named 
Angel. How could I have a serious relationship with a man 
who dates strippers named Angel?" 

"Stranger things have happened." 

"Tell me about it. Now—where can we talk privately?" 

"I know just the place." 

She should have figured he'd want to go to his house, and 
after squashing a few qualms about being alone with him, she 
followed him into his kitchen, watching idly as he punched a 

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code into the blender. Or what looked like a blender. It was 
really, he explained when she asked, a sort of silent alarm 
triggered by intruders. It let him know if anyone came 
snooping around, and where they went. 

"So that's how you knew I was in the basement?" 

"Handy little gadget, isn't it." 

"Yeah. Very 007. So now that we're alone, Bruno—or 
Mike—fill me in. What's going on?" 

"You have to know I can't tell you much. You already know 
more than is healthy. And I was warned about you. Want 
some coffee?" 

"Don't try to back out now, Morgan. We had a deal—and 
who warned you? Oh. Bobby." 

"I can't tell you everything you want to hear." He held up a 
hand when she started to sputter angrily, and added, "But I'll 
tell you what I can." 

That sounded fair enough, and she nodded warily. "Okay." 

It wasn't much. By the time she'd finished a second cup of 
hot coffee strong enough to strip her stomach lining, she'd 
only learned that he was involved in the effort to apprehend 
the East Memphis jewelry thieves. She'd already figured out 
that much. Disgruntled, she sat back in the kitchen chair. 

"So, you're like a fence or something? You actually deal 
with the bad guys who're doing the thefts?" 

He shrugged. "Who knows?" 

"Well, that's not an answer. Or cooperation. Aren't you 
supposed to know if you're a fence or dealing with the jewel 
thieves? Do you even know who they are?" 

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"We have our suspicions. Tell me about your parents, 
Harley Jean. I know they're flaky, but they seemed fairly 
harmless until lately." 

While she couldn't deny the flaky part, she vigorously 
defended the suggestion they were dangerous. "They're just 
different, that's all. They—" 

"Travel to the beat of a different drummer?" He shrugged. 
"Yeah, I gathered that much. Your mother offered to read my 
cards for me when I first moved in." 

"Diva's very generous that way. She charges other folks 
for it. Look, I know they're not the average kind of parents, 
but who is these days? And they're a lot more normal than 
some I could name, even some of the Junior Leaguers that 
seem so prim and proper but hide gin bottles in their toilet 
tanks so no one will know they drink too much." 

That was very true. Her aunt Darcy, Diva's younger sister, 
was everything Diva wasn't: on all the Cotton Carnival lists, 
charity function lists, Junior League lists, and on a first name 
basis with influential politicians and business executives, but 
she hid gin bottles in the back of the toilet tank so her 
husband and children wouldn't know she liked a few nips now 
and then. As if they didn't know already. Only casual 
acquaintances would miss the obvious. 

"Even normal people can get mixed up in bad situations," 
Morgan said. "Maybe that's what happened." 

"It's possible, but not likely. Yogi makes metal yard art, 
and Diva makes crystal dream catchers they sell at flea 
markets. What could they be mixed up in?" 

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"Well, for starters, Yogi was seen coming out of Mrs. 
Trumble's house about the time of her murder. That looks 
pretty bad. Mrs. Trumble had abducted Yogi's dog and was 
holding him for some kind of obscure ransom. That looks 
even worse." 

"And you had a pile of stolen jewels big enough to choke a 
mule on your coffee table," she said crankily, "but you're not 
accused of murder." 

"Mrs. Trumble didn't take my dog, either. Look, Harley, it's 
great to defend your parents, but maybe you should listen to 
Baroni. Stay out of this. You'll only complicate things and 
make them worse for your parents. If you know where they 
are, tell me or Baroni. We can help out if you'll let us." 

She stood up and reached for her backpack. "It's been a 
lovely evening. Thanks for the coffee." 

He caught her arm before she reached the back door. "Just 
think about it. There's got to be a connection between the 
murder and your parents' disappearance. What if they didn't 
leave on their own? Have you thought of that?" 

"Of course I've thought of that." She jerked free of his 
grasp and he didn't reach for her again. "I've tried to think of 
plausible reasons for them leaving, but the only thing I keep 
coming back to is that Mrs. Trumble is dead and somehow my 
parents are involved and in trouble." 

"And that doesn't indicate a problem to you?" 

"Has anyone ever pointed out your lack of sensitivity?" 

"On numerous occasions, but that doesn't have anything to 
do with this." 

"The hell it doesn't. I'm going home." 

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He followed her outside and waited until she'd fired up her 
bike before saying, "Here's my cell phone number. Call me if 
you need me." 

Stuffing the scrap of paper into her pocket, she revved the 
motor of her bike and said, "Don't stay up too long waiting for 
my call." 

"Right. Anyone ever tell you that you look like Evel Knieval 
on estrogen? That thing's an orgasm on two wheels." 

She strapped on her helmet and smiled. "Damn right it is. 
A six hundred and forty-five pound vibrator." 

He ignored that, and said only, "Better convince your 
parents it's in their best interests to come back and deal with 
the issues. If they're innocent, running isn't helping their 
cause." 

"If they're innocent? They are, and I intend to prove it." 
She revved the engine again, and then coasted smoothly 
down the driveway and out into the street, leaving Bruno 
Jett/Mike Morgan staring after her. At the end of the street, 
she had the thought she needed to put action behind that last 
bit of bravado. Trouble was, she had no idea where to look for 
her parents. 

Even though it was late and she had to get up early, she 
cruised several of the most likely places Yogi and Diva might 
be, finding nothing. In growing desperation, she rode out to 
East Memphis and Grandmother and Grandfather Eaton's 
home. This was the house were Diva had grown up, a Colonial 
style most popular in the fifties, set on an acre lot studded 
with tall oaks and expensive landscaping. All the lights were 
on in the front, the house lit up like Christmas, but that was 

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normal. Grandfather Eaton believed in security, and he didn't 
mind paying the electric bill. The wide driveway ran up one 
side, ending in a four-car garage behind the house, but there 
was no sign of a puke green van. Not that she'd really 
expected it. Diva had left home at seventeen and never 
looked back. Her ideas of life were vastly different from her 
mother's. 

Harley sat for a few minutes, engine idling, and tried to 
think where else they might be. And as she sat there, a police 
cruiser came up behind her and flashed his lights and siren. 

Oh, just great. Neighborhood Watch at work. She 
remained where she was while the officer ran her plates, then 
he approached with wary caution. 

"Do you have a current tag, ma'am?" 

She did, of course. A new one. It was safely locked in the 
garage where she kept the bike. 

Nearly twenty minutes and a ticket later, she reflected on 
the bad karma in her life as she saw her grandfather strolling 
down the driveway in his robe. Drawn by the flashing blue 
lights, he recognized Harley at once. 

"Are you in trouble, young lady?" 

"No sir, not really. You're up late. Have you seen Diva?" 

Lawrence Eaton's mouth thinned. "Deirdre has not visited 
us in a while." Blue lights very similar to a K-Mart special 
flashed on and off on his face and silvery hair. His features 
were smooth and aristocratic, and it was hard for Harley to 
believe he was seventy-eight. "Have you come for a visit this 
late?" 

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"I planned to visit soon," she said dutifully, "but at the 
moment I'm looking for Yogi and Diva. And their dog." 

"Perhaps," he said stiffly, "they've run off to San Francisco 
with flowers in their hair." 

So okay, Grandfather Eaton might be a bit behind the 
times, but he definitely had a good memory. 

"Well, they did that once. I don't think they're planning on 
it again." She shifted on the seat of the bike, balancing on 
both feet, and the police officer returned with her ticket. 
Definitely bad karma. She must have been a Nazi in a former 
life. Sighing, she tucked it into her pocket and reached for the 
helmet she'd put on the back. "I really need to find them, 
Grandfather. I hate to run off without seeing Grandmother, 
but would you mind telling her that I'll visit very soon?" 

"Yes, of course I'll tell her." 

A twinge of guilt smacked her right between the shoulder 
blades. He suddenly looked so frail standing there, a tall, 
slender man with silver hair and something rather lonely in 
his eyes, and she heard herself say, "Unless I can visit for a 
few minutes now. Will that be all right?" 

It was, of course, more than all right. She really shouldn't 
mind so much, but the huge house always seemed so empty, 
even when her aunt and cousins were there for the frequent 
family gatherings that Diva tried to avoid and Yogi shunned. 
Not that he was ever missed. Eaton disapproval of their son-
in-law still held strong after thirty-two years. 

Diva had never been comfortable with the Junior League 
set, preferring rock and roll and long-haired hippies that 
included John Davidson, a boy from the other side of town 

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who had only his charm to recommend him. And his lack of 
ambition. That was the family history from her grandparents' 
point of view. Diva saw it completely differently, of course. 
Materialism and lack of social conscience had never held an 
allure for her, and once she'd met Yogi, he'd shown her a way 
of life that was much more appealing. That was during the 
days of Vietnam and peace protests, flowers in the hair and 
Haight-Asbury, and they'd run off together to San Francisco 
some time in the late sixties. Things could have turned out 
much differently for Harley if they'd stayed in California. But 
thankfully—from Harley's point of view—when they'd moved 
to Memphis, she'd taken to living in a real house like a duck 
took to water. And maintained a relationship with her 
grandparents as best she could. 

Harley spent the better part of an hour drinking lemonade 
and eating homemade oatmeal cookies with Grandmother and 
Grandfather Eaton before she was able to tear herself away. 
It was difficult making idle conversation when she had a case 
of the screaming meemies worrying where Yogi and Diva 
could be, and if Yogi was going to be charged with murder. 

But when she left, she had a doggie bag of cookies tucked 
into her backpack, and she had promised to attend a 
Saturday luncheon with her cousins Madelyn and Amanda, 
two of the most stuck-up, condescending twits she'd ever 
met. But they were family, her Aunt Darcy's daughters, and 
she endured their company about as willingly as they endured 
hers. The things one suffered for family peace. 

Grandmother Eaton stood in the kitchen doorway in a silk 
robe, with the light behind her gleaming on her perfectly 

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coiffed hair, a shade of silver that could almost be called 
platinum like Diva's, but hers was short and impeccably 
groomed, not a hair out of place. Isabella Eaton was the 
antithesis of her oldest daughter, prim and proper, stylish and 
straitlaced. Diva must have been a great shock to her 
nervous system. 

"Remember, Harley," she said, "you're expected Saturday 
after next at twelve sharp. Your Aunt Darcy will be here with 
the girls." 

The girls were around her age, Harley thought, hardly 
qualifying for the misnomer, but she only nodded. "Yes, 
Grandmother. I'll be on time." 

After a beat, her grandmother added, "If Deirdre should 
wish to come, she'd be most welcome." 

"I'll tell her." This was the uncomfortable part. She never 
felt easy being the go-between for mother and daughter. 
Neither understood the other, and she always got caught in 
the middle. She strapped on her helmet, felt her 
grandmother's disapproval of her transportation even from 
several yards away, and said, "It's really late. I'd better go." 

"Be careful," her grandfather said. "We've had a lot of 
burglaries lately. You need to put in an alarm system if you 
don't already have one." 

"I don't have much jewelry, but thanks for the advice." 

"It's not always jewelry that criminals are after." 

Oh gee, that was a comforting thought. 

"But don't get a cheap company to install it," Grandfather 
added, "or you may end up like Charles Freeman." 

"Charles Freeman?" 

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"Our neighbor. He didn't take my advice, and thieves 
broke in a few weeks ago and stole all his wife's jewelry." 

"Yes," her grandmother interrupted, "they stole a very 
valuable necklace. Thankfully, it had just been appraised not 
long before, so the insurance company will pay full value, but 
still...." 

"He should have gotten a reputable alarm company. The 
alarm didn't even go off as it should have, and by the time 
the police got there it was too late." Grandfather nodded 
sadly. "He's had losses in the market recently, hit some bad 
times, and now he's worried the police suspect him of stealing 
his own wife's jewelry. I warned him, but no, he had to go 
and use the company recommended by the jeweler, a local 
firm only in business a year. Foolishness." 

An idea popped into Harley's head, full-blown and probably 
ridiculous. But not impossible. It was an idea she'd explore 
and then trade to Crime Stoppers for cold cash, if it panned 
out. Bobby would learn to take her more seriously one day, 
by God. 

"Grandfather," she said with a smile, "you're an absolute 
genius." 

He looked surprised but pleased. "Just a little common 
sense, really, to go with reputable firms rather than fly-bynight 
businesses." 

"Exactly what I think. See you next week. And thanks 
again." 

Elated, she rocked the bike off its stand and took off at a 
sedate speed that wouldn't disturb the neighbors or annoy 
the police. When she stopped at the red light right next to 

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Memorial Park cemetery with its fake Italian grotto and low 
fieldstone walls, she considered the remarkable coincidence 
that Charles Freeman had been victim of a burglary soon 
after having a valuable necklace appraised. 

Two possibilities came immediately to mind. One, he was 
trying to scam the insurance company, and two, alarm 
company employees were responsible for the theft. Both were 
plausible, the latter the most likely. It'd be too easy to get 
around security measures if you'd installed them in the first 
place, and it would give easy access to houses all over 
Memphis. Oh yeah. This idea definitely had merit. And the 
police had probably already realized it, even though they still 
obviously thought Yogi was somehow involved. She had to 
prove he wasn't. 

It had to be close to midnight by now and she was overdue 
for bedtime, but should get her motorcycle tag out of the 
garage to prevent another ticket. If she hadn't been so 
rattled, she'd have remembered it when she got the bike. 
When she arrived back on Douglass, the silver Jag was gone 
from the driveway next door, but the garage door was shut 
and the lights were on inside the house. No cars were out 
front, but she saw Morgan's shadow in his kitchen. Unless she 
wanted to risk another confrontation, she'd better be quick 
and quiet. 

She flicked on the garage light and retrieved the metal tag 
from the shelf where she usually hid the keys, then closed 
and locked the door behind her. A light shone in the window 
of her parents' kitchen. She should turn it off, but the thought 
of going inside the empty house was unappealing. It looked 

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forlorn without her parents there, and she realized how much 
she depended upon them to always be there. Bummer. Thirty 
years old and still clinging to mama and daddy. Her personal 
life was pretty bleak. How depressing. 

Maybe she needed to rethink this No Stress thing. It 
wasn't working out as well as she'd hoped anyway. Leaving 
the corporate world had seemed like a good idea at the time; 
yet walking away from a good paying job to ferry drunken 
tourists to the Jungle Room at Graceland held less appeal 
than it had six months ago. An overload of job-related stress, 
and a breakup with a man entirely unsuitable for anything but 
target practice, had contributed to her rash decision to leave 
her job in corporate banking. Another good idea gone bad. 
She should be on Oprah. Or Dr. Phil. One of those, What Not 
To Do When This Happens To You shows. 

As she walked toward her bike in the driveway, she saw a 
thin slice of light coming from Yogi's workshop door. Her 
heartbeat escalated. It had to be Yogi. Relieved, she 
navigated a path around a metal sunflower, two plastic 
rabbits, a ceramic frog, and Yogi's version of the leaning 
tower of Pisa to reach the workshop door. 

Shoving it open, she said, "Damn, I'm glad you're back," 
and the man bent over a rubbish barrel against the 
workbench straightened. She caught a quick glimpse of a 
startled face beneath dark, slicked-back hair, a thin build in a 
jump suit with some kind of lettering, and then he leaped 
forward to smack her on the head with something in his hand. 

She screamed. Lights like a dozen sparklers exploded in 
front of her eyes. Then she slumped to the floor and 

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everything went black. 

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Chapter Six 

Harley moaned, one hand flopping in a pile of rags. 
Someone took her hand and held it, fingers pressing her 
pulse. Aware, but as if through a thick fog, she fought her 
way out of black, clinging shrouds. Blinding light shone down, 
intense and obliterating everything else. Daylight already? 
Then the sun eclipsed and a face swam into view, a blur at 
first, then sharpening until she recognized Morgan staring 
down at her. He looked worried. How sweet. 

"Hey," he said when she tilted her head and looked at him, 
"looks like you took a fall." 

"Nunh unh." She tried to push to a sitting position, but his 
hand kept her down. The sun swayed, and when she blinked 
again, turned into a hundred watt light bulb. Her head hurt. 
Her tongue felt thick. There was a strange pounding behind 
her eyes. "Ouch. Didn't fall. Got hit." 

"Got hit?" He peered into her eyes. "Who?" 

"Greasy guy. A mechanic maybe. Hey, watch the hand." 

"Which one?" He'd parted her hair to find the lump on her 
head, but his other hand rested on her ribs just below her 
breast. 

"Both. Oooh, my head hurts." 

"I imagine it does. That's a nasty bump. What'd he hit you 
with?" 

"I don't know." She paused, then said, "It looked like a 
piece of pipe. Felt like a tree." 

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"Why would a mechanic be here?" He looked around the 
workshop. "Did you know the guy?" 

"Never saw him before. Not sure I'd know him if I saw him 
again. Hey, how'd you find me out here?" 

"Saw the lights on. Why'd you come back?" 

"Not to turn off the lights. Can you fix traffic tickets, by 
any chance?" 

"No. So why'd you come back?" 

"To get my new motorcycle tag. Which brings me back to 
the ticket—" 

"Sit up." 

When she did, he slid an arm behind her and lifted her. 
She thought about resistance then decided she didn't have 
the energy. Besides, he seemed to have a plan. 

"Where are we going?" 

"To my house," he said, swinging her up into his arms and 
walking toward the door. 

She grabbed the doorframe and clung to it. "No. Not a 
good idea." 

"Why not?" 

"You're going to report this, aren't you?" He nodded, and 
she said, "Yeah, so I wanna be here, not next door with a cold 
cloth on my head." There was no way she'd let the cops have 
free rein in her parents' house without supervision. 

"Just how hard did that guy hit you? What do you think 
you're going to miss?" 

He sounded irritated, but she didn't really care. It was a 
small victory but a solid one, and she sat on the back porch 
steps while he called it in. Within minutes, a patrol car was in 

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front and Mrs. Shipley stood on the curb taking in every 
detail. Not even a Benadryl and vodka cocktail would make 
Sadie Shipley miss this much excitement. 

Harley gave her statement while uniformed officers 
searched the workshop, the yard, and the house. Whoever hit 
her had already ransacked the house. She went inside and 
gazed sadly at the mess. Everything was turned upside down. 

"It looks like the inside of a goat's stomach," she said. 
"Crime is really getting out of hand." 

"So what were they looking for, Harley?" Bobby Baroni 
walked through the front door, frowning as he looked around 
at the mess. 

"I should know? Stuff to sell, I guess." 

"Then why didn't they take the TV or VCR?" 

He had a point. She frowned, but that made her head hurt 
so she stopped. "How should I know? Maybe they got 
interrupted." 

"If that was true, then why hang around to smack you in 
the head. There's something odd going on here, Harley." 

"Tell me about it." 

Sweeping a pile of broken crystals onto the floor from the 
overstuffed chair she flopped into it, groaning a little. Even 
her teeth hurt. And Bobby sounded pissed off. 

"No, you tell me about it." 

She'd closed her eyes. Now she opened one to stare at 
him. "Tell you what? What are you doing here, anyway? 
You're Homicide, not Burglary." 

"This may be related." 

Her eyes narrowed. "To what, pray tell?" 

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Ignoring that, he said, "So where are your parents?" 

"Jeez, why do you persist in thinking I'm holding out on 
you? In case you haven't already noticed, I just got hit in the 
head." 

"So? I'm tempted to hit you in the head at times. 
Especially now. It's late and I've been on duty sixteen hours. 
Let's make this short and sweet." 

"Get stuffed, Bobby." 

Silence fell, heavy and sizzling. 

"Uh, Lieutenant?" came a voice from the direction of the 
kitchen, and Harley recognized the officer who'd taken her 
statement at Mrs. Trumble's earlier in the day. He stood in 
the doorway with an apologetic expression. "There's 
something out here you might want to see." 

Thinking of the illegal pot plants growing next to Diva's 
tomatoes, Harley struggled to her feet to follow. That'd be all 
she needed, to be busted for drugs right in the middle of this 
mess. 

Morgan stood in Yogi's workshop, a bemused expression 
on his face when he looked up. The naked light bulb swayed 
back and forth overhead. Yogi's old workbench looked even 
more cluttered in the fitful light. Morgan's eyes went to 
Harley. Then he held up something glittery he'd pulled from 
the three pound coffee can in his hand. She stared at it 
without moving. 

"Crystals. Diva makes dream catchers and sometimes 
pieces of jewelry with them," she said, watching as Bobby 
moved to look at the stones. Snapping on a rubber glove, he 

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held them up to catch the light, prisms of rich color from a 
necklace flashing in the gloom. 

Then it hit her, and even before she heard Bobby say, 
"This must be worth a couple of hundred thousand," she knew 
it wasn't made of cheap crystals. 

Oh hell. 

* * * * 

It was nearly two before she left, giving in to Morgan's 
suggestion that she stay the night at his house. It was close, 
her head hurt, and he promised to sleep on the couch and 
keep all his clothes on. Besides, it was likely the police would 
be next door most of the night doing their thing with the 
investigation. She could always scream for help again. Mrs. 
Shipley must be in her element by now anyway, hovering 
outside watching. She'd love to get involved. 

"Harley Jean," she called across the street, one hand 
gripping the closed edges of a bright red satin housecoat that 
made her look like a flaming torch, "are you all right? Where's 
your mama?" 

Flapping a hand at her, she only said she was just fine, 
thank you, and kept going. Let her think what she wanted. 
Speculation would keep her going for weeks. 

Morgan came in after she'd gotten out of the shower with a 
towel wrapped around her head and one of his tee shirts 
reaching almost to her knees. "Hope you don't mind," she 
said in reference to the tee shirt. 

He shrugged. "No problem." 

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"So much for keeping a low profile. Your cover's really 
blown by now, I imagine." 

"Probably." 

"You shouldn't have called in the cops." 

"No?" He looked at her with a raised brow. "Do you really 
want to go into a list of what shouldn't have been done?" 

"Not really." 

"Good thing. Go to bed. You look beat." 

She felt it. It didn't help, though, that he noticed. 

It was nearly seven when she woke the next morning. 
Jeez, only four hours sleep and she had to ferry around a 
group of inquisitive tourists. Groaning, she dragged herself 
from the bed, a queen-size pillowtop that threatened to suck 
her back in, then struggled into the bikini panties she'd 
washed out in the shower and were still damp. They'd dry 
quickly in the heat, she was sure. 

Morgan was already up and making coffee when she went 
into the kitchen. He gave her a brief glance and shoved a 
mug toward her. 

"This stuff is toxic," she said after her third sip. 

He nodded. "It's supposed to be. You okay?" 

"Much better. Why? Don't I look okay?" She ran a hand 
through her limp hair, lamenting the lack of gel that gave it 
body. 

"You look fine." 

Another flowery compliment. She could almost get giddy 
from the praise. 

"Thanks, sport." 

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"Any time." He watched her a minute, then said, "Keep it 
quiet about the necklace for a while. Maybe the thief will 
come back for it." 

Jesus. "That sounds unlikely. There were too many cops 
hanging around last night." 

"Unless he hung around too, he won't know that. Besides, 
hysterical females are prone to calling the cops when 
attacked." 

Her eyes narrowed. "I was not hysterical." 

"Right. It'd be to your advantage to cooperate about the 
necklace." 

That was true. She gave him an appraising look. He didn't 
seem perturbed or even sleep-deprived. It was unsettling that 
he looked so fresh when she felt so wilted. It was even more 
unsettling that he wore only a pair of sweatpants, no shirt. All 
that bare skin and testosterone.... 

"I'll think about it," she said, and had the satisfaction of 
seeing his eyes narrow as she left, firing up her bike in a 
defiantly loud snarl and taking off with him watching her go. 

It was one of those pristine mornings with lots of sunshine 
and no clouds. Cool and quiet and lovely. She considered 
what she knew about Mike Morgan/Bruno Jett on her way to 
the office to pick up the van keys for her first gig. He wasn't 
as bad as she'd thought, but he wasn't exactly Mr. 
Personality, either. While it was a relief finding out that he 
wasn't a murderer or an ex-con, she still wasn't sure he was 
one of the good guys. 

"Stay away from that guy," Tootsie advised when she told 
him about her night, leaving out the parts about Jett being 

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Morgan and finding a necklace. "He could be dangerous. And 
even if he came to your rescue, he still sounds like big 
trouble." 

Oh, he had no idea just how big, and she couldn't tell him. 
Promises were so inconvenient at times. 

"For all you know," Tootsie continued, "he could have been 
the one to hit you in the head and just called in the cops to 
cover it up." 

"No. I saw the guy who hit me. It wasn't Bruno." 

"And that's another thing. The name. Why is he using the 
name of a guy already in jail? It doesn't make much sense, 
baby. Has that occurred to you?" 

"I take it you didn't find out anything else, then." It'd be so 
much easier if he had. Then she wouldn't have to keep Jett's 
real identity a secret. 

Tootsie hesitated, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. 
"There's something suspicious about all this, baby. Have you 
considered that there are only two good reasons for a man to 
use a name belonging to some guy in prison? One reason is 
legal. One is not." 

Any reply she made would be a violation of her promise, 
she reasoned, but if Tootsie was smart enough to guess— 
well, she certainly wasn't responsible for that. 

"So what else did you find out about him?" she asked after 
a moment. "Anything?" 

"Not much. But it set me to thinking that it'd be too big a 
coincidence for Bruno Jett to be in Federal custody for jewelry 
theft among other various crimes, and the Bruno Jett here to 
have a pile of jewelry on his coffee table. Two Bruno Jetts is 

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stretching it. But one man pretending to be Bruno Jett makes 
fairly good sense. Especially—" he paused for dramatic effect, 
"if the man is an undercover cop." 

Harley smiled. Tootsie sat back in his chair with a sound of 
disgust. 

"You already knew," he accused, and she nodded. 

"Remember, I didn't tell you. I figured it out last night. Or 
I think it was last night. It feels like yesterday was forty-eight 
hours instead of only twenty-four. But I couldn't have figured 
it out without you, Tootsie. You found out about the real Jett 
being in Federal custody in Virginia. This one's a cop. I'm sure 
of it." 

"What is it with you and men in uniform, baby," Tootsie 
said, sounding more resigned than irritated. 

"He doesn't wear a uniform. Sometimes he doesn't even 
wear a shirt." She rubbed at her head while reading over the 
schedule of planned activities for the day. "I'll do Graceland 
first, then Beale Street, and save Brooks Art Gallery for last. 
With any luck, there won't be time to do it all." 

"Hey, if you don't feel up to it, I can call in a relief driver." 

"No, I need the money. And this group doesn't sound too 
rowdy. It's the corporate guys away from home that give me 
trouble. I'm taking a clean tee shirt from the back, by the 
way." 

Fortunately, the group was fairly sedate, and as she'd 
hoped, the wives lingered in the gift shops of Graceland so 
long they ended up eating lunch at one of the rock and roll 
themed cafés instead of down on Beale Street as planned. 
That was the beauty of this job. She could let the Graceland 

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tour guides take over for most of the time and only had to 
round up everyone when they got off the van that took them 
across the street to the mansion. Usually, she spent the free 
time reading or listening to music, sitting in the sun when it 
was nice, in one of the shops or the company van when it 
wasn't. While it wasn't exactly a career, it would do for now. 

By the time they reached Beale Street, it was after one 
and the group was due back at their hotel at five. They had 
three and a half hours to explore the clubs and make the 
required visit to B.B. King's and the Hard Rock Café. Pat 
O'Brien's lured some of the group, while the blues drifted out 
open doors of other clubs. Harley bought a morning paper 
and went to sit in the small park with its concrete benches. 
Sunlight gleamed brightly. She wore sunglasses, the clean 
Memphis Tour Tyme tee shirt, and sneakers with no socks. 
Her eyelids itched from lack of sleep. It could be worse. 
Tonight, she planned a long hot bath in her own tub, then 
eight hours in bed. 

The Commercial Appeal had a small two-paragraph article 
on page three of the A section about Mrs. Trumble, citing her 
death as the result of a home invasion gone bad. The 
investigation was ongoing, and nothing was said about 
possible suspects. Well, really. So was Yogi cleared? 

Dixie trilled on her cell phone and she dug it out of her 
backpack, hoping it would be Diva or Yogi. It wasn't. 

"What time do you get off?" Bobby asked abruptly, and 
she replied automatically, "Every time." 

"Funny, Harley. Stop by the West precinct. I'll be here for 
a little while." 

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"If I have time. Why?" Despite the heat of the sun, a cold 
chill shot through her. "Yogi and Diva, are they—" 

"Still hiding somewhere. Can you be here around five-
thirty?" 

"Yeah, depending on traffic. Is this serious?" 

"That depends on what you call serious." 

"Dammit, Bobby, tell me now before I bust something 
internal. I'm on my last nerve." 

"Fine. Charges are gonna be pending against your 
parents." 

"What kind of charges?" 

"For starters, possession of stolen property. The necklace 
found in Yogi's workshop was reported stolen last month." 

Damn. "I thought you wanted to keep it quiet for now. I 
mean, I just know there has to be some kind of plausible 
explanation for this, so why not? You know Yogi's not a thief." 

"Once charges are filed, it's out of my hands, Harley. I'll do 
what I can." 

"Yeah." She swallowed hard. "I know that. All right. I'll 
keep quiet about the necklace. I recognize blackmail when I 
hear it." 

"Just so we understand each other." 

"You're a dung beetle, Bobby." 

"Love you, too, babe." He hung up. 

Bummer. Things were going from bad to worse, but at 
least murder charges hadn't been filed. Yet. 

By the time she dropped off her load of tourists at their 
hotel and returned to the office to leave the keys and van, 
Tootsie was the only one still there. She slumped into a chair 

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in the dingy waiting room and closed her eyes. Tootsie made 

a sympathetic sound. 

"Long day, baby?" 

She opened one eye. "Has it been only one day?" 

"Yeah, 'fraid so. Have you heard from your parents?" 

"Not a word. You'd think they'd call me, leave a message 
or something. They have to know I'm worried, dammit." She 
drummed her fingers against the beige wood of the armchair. 
"I can understand Yogi not calling. He's usually pretty 
oblivious. But Diva should at least call." 

Tootsie came out from behind the receptionist desk. 
"They'll call. You know they're okay. Just freaked out and 
hiding somewhere." 

"Yeah." She looked up at him. "Look, I need another favor. 
Think you can find out what alarm company installed security 
for Charles Freeman? I can tell you what street he lives on, 
but that's about it. And I need to know where he took his 
wife's jewelry to get it appraised." 

He gave her a curious look but nodded. "Sure, baby. When 
do you need to know?" 

"As soon as you do." She stood up. "I've got an idea or 
two I need to check out. It may be useful in clearing Yogi. 
Maybe not, but I've got to feel like I'm doing something to 
help. This not knowing anything is driving me bats." 

"I'll have to call you with the info. All my good spyware 
programs are on my home PC." 

Tootsie pulled the elastic band from his ponytail to free his 
hair, and then shook his head to loosen it around his face. 

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Today he wore an electric-blue silk shirt and tight black pants. 
He looked very retro. 

"You look like you need a drink, baby. We can stop at the 
Poplar Lounge for a burger and a beer, if you feel like it." 

Ordinarily, she'd be glad to go. She always enjoyed 
cruising the bars with Tootsie, but she shook her head. 

"I'm going home to take a hot bath and soak until my skin 
looks pruney. Maybe Diva will call." 

She didn't go straight home, but kept her appointment 
with Bobby, getting to the West precinct a little late but at 
least in before six. He was waiting for her in a small office 
with no windows, just glass in the door. He looked irritated, 
so she put on a bright smile. 

"Hey Bobby." 

"You're late." 

"Why yes, I'm doing just fine, thank you. No, no residual 
effects from getting smacked in the head." 

His eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm not so sure about that. 
You don't seem to be thinking too rational." 

"Did you want me to come here just to listen to you bitch 
at me? Because I'm not in the mood for it." 

"Harley—stay out of police business. You act like this is 
some kind of game, snooping around and asking questions, 
but it's not. It's serious stuff. You can get hurt if you keep this 
up." 

"Thanks for the warning, but the bump on my head says 
staying out of this isn't safe, either. Jeez Bobby, it's not like 
I'm not already involved, whether I want to be or not. My 
parents are missing, I got hit in the head, and the new 

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neighbor is an undercover cop. Why can't I ask a few 
questions?" 

"Because you're liable to ask the wrong question of the 
wrong person. We already have a pretty good notion of 
what's going on, and you're liable to screw it all up. Go home. 
Stay there. Don't talk to anyone." 

"I'll explain to my boss that I can't come in and work. I'm 
sure Mr. Penny will be glad to pay me anyway." 

"Shit." Bobby glared at her. "You know what I mean, 
Harley." 

"Yes. I do. And I don't like it. You want me to act like 
nothing's happened and wait for you to arrest Diva and Yogi 
for something they didn't do. Right?" 

Bobby stood up. He looked angry. "No, I want you to stay 
out of police business. That's all I'm asking. Otherwise, I'll 
arrest you for obstruction." 

"Are you arresting me?" 

"Not yet. Don't push it too far, though. I can't risk you 
getting hurt. Dammit, Harley, can you just listen for once? 
Remember, your track record isn't that great." 

He had her there. She'd made a career out of doing things 
her way, and obviously it wasn't always the best way. After a 
moment, she blew out a sigh and nodded. 

"All right, Bobby. But I don't promise not to look for them." 

"Call me if you find them first. You know I'll do everything 
I can to protect them." 

"Yeah. I know." 

"Yogi's fingerprints are all over Mrs. Trumble's house. It 
looks bad for him, if he doesn't turn himself in soon." 

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"Right. I'll tell him when I find him. Diva will call soon, I'm 
sure of it." 

"Do what you can, Harley." 

When she left, she hit a few likely spots looking for her 
parents. When she cruised down Douglass, she happened to 
see George Reed watering plants in his front yard. She 
braked. He'd told the cops he'd seen Yogi leaving Mrs. 
Trumble's house around the time of her death. No harm in 
asking him a few questions. 

"Hullo, Mr. Reed," she said pleasantly when she switched 
off the bike and took off her helmet to walk up his driveway, 
"your begonias are really lovely." 

Reed, overweight and balding, gave her a curious look. 
"Thanks." 

"So, uh, about yesterday—" 

He held up a hand to interrupt her. "I can't talk about it. 
The police told me not to talk to anyone about what I saw." 

"I'm not asking for details. I just want to know if you're 
sure it was Yogi you saw coming out of her house. And if 
you're sure of the time." 

"I'm sure. I've lived down the street from him for five 
years now. Too bad about the dog. I kinda hoped that mutt 
was gone this time." 

Another fan of King's. She wasn't surprised. The dog had a 
way of making enemies. 

"And you're sure of the time? I mean, do you wear a watch 
when you jog?" 

He blinked at her. Apparently, no one had asked him how 
he knew the time, just taken his word for it. 

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"No," he said irritably, "I don't wear a watch, but I left 
when Montel came on television and got back just as it was 
ending. That puts it between two and three." 

That was pretty definite. She nodded and started to thank 
him, then thought of something else to ask. "Did you happen 
to see a car in her driveway?" 

"Not when Yogi came out. That was on my way out. I jog 
down Douglass to Goodlett, then around to Audubon Park, 
then back. I saw the car on my way out, a black Lincoln, but 
only Yogi on my way back." 

She smiled. "You've been a big help, Mr. Reed. Thanks." 

So that meant that Yogi was right. She must have been 
dead when he got there. Whoever owned that car had been 
the last one to see her alive and probably the one who killed 
her. It was a relief and a worry at the same time. If they had 
no compunction about killing an old lady, they'd have no 
compunction in killing a witness. She had to find Yogi, and 
quickly. 

Several stops later, it was nearly dusk and she'd run out of 
places and ideas. Still no call and no message, not even from 
Tootsie. Her cell phone stayed quiet. This could get 
depressing. She headed for her apartment. 

She parked her bike under the oak again. Shadows 
claimed the ground under the trees and the sun had already 
dipped beyond the Mississippi River. Crickets chirped, 
katydids buzzed, and across the road in the zoo, a lion let out 
a lazy roar. At least the weather was nice. Everything else 
sucked. 

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Tromping across brick paving and greenish moss, she went 
inside and was halfway up the stairs when she remembered 
she'd washed clothes and left them downstairs in the laundry 
room. Damn. Usually, she remembered them, but Monday 
night had been CSI, Miami night, and she'd forgotten to take 
them out of the dryer. If anyone complained, Mr. Lancaster 
would be perturbed. He took pride in running the laundry 
room like he had his Navy crew, taut, shipshape, and with all 
tenants obeying the rules. One of the rules prohibited tying 
up washers and dryers with abandoned clothes. This was 
what, Wednesday? And he'd no doubt already written her a 
nice, terse note about her infraction. 

Doing a U-turn, she headed for the basement laundry 
room. In daylight it was bright and cheerful, painted a shiny 
white with green trim, the overhead pipes hidden by acoustic 
ceiling tiles and the lighting bright fluorescent rings. Now it 
was dark, and she flipped the light switch as she started down 
the narrow flight of stairs. A single white iron railing provided 
support. The bank of washers and dryers sat back to her left, 
and long folding and sorting tables stretched across the front 
wall opposite the stairs. A framed picture of the Memphis-
Arkansas Bridge and the Mississippi River hung over the 
tables. 

Her green plastic laundry basket with her dry clothes sat 
on the table. How thoughtful. Someone had even folded 
them. Certainly not Mr. Lancaster, for which she was grateful. 
The image of a former Navy warrant officer folding her lacy 
bikini panties was rather disturbing. 

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She picked up her basket and turned, then dropped it in 
surprise. Tammy Sprague was lying in front of a dryer. She 
didn't look at all comfortable. Or alive. Something dark 
matted her pale blond hair, and it looked far too much like 
blood. 

Heart pounding, she knelt next to Tammy and was relieved 
to hear her moan. There was blood but it wasn't a lot, just a 
rusty smear. When her eyelids fluttered, Harley said, "Hey 
Tammy, you all right? Did you fall?" 

Tammy blinked for a moment, and her lips moved silently. 
Then she groaned and tried to sit up. 

"You don't look good," Harley said, and put a restraining 
hand on her shoulder. "Wait here and I'll call for help." 

"No." A surprisingly strong hand gripped Harley's wrist. 
"Stu—get my husband." 

"Sure. But you might want to get some medical help, too. 
Falling down the stairs can do some damage." 

Tammy's eyes uncrossed and she seemed to focus better, 
fixing Harley with a steady look. "I didn't fall," she said with 
unexpected energy, "someone hit me in the head." 

Harley blinked. "Was it—Stu?" 

Now Tammy looked irritated. "Of course not. Whoever it 
was thought I was you, 'cause he called me by your name." 

Oh boy. Disregarding ex-boyfriends, the only likely culprit 
would be the greasy guy who'd hit her on the head in Yogi's 
workshop. Apparently, he thought she had the necklace that 
was now in police custody. This could be awkward. And 
dangerous. 

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She stood up. "I'll get your husband. You'll be okay. And 
... and I'm sorry you got hit." 

What else was there to say? Unless she added that some 
maniac was out there bashing in heads and looking for a 
stolen two hundred thousand dollar necklace. 

She knew what to expect when she got upstairs, so she 
wasn't too surprised to see that her apartment looked similar 
to her parents' house. Greaser wasn't very neat. It looked like 
a disaster area, drawers dumped on the floor, and even flour 
bags opened and powdering the counters. 

While Stu hurried to the basement and his wife, Harley 
called Bobby. "Hey, you might want to rethink filing stolen 
property charges against Yogi." 

"Oh yeah? Why is that?" He sounded stressed. And 
skeptical. 

"Because whoever hit me thinks I've got the necklace. 
They just ransacked my apartment and hit my neighbor in the 
head. Apparently, they confused her with me." 

"Some mistake." 

"That's what I thought. She's a real tight-ass. So you 
might want to drop by and check for fingerprints if you're in 
the mood." 

"Right. I'm on the way. Stay there, Harley." 

"Sure." She hung up the phone, grabbed a few things, and 
headed back downstairs to the parking lot and her bike. Fat 
chance. She wasn't about to hang around to be hit on the 
head again. Whoever was after that necklace had the bad 
habit of hitting before asking questions. 

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Only after she was two miles down Poplar did it occur to 
her that she had nowhere to go. While it was a safe bet 
Morgan's cover was blown, no point in making certain of it by 
going there again. Besides, she didn't really trust him. He had 
his own agenda and would be more interested in that. Bobby 
had Angel, and her grandparents would ask too many 
questions, and then they'd treat her to a rehash of all the 
circumstances that had led to their eldest daughter marrying 
"that Davidson boy" out in California and not coming back 
home for fifteen years. Anything that went wrong could be 
traced directly back to that single error, in their minds. 
Memories were long on the Eaton side, absolution scarce. No 
wonder the South had never forgotten the War of Northern 
Aggression. People like her mother's family had the emotional 
tenacity of rabid bulldogs. 

That left her with few options at the moment. She didn't 
really want to stay with Tootsie, though he wouldn't mind, but 
some of his friends were a little too weird for her tastes. 
Family was definitely out, and friends she could impose on, 
few. Then she thought of Cami. Perfect. No one would think 
to look for her at Cami's house. 

She took Nonconnah Expressway out to Hickory Hill, 
cruising along at a speed calculated to escape the notice of 
any police cruisers. No point in inviting trouble. 

Hoping Cami was home, she pulled up in the driveway of 
the neat little house on a busy suburban street and cut her 
engine. Cami was one of the few people who wouldn't care if 
she appeared on her doorstep unannounced, or that they 
hadn't talked to each other in a couple of months. She was 

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the kind of friend that they could pick up a conversation 
where they'd left off. They'd lived close as kids, lost contact 
for a while after school, still called each other now and then, 
and got together on whims. 

The porch light flashed on when she rang the bell, and 
above the frantic barking of dogs, Harley heard Cami squeal 
"Harley!" as she peeped out the hole in the door 

It was just the kind of greeting she'd expected. Harley 
grinned. Camilla Watson had been her best friend from the 
seventh grade through high school graduation. They'd slept 
over at each other's houses, double dated, and gotten into 
trouble together. Adulthood and change of lifestyles had 
altered some things, but not their mutual bond of affection. 

"So what are you doin' out here, Harley?" Cami asked, 
holding a huge orange and white cat back with one foot to let 
Harley in the front door. "Don't mind Punkin. He thinks he 
wants to be wild and free." 

Harley eyed the feline warily. Cats had never been her 
favorite animal. They were sneaky and evil. 

Punkin regarded her with the same degree of welcome, 
and promptly ejected something from his throat that was the 
size of an undigested rat. It landed atop her right foot. Harley 
froze. Cami promptly and efficiently wiped the blob off her 
shoe with a paper towel she magically produced from thin air. 

"Hairball," Cami said cheerfully. "It's all his long hair. 
Come on in." 

Rethinking her decision to stay with Cami, she stood stock 
still until Punkin abandoned his role as the welcoming 
committee. Just on the other side of a baby gate, a flock of 

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dogs still barked loudly, then two of them launched into a 
scuffle that only ended when Cami stepped over the gate and 
shoved them apart. 

"Uh, maybe I came at a bad time," Harley said, but was 
overruled. 

"You came at a perfect time. I don't get much company. 
They'll all settle down in a few minutes, I swear. Just step 
over the gate, will you?" 

"Jesus, Cami, are you running an animal shelter?" Harley 
stared at a variety of cats draped on chairs and a sheet-
covered couch, all disinterested in her arrival. Save Punkin, 
who watched her from the kitchen doorway. A small dog 
leaped up in the air, barking until shushed with a doggy treat. 

"Kinda," Cami said, "I'm a foster home for dogs and cats 
rescued by local groups. Not all of these are mine." 

"Thank God. I was beginning to think the divorce got you 
unhinged." 

"Hah. Getting rid of Jace was the best thing I ever did. I'm 
grateful, not crazy." 

Then this must be penance, Harley thought, and 
remembering Jace, probably worth it. 

Cami led the way into her den. There was a sense of 
messy organization to the stacks of magazines, though cat 
toys scattered on the carpet looked as if they'd been there a 
while. 

"Have a seat," Cami said, waving one hand toward a 
stuffed chair covered in a blue plaid sheet and cat hair. "Take 
off that sheet if you want. And just shove the cats out of the 
way. They won't mind." 

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Short and slender, Cami's red hair was different from the 
blond 'do she'd sported last time Harley had seen her. She 
wore shorts and a huge football jersey, and her pixie face was 
serene and oblivious to the Noah's Ark in her den. 

Harley stepped gingerly over a fat dog asleep on his back 
with four legs thrust into the air, dangling paws twitching in 
some kind of doggy dream. Something squealed loudly and 
she jumped, only to find that she'd somehow stepped on a 
furry pink pig with a jaunty bow. The dog woke, rolled over 
and grabbed the stuffed pig, making it squeal again. 

Cami had misled her, Harley realized, as she tried shooing 
cats from the chair. The furry things did mind being moved. 
Hisses and claws greeted her attempts. She decided not to 
sit. 

"Here, I'll move her," Cami said, and scooped up the 
remaining squatter to carry it to the couch. 

Sitting down with the cat in her lap, Cami eyed Harley 
expectantly. It was obvious she wondered why she'd come, 
and now that she was here, Harley wondered the same thing. 

"Uh, I need a place to stay for the night," she said after a 
moment, and Cami smiled. 

"Great. I have a guest room. It's off-limits to the animals, 
so you should be comfortable." 

It was the mark of bad manners for a guest to betray any 
sign of domestic disapproval, Grandmother Eaton had always 
said, but she'd been friends with Cami too long to care about 
that sort of thing. Miss Manners would be so anguished. 

Relieved and not reluctant to show it, Harley nodded. 
"That'll work." 

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"So, what's up? Your new apartment not working out?" 

"It was until tonight. Someone trashed it. A burglar." 

"No." Cami paused in stroking the cat's head. The animal 
glared at Harley, obviously holding her personally responsible 
for its eviction from the chair. "Did the thieves take a lot?" 

"Not that I can tell." Harley decided that eye contact with 
the cat only made its ears go flatter on its head. "I just didn't 
want to hang around. I'll deal with cleaning it up tomorrow. 
Are you still with the phone company?" 

A change of topic seemed appropriate. It'd save a lot of 
unnecessary questions and lies. 

"Yep, nearly fourteen years now. Doesn't seem like it's 
been that long since we were in high school, does it." 

"Fourteen years? Are you sure?" She did the mental 
calculation twice before deciding it was right after all, and 
sighed. "Jeez, it doesn't seem like it's been that long." 

Cami's wide brown eyes regarded her solemnly. She gave 
a good imitation of a crazy cat lady, but she wasn't stupid and 
had to know Harley was holding out. There could be definite 
disadvantages to long friendships. 

Fidgeting, Harley mumbled something about life changing 
a lot, then added, "Don't look at me like that." 

"Life may have changed, but you haven't. Tell me what's 
wrong. I could always tell when you were upset about 
something. You get that frantic look in your eyes. Is it just 
the burglary?" 

"No. Uh, did you hear about Mrs. Trumble?" 

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"Being found dead in her house by a neighbor? It was on 
last night's news and in today's paper. They said it was a 
home invasion, but I think she pissed off the wrong person." 

"That's likely. The neighbor who found her was me." 

Cami's eyes got really wide and her fingers closed in the 
cat's fur so hard it let out a shriek that would peel wallpaper. 
She released it instantly, but the cat left in an obvious huff. 

"No," Cami said, and Harley nodded. 

"Yes. And it gets worse. The police think Yogi's involved." 

"Ohmigod, Harley!" Cami's screech woke one of the dogs 
and it lurched to its feet barking at the ceiling. 

After Cami got the dog quieted, Harley told her the events 
of the past two days, leaving out the part about Bruno Jett 
really being undercover cop Mike Morgan. 

"So do the police think Yogi killed her?" Cami's eyes were 
wide. 

"Bobby knows better, I'm sure. 

"Bobby Baroni?" Cami let out a sigh of pure pleasure. "He 
still hot?" 

"Diluted to lukewarm. He's living with a stripper named 
Angel." 

"Too bad. I always thought he was the sexiest guy we 
knew." 

"He has his moments. Listen, Cami, if I asked you to help 
me with something and not ask too many questions, would 
you do it?" 

She sat up straight. "Try and stop me." 

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"I knew I could count on you. I've got some ideas I want 
to try out, but I need some help. It may not solve anything, 
but there's a few angles I want to check on." 

"You mean investigate like in Charlie's Angels?" Cami 
looked excited. "I could be Lucy Liu. I've even got a black 
leather jump suit that Jace bought me after the first movie 
came out. He had me dye my hair black. When we got 
divorced, I went blond for a while. I just did it red, but I think 
I still have some black hair dye. Do I need a disguise?" 

Harley gave her a cautious look. "Nooo, not exactly. Unless 
it's called for, of course," she added when Cami looked 
disappointed. "I had in mind something less dramatic. I want 
to visit a jeweler, and I want you to act like you're a 
prospective client." 

"God, I love it. When?" 

"Tomorrow morning okay?" 

Cami grinned. "I'm off for the next four days, courtesy of 
working twelve days straight. It's one of the perks of my job. 
I get a mini-vacation once a month." 

"Sweet." 

On the way to Cami's an idea had formed, and she thought 
she knew a way to find out if her suspicions were valid once 
she heard back from Tootsie. Armed with the name of the 
jeweler and the alarm company, she could eliminate Charles 
Freeman as a suspect in the theft of his wife's necklace and 
focus on the real thieves, or at least have another possible 
suspect to name to the Crime Stopper's hotline. 

It was entirely possible that finding the real thieves would 
clear Yogi of that particular charge, at least. It was highly 

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unlikely that Yogi would purchase a necklace like that; he just 
didn't have the money. And Diva didn't care that much about 
jewelry anyway. She preferred her pretty crystals and wind 
chimes. Materialism just wasn't her style. The only reason she 
could imagine for the necklace being in his workshop had to 
involve Bruno Jett. How else? 

It was unlikely that Jett née Morgan had put the necklace 
there to incriminate Yogi, despite her occasional nasty 
thought in that direction. It was possible that whatever 
criminals he had coming by to fence hot stuff had decided, for 
some incomprehensible reason, to squirrel away stolen goods 
and come back for them later. Maybe they got the address 
wrong and thought they were next door. Maybe they'd left it 
for Jett to retrieve. Maybe it had been overlooked. Now they 
were coming back for it and probably pretty pissed off that it 
was gone. 

"Why do I keep hearin' Dixie?" Cami asked, and Harley 
realized her cell phone was going off. 

She pulled it out of her backpack and jabbed the button, 
expecting Tootsie but hoping for Diva or Yogi. 

A hoarse voice grated, "Give it back, bitch, or you'll wish 
you had." 

She went cold, then hot, and her stomach did an odd flip. 
"What?" she managed to say, but it came out in a strangled 
croak, "Give what back?" 

"The necklace. I'll give you twenty-four hours. Next time I 
call, you better be ready to tell me where it is or you won't 
like what happens next." 

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That sounded entirely possible. Her ears rang. Black dots 
danced in front of her eyes. It was just as well he'd hung up, 
because she couldn't think of anything coherent to say. 

"Harley? Harley?" Cami was kneeling in front of her, 
looking worried. "Is it Yogi?" 

"No." She let out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she'd 
been holding and tried to shrug. "Some crank call. That's all." 

No point in alarming Cami. Maybe she should rethink the 
amateur detective thing. 

"What kind of crank call makes you look this green?" Cami 
asked, still looking worried. 

"One of those nasty ones. I'm okay. Really. Just— 
surprised. It's been a bad two days." 

"God, it sure has. Okay. Have you eaten dinner yet?" 

She shook her head, and in a few minutes, Cami had 
popped a couple of frozen dinners in the microwave and 
uncorked a bottle of wine. They ate cold Reese's Peanut 
Butter Cups while waiting on their healthy meals of low-fat 
manicotti, stuffed with three cheeses, to finish zapping. By 
the time dinner was bubbling and on plates ready for the 
table, the wine and chocolate had relaxed and mellowed 
Harley enough to function. 

In a very short time they'd both scarfed down the 
manicotti, three glasses of wine, and the rest of the bag of 
Reese's. Unsnapping the top button of her stonewashed 
jeans, Harley sat back in the kitchen chair and ignored the 
beady eyes watching her plate for leftovers—two cats sat on 
the ledge of a maple china cabinet right behind her, and three 
dogs hovered under the table. 

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"I'll put 'em up if they're bothering you," Cami said, "I 
forget most people aren't used to animals." 

"That's okay. I don't mind. But maybe that's just the wine 
talking." 

"Or the chocolate." 

"That's possible." They took a new bag of Reese's to the 
den and curled up on the couch. A cat minced across the 
back, eying Harley warily and staying a safe distance away. 

"So tell me the plan," Cami said when they'd made a nice 
dent in the chocolate. Her eyes looked a little too bright. 

"Maybe it's not such a good idea after all. Maybe Bobby's 
right and I should let the police handle this." 

Cami looked disappointed. "No. When will we ever have 
another chance to solve crime?" 

"There's no guarantee we'll solve this one. I just have a 
little idea I'd like to make sure is reasonable. I'm hoping it'll 
help clear Yogi." 

"Then we should do it. C'mon, Harley, remember how we 
used to pretend we were the old Charlie's Angels?" 

"No. I just remember when we used to dress up like Stevie 
Nicks. Until you wanted to be The Bangles. We gave concerts 
on your back deck and frightened the neighborhood dogs." 

"We weren't bad." 

"Oh please. We were wretched. Neither one of us could 
carry a tune in a bucket." 

"None of the boys cared as long as we wore short skirts 
and halter tops." 

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Harley's cell phone interrupted their stroll down Memory 
Lane, and she hesitated before answering cautiously. It was 
Tootsie, and he said he had the info she'd wanted. 

"Already? Damn, you're good." 

"That's the rumor, baby. Here's what I got. Able Alarm 
Company installed Freeman's security system, and he got his 
necklace appraised at Jernigan Fine Jewelers. It's on 
Madison." 

"I owe you." 

"Yep. Bring the dress to work tomorrow." 

"Oh God. Can you get someone to take my group? I want 
to see what I can find out and need the day off." 

"Sure. No problem. I'll call in Simmons. He's always 
bitching he doesn't get the good ones. A trip to Tupelo with 
an Elvis fan club in their eighties ought to cure his whining." 

She grinned. "I'll bring the dress, the shoes, and a black 
and silver scarf to you Friday." 

"I see me as a young Liza Minnelli ... What do you think?" 

"You'll rock." 

She hung up and looked at Cami. "It's on. Are you sure 
you want to do it?" 

"Try and stop me." 

Okay. Now she was committed. She just hoped she wasn't 
stupid. 

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Chapter Seven 

"Okay, tell me one more time just what you want me to 
say." Cami looked determined but nervous. She was dressed 
in a conservative black pantsuit that made her look like a 
lawyer. A lawyer on speed, since her eyes were wide and 
dilated and looked like two Oreo cookies in a bowl of milk. 

They were standing in a parking lot near Jernigan's 
Jewelers on Madison. It was in an old building with a discreet 
burgundy awning stretched over the sidewalk and shading the 
windows. Once the area had been thriving, but now it looked 
rundown and seedy, many businesses having moved to the 
suburbs along with city residents looking for less crime and 
taxes and more room. A few stores down from Jernigan's sat 
a vacant lot with spiky weeds and a chainlink fence around it. 
A truck could easily drive through one of the holes in the 
fence. It looked like one already had. 

"Just be yourself, Cami, but you want to get some jewelry 
appraised. Tell him you'll bring it back in, that you're worried 
about the rash of thefts in East Memphis. Get him talking. Be 
your charming best. Most of all, relax. You look like a deer 
caught in headlights." 

"Relax. Okay. I'm relaxed. Some." 

"Right. I'll wait out here. Just in case I'm, uh—recognized." 

It wouldn't do to tell her that she didn't want to run into 
the guy who'd hit her in the head and threatened her on the 
phone. In fact, she intended to tell Bobby about it once he 
stopped acting like a jerk and could talk to her without 

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yelling. The last call of the night had been him, and he'd been 
mad that she hadn't hung around her apartment waiting on 
him. So mad, she hadn't felt like telling him where she was 
staying and ended up hanging up on him. 

Scrunching down in Cami's car, a dark green Saturn coupe 
blessedly free of cats if not cat hair, she put on a pair of big 
sunglasses and tried to look unobtrusive. She wore a 
Memphis Redbirds baseball cap to cover her hair, the pair of 
jeans she'd been wearing the past twenty-four hours, and a 
shirt borrowed from Cami that had a Confederate flag and 
slogan, Dixie, Old Times There Are Not Forgotten. No doubt 
inspired by the Eaton family, who'd never figured out that 
some times should be forgotten. 

Sitting in the hot car with the sun beating down and 
making a glare on the windshield, she squinted at a black car 
that pulled up behind Jernigan's. A Lincoln, maybe, or a 
Cadillac. Something long and expensive. She remembered a 
very similar car parked in Mrs. Trumble's driveway. Hair stood 
up on her arms, and she was sure her eyes were bugging out 
like a cartoon character's. If a skinny greaser got out, she 
was going to drag Cami from the shop and they were going to 
get the hell out of there and go straight to the West precinct. 

But a tall man in a dark, expensive suit and narrow 
sunglasses emerged from the car. He went in the back door 
of the jewelry shop. Harley sat still and sweated for several 
heartbeats. The license plate on the car in Mrs. Trumble's 
driveway had been one of those personalized ones and had 
started with GR8. She should have paid more attention, but it 
hadn't meant anything to her at the time. Now it did. 

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Before she chickened out, she opened the Saturn door and 
got out, walking in the shadow of the narrow alley between 
buildings. If it was the same car, she'd tell Bobby. She'd give 
him the plate number and let him apologize for being such an 
asshole. Humility would be good for him, as he had never, in 
her experience, had a humble moment in his life. 

Gravel and crumbled concrete crunched beneath her feet, 
sounding much too loud. The alley stopped in the small 
parking lot that held only one other car besides the black one. 
It was a new Lincoln, she saw when she got closer. Acting as 
if she was just taking a shortcut between Madison and 
Monroe, she ambled leisurely past. A few houses squatted 
dispiritedly on the other side of the street, some with 
windows boarded up, two undergoing remodeling. She had 
the eerie feeling that someone was watching her, so she tried 
to look inconspicuous when she glanced toward the rear of 
the Lincoln at the plate. 

GR8LIFE jumped out at her. Her heart thudded like a 
jackhammer. Hot damn. It was the car she'd seen in the 
driveway, even if it wasn't the greaser who'd attacked her. 
She somehow made it the rest of the way down the block, 
turning on Willett to make a complete circle. When she 
rounded the corner, the Saturn was gone. That couldn't be 
right. Cami wouldn't leave her. Maybe she had the wrong 
parking lot. 

Yep. Right lot. No car. Oh shit. 

Now what? 

She squinted down the street. Cars passed in a steady 
stream, none of them a dark green Saturn with Cami behind 

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the wheel. Oh God. What if somehow she'd cracked and 
they'd done something terrible to her? If the Lincoln guy had 
killed Mrs. Trumble, which was likely, he was capable of 
killing Cami. She should never have involved her. That was 
dumb. 

Just as dumb, she'd left her backpack and cell phone in the 
Saturn to be inconspicuous. A great idea that had turned bad, 
as so many did. 

A car horn honked behind her and she jumped nearly 
halfway across the sidewalk. If it had been anything other 
than a dark green Saturn she'd probably have needed to 
change her panties, but fortunately it happened to be Cami in 
the familiar car. 

"Jesus, you scared me shitless," she griped, slinging 
herself into the front passenger seat before a guy in an SUV 
ran over them. Cami floored the Saturn and they sped down 
Madison. 

"Take a right at the next street," Harley instructed, "and 
we'll cruise past my apartment." 

Cami slid her a sideways glance. "Aren't you going to ask 
me any questions?" 

"As soon as I recover from being stranded." 

"I didn't leave you stranded. I thought you were waiting in 
the parking lot. I looked for you, and when I didn't see you, I 
drove around the block and there you were." 

"So what happened?" 

"There's a card in my purse. The guy's name is Neil 
Campbell and he recommended an alarm company I could 
hire to, quote, 'protect my valuables,' unquote." 

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"Jackpot. Did you see a tall guy come in wearing dark 
glasses and an expensive suit?" 

"No. But Campbell went into the back to talk to someone. 
When he came out, he gave me a quote on the appraisal and 
said he'd work with my insurance company, if I preferred, but 
it was usually cheaper to do it on my own." 

"I think I see how they do it." Harley turned in the seat 
and lifted her sunglasses to peer at Cami. "They know who's 
got the expensive stuff and they tell employees of the alarm 
company. The guys who install the alarm know how to get 
past it. Then they wait until the owners aren't home, go in 
and steal the jewelry, sell it, and only the insurance company 
loses." 

"That sounds logical. But how would Yogi be involved?" 

Harley slumped back against the door as far as the seat 
belt would allow and shook her head. "Damned if I know. 
Maybe he wanted to buy Diva some jewelry and they 
recommended an alarm to him, too." 

"But then wouldn't Yogi have an alarm system? And 
expensive jewelry?" 

"Of course. And thieves would have stolen the necklace 
and not left it behind," she replied. "For Yogi to have a 
necklace worth two hundred grand, he'd have to steal it. 
Unless he'd been holding it for someone. Who did he know 
who would leave him with such a valuable piece of jewelry? 
That narrows the choices down to zero." 

"Gee, what a mess," Cami said. 

"That's an understatement," she replied, looking at the 
business card Cami had gotten. It said Able Alarm Company 

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and gave a phone number and website address. Oh yeah. She 
had to be right. Now to call Bobby and tell him what she 
knew. This was not going to be easy. He'd make it hard for 
her and enjoy doing it. He could be such a jerk. 

Not quite happy about it, she called him. He answered on 
the second ring. 

"Yeah." 

"Hey, this is Harley." 

"Yeah?" 

"I've got some info that might be useful." 

"Meet me at Newby's in an hour. We'll talk." 

The line clicked and she sat for a heartbeat or two listening 
to dead air. Then she turned to Cami and said, "Feel like a 
late lunch?" 

* * * * 

It was dark and gloomy in Newby's and almost empty. The 
in-between lunch and college classes crowd had thinned to 
three people. They ordered fried vegetable sticks and Cokes, 
and then went to a table set against the far wall. There was 
no sign of Bobby yet. 

"So tell me about this guy Jett," Cami said, licking grease 
off her fingers. She had a dab of horseradish sauce on her 
upper lip and half a fried zucchini strip still clutched in her 
other hand. "Is he dangerous?" 

"You promised not to ask too many questions, remember? 
I can't tell you much, mostly because I don't know too much." 
Cami looked disappointed. Harley ate a fried mushroom and 
tried not to notice. "It's a bit complicated. Just ride it out." 

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"Sure." Cami dipped the rest of her zucchini into the sauce. 
"No problem. Ohmigod, is that Bobby?" 

Harley didn't have to turn and look. Cami looked like she 
was about to wet herself. "It is. Jeez, Harley, he's even hotter 
than in high school." 

Bobby pulled out a chair and turned it around to straddle 
it. He looked first at Cami then at Harley. "What's up?" 

"Not much. We paid a little visit to Jernigan's Jewelers this 
morning." She paused, mainly to see if he reacted to the 
name of the jeweler's, but his expression gave away nothing. 
"I think I have a connection that will be helpful." 

"You think?" He picked up a fried mushroom from the 
plastic basket and dunked it in the sauce. "What kind of 
connection?" 

"Let's just say there's a questionable relationship between 
the jeweler, an alarm company, and burglarized houses in 
East Memphis." 

Across the table, Cami looked fascinated. Her eyes darted 
from Harley to Bobby and back a few times as if trying to 
figure out just what was going on, but also with a kind of 
shiny appreciation. 

"Just how did you come to that conclusion?" Bobby wanted 
to know. 

"I'll let you figure out the obvious. I'm just doing my civic 
duty. Remember our deal." 

"We had no deal." When her eyes narrowed at him, he 
added, "but I'll see what I can do." 

"Hey Bobby," Cami said in the awkward silence that fell, 
"good to see you again." 

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Bobby grinned. "I can't believe you're still keeping bad 
company, Cami. Didn't you learn anything from Harley's 
schemes after spending a night in juvie?" 

"That was a long time ago. We've progressed. Besides, my 
life's been too dull lately." 

"Stick around Harley too long and you'll wish for dull 
again." He stood up. "If this is all you've got, I've got to see a 
man about a dog." 

The phrase could mean anything from going to the 
bathroom to leaving, but somehow Harley thought this time 
he meant it literally. She tensed. "Did you find Yogi?" 

Bobby wore that blank cop expression again. "Maybe. You 
hear from him?" 

"Not a peep. Dammit, Bobby, I've kept my bargain, you 
keep yours." 

"You haven't kept our bargain. Are you saying you've told 
me everything you know?" 

"Everything I suspect." Maybe she'd hold out about the 
license plate info and the Lincoln. It'd give her a bargaining 
chip in case she needed it to help Yogi. 

"See ya, Harley. And Cami, take some advice and don't let 
her talk you into anything else stupid. 201 Poplar's a lot 
different than juvie." 

"What does he mean by that?" Cami asked when Bobby 
was gone. "Could we really end up in jail?" 

"Bobby's an asshole. I knew better than to call him." 

"Harley, maybe he's right. This could be really dangerous. 
Maybe you should let the cops handle it." 

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"They've made up their minds that Yogi is guilty, that he's 
involved. They're not even trying to find anyone else to 
blame, and I don't want them railroading Yogi just because 
he's made a few mistakes in his life. Okay, a lot of mistakes." 
She raked a hand through her hair, frustrated and frightened 
for her father. "He's got a record. They'll be so quick to blame 
him, and while I don't think Bobby would frame Yogi or 
anything, the police department is overworked and 
understaffed, and I'm afraid they'll take the obvious way out 
unless I find out the truth." 

Cami looked at her for a moment, then nodded. "Whatever 
you decide to do, I'm with you on it." 

She smiled in relief. "I knew you would be." 

They left Newby's and headed for Harley's apartment. She 
wanted to scope it out and see if it was safe enough to go in 
and check her answering machine. Two days of not hearing 
from her parents made her antsy. They sat in the car ten 
minutes before she decided it was safe. 

It was still a mess. Cami stood open-mouthed in the 
doorway while Harley picked a path through overturned 
furniture and the contents of drawers. What looked like 
graphite dusted the surfaces of tables and counters. A light 
blinked on her answering machine and she hit the button. 
Three new messages, two from automated telemarketers, one 
from her grandmother reminding her to ask Diva to join them 
for lunch. As if she needed a reminder. She needed to find 
Diva. 

She stared down at her answering machine and the red 
digital display announcing five messages. Five? She hit the 

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button again to start replay from the beginning, and Diva 
said, "Hey Harley, I've been trying to reach you but can't 
remember your cell phone number. I left my book at home. 
Anyway, hope you get this message. Just want you to know 
we're okay. Tell Eric we'll be home as soon as we can. Oh, 
and watch out for Chinese pugs." 

The date/time recorded it as coming in at 7:04 PM the day 
before. The next message was a moment of heavy silence, 
then a hang-up and the recording said, If you'd like to dial a 
number, please hang up and try again. That was at 7:09. She 
punched the button and looked up at Cami. 

"Bobby's already listened to Diva's message, I'm willing to 
bet. He knows where they are. The police can trace calls." 

Cami stepped gingerly over a couch cushion. "So can you, 
if you look at Caller ID. And what do you think she meant 
about watching out for Chinese pugs?" 

Well, duh. She should have thought of that. She picked up 
the phone and held down the arrow to view the numbers that 
had called. It was a pay phone number with a 901 area code. 
That meant they were still pretty close to Memphis anyway. 

"I have no idea what she meant about pugs. Diva's prone 
to saying inexplicable things. Ah. Here's the number. And I 
know how to find out where it's located." 

She called Tootsie at work and asked him if he could find 
out where a pay phone was located. He could, of course, and 
called her back in a few minutes with the address. It was out 
on Jackson Avenue, not a great section of town in places. 
What the heck were they doing out there? While she had him 

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on the line, she got him to run the plate number of the 
Lincoln. It was registered to a NuVo Rich Warehouse, Ltd. 

"Do you think Yogi and Diva are in police custody?" Cami 
asked when she hung up. 

"No. If they were, Bobby wouldn't have been so quick to 
find out what I knew." She'd grabbed her basket of clean 
clothes, and handed it to Cami. "Hold these. It won't take a 
minute to get my other stuff. It's okay if I stay at your house 
again tonight isn't it?" 

It was of course, as she'd known it would be. Cami had 
always been a sucker for living dangerously. The only child of 
straightlaced parents, she'd thought Harley's childhood in a 
dusty commune in southern California exciting and exotic. 
She'd never been able to quite convince Cami that the reality 
had been hot, depressing, and anything but exotic. While still 
a culture shock, the move to Memphis had been welcome in 
its normalcy. The city had insisted upon her attending a state-
sanctioned school and ignored Diva's assertion that the 
universe taught far more valuable lessons. But it'd been 
Harley's own determination that convinced her parents she 
and Eric should enroll in St. Ann's Catholic School one block 
over from their house on Douglass. Kindergarten through the 
eighth grades were taught in a regimen that appealed to her 
craving for the structure that had been lacking in her early 
life. There was more of Grandmother Eaton in her than she 
cared to admit. For which Eric still hadn't quite forgiven her. 

On the way back downstairs to Cami's car they passed 
Stuart Sprague, a Yuppie type who was probably in his 

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twenties and looked older. He gave Harley a dark look. "How's 

Tammy?" she asked him, and he paused. 

"She'll be fine, no thanks to your friend." 

"If you mean the guy who hit her in the head, my friends 
don't usually make a habit of doing that, no matter how they 
may feel about me. Obviously, it wasn't a friend, Stu." 

"Whatever. Friend or repo man, he knew you." 

"If he knew me, he wouldn't have mistaken Tammy for 
me, would he?" Stu looked a bit perplexed by that logic, so 
she asked, "Did Tammy get a good look at him?" 

"Medium height, thin, greasy black hair. Ring any bells?" 

"Not the faintest ding. Later, Stu." 

When they were in the car she told Cami, "It was the same 
guy who hit me in Yogi's shop. I bet he's familiar with 
Jernigan's Jewelers. Did you see anybody fitting that 
description?" 

"No, just the manager, Neil Campbell. He was kinda fat, 
balding, wore glasses." 

Three different guys were somehow involved in this. 
Lincoln, Greaser, and Campbell. So how was Yogi mixed up 
with them? There had to be a connection. Greaser thought 
she had an expensive necklace found in Yogi's workshop, and 
Lincoln had been in Mrs. Trumble's driveway right before she 
was killed. Campbell knew Lincoln. And as far as she knew, 
Yogi didn't know any of them. Except Mrs. Trumble. She was 
the obvious common link. 

"We need to visit Mrs. Shipley," Harley said, and Cami 
looked surprised but agreeable. If anyone knew anything 

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about Mrs. Trumble, it'd be the one-woman, self-assigned 
Neighborhood Watch sentry, Sadie Shipley. 

Mrs. Shipley was delighted to oblige. She ushered them 
into her kitchen crowded with bits of wall art that would be 
considered Retro at any secondhand shop in town. Orange 
mushrooms, plaster vegetables, a cat clock with moving eyes 
and swinging tail, pictures of birds made of yarn and mosaic 
tiles, and paint-by-number scenes of pansies and seashores 
filled every square inch of lime-green walls. Cami looked 
fascinated. Harley felt nauseous. 

"Mavis Trumble," Mrs. Shipley said, "had no sense of style. 
She wasn't that much older than me, you know. Hard to 
believe, isn't it?" 

Not really. Mrs. Shipley's dyed orange hair did nothing to 
distract from flesh sagging into comfortable wrinkles like a 
partially melted wax doll. Her eyebrows were pencilled in, she 
wore bright blue eye shadow that, fortunately, was mostly 
hidden in folds of skin, and her mouth sported a shade of 
lipstick that Harley remembered being named Orange Flip. 
Spots of rosy blush coated cheekbones that must have once 
been high, but now seemed to blend into her jaw line. 

"Trumble always seemed old to me," Cami said tactfully, 
and Harley nodded. 

"She was never very nice. We thought maybe you could 
tell us something about her that would make us feel better 
about her as a person." 

"We called her Terrible Trumble when we were kids," Cami 
added, and Mrs. Shipley found that amusing. 

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"Hee hee, I told Mavis not to be so hard on you all, but she 
never had any of her own so didn't really like kids. How 'bout 
I fix you girls a coke?" She resembled a tropical bird fluttering 
about the kitchen, getting out glasses and a plastic bowl of 
ice. "What kind of coke you all want? I've got some Orange 
Crush, ginger ale, RC, NuGrape—" 

Cami chose the orange; Harley had Classic Coke on ice. 
The usage of Coke to describe any and all kinds of soft drinks 
was one of the things that had taken her a while to get used 
to when she first moved to Memphis. It was a Southern thing, 
she figured, a bit like getting used to grits and corn bread. 
And speech mannerisms. 

"Well, Mavis never was the nicest thing, bless her heart," 
Mrs. Shipley said when they all had cokes and slices of Karo 
pecan pie, "but that was just her way." 

That was proper Southern etiquette; the most horrible 
insult was always acceptable if the phrase "bless his—or her— 
heart" was added right after it, such as, "She's so 
bucktoothed she could eat an apple through a picket fence, 
bless her heart." 

"Mavis had a hard life, you know," Mrs. Shipley continued. 
"Grew up on the backside of nowhere down in Miss'ippi, and 
then married a man from Ohio. It never does to marry 
outside your own kind. I imagine you know that well enough, 
Harley Jean." 

"Yogi was born in Memphis," Harley defended her father, 
knowing what she meant by her reference, "and besides—he 
and Diva are a lot alike." 

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Ignoring that, Mrs. Shipley went on, "After her husband 
died, Mavis should have enjoyed life like I am. Oh, not that I 
didn't love Charlie Shipley, but I did get awful tired of 
watching those dang sports on TV all the time. He'd watch 
two pigs fighting over a corn cob if that was all there was on, 
bless his heart. Football, baseball, basketball, wrestling. Well, 
I miss him, but I haven't had to hear that god-awful Howard 
Cusack since Charlie died." 

"Cosell," Harley corrected. She politely refrained from 
pointing out that Cosell had been dead since 1995, and that 
Charlie Shipley hadn't died until 1999 as she tried to guide 
her back to the subject. "So Mrs. Trumble didn't have any 
other relatives?" 

"A sister. Married twice. She moved to Michigan years ago, 
but her boys used to come for a visit fairly often. They were 
older than you two by about five or six years, I guess. Always 
rather scrawny young'uns, with close-set shifty eyes that 
reminded me of little weasels. Bless their hearts. More pie, 
Harley Jean?" 

Harley shook her head. "Thank you, this pie is just so 
wonderful I could eat three pieces, but I'm about to bust. I 
suppose her sister is down here seeing to the funeral details?" 

"She's in ill health the last I heard, but her boys live down 
here. They moved back a year or so ago, I think." 

"Really." Harley thought about her next question a 
moment, and then said, "That must have been a comfort to 
Mrs. Trumble, having relatives close by." 

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"It should have been. Archie got to coming by fairly often 
last time I talked to her. I saw him a few times. Still scrawny 
and shifty-lookin' but polite enough." 

Scrawny? Shifty? That fit. "Archie—I don't think I 
remember him. What's his last name?" 

"Don't get me to lying, Harley Jean. I do good to 
remember my own last name." She paused so they could 
assure her that her memory was like it always was, sharp as 
a tack, then said brightly, "His brother's name is Bill, I think. 
Maybe Bob. It's been so long since I've seen him. I ran into 
Archie not long ago, he seemed in an awful hurry. No time for 
conversation these days, people just running here and there 
and everywhere like they have good sense, but never seem to 
get anything done. I remember—" 

"Does Archie drive a new black car?" 

"Lordy no, he drives some kind of shabby piece of junk 
that smokes like a crop duster. I don't think he's doing near 
as well as Mavis claimed, though he always seemed to have 
lots of money on him. Had a wad of bills big enough to choke 
a mule in his pocket, she said. Not that she was given to 
lying, but I'm willing to bet he got that money selling drugs or 
something. He didn't look the type to do an honest day's 
work. Bless his heart." 

It was a bit disappointing that the nephew didn't have a 
black car, but that didn't rule him out. He could work for the 
warehouse where it was registered. A man who'd flash a wad 
of cash to his elderly aunt probably had a few character 
defects that might lead him to a life of crime. Like jewelry 
theft, for instance. 

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When they left Mrs. Shipley's house, after hearing gossip 
about the teenage girl down the street, the Anderson's 
divorce, and the various people who visited that good-looking 
Bruno Jett, it was nearly five in the afternoon. Douglass 
Street residents would be arriving home from work soon, 
those who still had jobs and weren't retired. Or undercover 
cops. 

Harley hoped Morgan didn't look out his darkened front 
window and see her with Cami. He was a complication she 
didn't need right now. She wanted to think about the 
possibilities Mrs. Shipley had given her for Yogi knowing the 
nephew well enough that he'd let him leave stolen jewelry at 
his house. Why would Yogi still be speaking to Archie if Mrs. 
Trumble had a restraining order out on him? It made more 
sense that Morgan or someone he knew had left it there. 
Then again, none of this made much sense. 

Her hope that Morgan wouldn't see her died a swift death 
once outside. He leaned against Cami's car, arms folded 
across his chest, sunglasses hiding his eyes. How 
unfortunate. 

"God, who is that?" Cami breathed. 

"Don't ask." Black tee shirt and tight jeans carried a 
powerful punch. 

Morgan didn't move when Harley reached the car, and 
since he blocked her access to the door, she had to speak to 
him. "Move, please." 

"We need to talk." 

Harley narrowed her eyes. "I don't think so, Mister Jett." 

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Cami made some kind of sound halfway between a sigh 
and a groan. She resembled a big bug with her huge 
sunglasses dwarfing her face and her mouth open, staring at 
Morgan. 

"You don't think, period." He had her by the arm before 
she could avoid it, and he pulled her to one side away from 
the car and Cami and possible flight. She wondered if she 
could do a replay of the knee in the groin thing, then decided 
against it. 

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked when they stood a 
couple of yards away from the car, "You're stirring up 
trouble." 

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm visiting a 
neighbor. When did that become a crime worthy of MPD 
notice?" 

"Keep your voice down. I hope you kept your promise. 
Your friend doesn't need to be any more involved in this than 
she is already. Baroni thinks you can be trusted. I need more 
convincing." 

How nice that Bobby had said that. She revised her earlier 
opinion of his faith in her. She had apparently misjudged him. 
Maybe she should relent and tell him about the license plate. 
And the threatening phone call. She'd bet a dollar to a 
doughnut Archie was involved with both. 

"How do I know I can trust you?" she countered when 
Morgan seemed to expect some kind of answer. "You've got 
your own agenda. It's not necessarily compatible with mine." 

"I could take you in for questioning, you know." 

"But you won't. It'd blow your cover for sure." 

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"Like it's not already blown?" 

"But you don't know that. I haven't said anything to 
anyone about you, except that you're a major pain in the ass, 
and your name or photo hasn't been in the paper or on the 
news. You're still an itinerant jewelry salesman, for all anyone 
knows." 

Morgan looked irritated. His mouth tucked in at one 
corner, and his jaw flexed like he wanted to say something 
nasty but was holding back. Such restraint was admirable. 
Maybe he wasn't such a bad guy after all. 

"Okay," he said after a moment, "we'll make a deal." 

"We already have one and you aren't that good at keeping 
it. Why would I want to make another one?" 

"There's the Crime Stopper's cash in it for you." 

"I'm listening." 

"Since I figure you weren't visiting Mrs. Shipley out of the 
need for senile conversation, I think you've got a plan. Share 
it with me and I'll see that you get credit for helping with the 
bust when it goes down." 

"I have conditions." 

"Right. What?" 

"Tell me when they find Yogi." 

"You need to be making that deal with Baroni. I don't have 
anything to do with it." 

"All you guys stick together like wet rice. You'll know." 

A beat of silence went by, then he nodded. "I'll see that 
you know it as soon as I do. Now tell me what you found 
out." 

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She gave him a quick rundown of what she suspected, and 
she even told him about the scary phone call the night before. 
He didn't like that and told her bluntly she needed to stop her 
damn, amateurish snooping. She disagreed. 

"How's that gonna change anything? Obviously, the guy 
thinks I've got the necklace. The only way I see out of this is 
to catch up with him before he catches up with me." 

"You need to be in protective custody." 

"Right. Orange jump suits aren't a flattering look for me." 

"There's a difference in police custody and protective 
custody." 

"Not too damn much. Before you get any bright ideas—I 
won't go willingly or quietly, so don't even try." 

"Figures." Something that looked alarmingly close to a 
smile hovered at the corner of his mouth. "Baroni says you're 
as stubborn as a goat." 

"Bobby has vast experience with goats, so he should 
know." 

"I don't even want to know what that means." 

She took a step back. Best not to get too close to Morgan. 
He could be tricky. "Cami's waiting on me. We need to go." 

"Would it do any good to tell you to go someplace safe and 
stay there?" 

"Probably not, but I appreciate the effort." 

"I could insist." 

"You could, but you won't. That'd cause a scene and 
attract a lot of unwanted attention." 

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"We've already done that. If Mrs. Shipley hangs any 
farther out that window she'll end up headfirst in the 
hydrangeas." 

That was true. "She's far enough away that she can't hear 
anything, but that won't stop her from making stuff up. She's 
already dying to know more about you anyway." 

"I got that impression. Hold on—" He put out a hand when 
she took another step away and caught her by surprise. "Just 
for show," he said, and kissed her hard on the mouth. It was, 
in her experience, a pretty hot kiss by any standards. 

It left her a little rattled when he finally let go, so that she 
probably looked starry-eyed and thunderstruck. There was a 
hot feeling in the pit of her stomach and her knees were 
rubbery. Blinking at him, she wanted to say something smart 
but could only stare. He winked at her, then turned and 
walked away. 

Somehow she managed to get back to Cami's car without 
falling down. Cami's eyes were popping out of their sockets, 
and they just looked at each other for a minute. Then Cami 
said, "I think we better go." 

That was a good idea. 

* * * * 

While Cami fed cats, dogs, and God only knew what else, 
Harley opted for a shower. She felt sticky, hot, and confused. 
Yogi and Diva were okay, just hiding somewhere and waiting 
for all this to blow over. That was good. Bobby and most of 
the MPD were looking for them. That was bad. Mike Morgan 
had kissed her. That was confusing. Not so much that he'd 

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kissed her, but that she'd liked it. She really needed a 
boyfriend. Celibacy left her vulnerable. 

"So now what?" Cami asked when they sat at her kitchen 
table surrounded by sated cats and dogs licking unappetizing 
parts of their bodies in some bizarre after-dinner ritual. 

"I honestly don't know." She stared out the kitchen 
window at a weeping willow bending slightly in the wind. "I 
have to go to work tomorrow. I really can't afford to miss 
another day, as much as I hate the thought of taking a van 
load of tourists down to the barbecue." 

"Memphis in May? Good God, you're a masochist." 

"I know. And it'll probably rain. It usually does." 

"At least once. Memphis in Mud. I can't believe I'm even 
offering, but if you want me to, I'll go with you to help out." 

"That's very selfless of you, but I don't know if the 
insurance company would like it. Of course, you could always 
sign a waiver releasing them from any responsibility should 
there be an accident or you get bit by a tourist." 

Cami's eyes went wide. "You're kidding, right?" 

"About the waiver, yes, the biting tourist, no. I once had a 
kid take a bite out of my arm when I tried to make him fasten 
his seat belt. He was a little monster. It took all I had not to 
bite him back." 

"I withdraw my offer. I'm not that selfless." 

"I don't blame you." Harley froze when a cat suddenly 
leaped from the floor into her lap. It sat there a moment, 
kinda hunkered with all four feet balanced on both her legs, 
and then it curled up as if settling in for a long nap. She didn't 

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know what to do. Cats had never seemed to like her, and 
she'd returned the sentiment. 

"That's Sam," Cami said. "He was found in the middle of 
Union Avenue during rush hour traffic by someone who took 
him to one of the rescue groups. I'll move him if you want." 

Sam had begun to purr. He looked up at Harley with slitted 
blue eyes. She'd always been such a sucker for a blue-eyed 
man. "That's okay. As long as he doesn't bite, that is." 

"I never guarantee anything. Cats are like men. Fickle and 
prone to irrational acts." 

After a couple of minutes, it even began to feel rather nice 
to have the warm weight of the cat in her lap. His purr 
vibrated softly, and his fur was a soft, dark gray that blended 
into chocolate brown on his ears and tail. She tentatively 
stroked him and was rewarded with the feline version of a 
smile. Not bad. No man in her life had ever responded 
correctly to her overtures. Sometimes it was nice just to be 
appreciated, not overwhelmed with emotion or expectations. 

She sat that way for a while, and it was oddly relaxing. 
Maybe she was mellowing out, or maybe she was just so tired 
she didn't care, but whichever it was, she woke with a start 
when the cat finally decided to move. It leaped to the floor, 
then looked up at her with a strident meow. 

"Sorry. I don't speak Cat." 

"It's pretty easy," Cami said, coming up behind her. "Sam 
wants you to either feed him or let him go out, neither of 
which he needs." 

"You were right. Cats really are like men." 

"So, what's on the agenda for tonight?" 

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"I'm considering a coma. But first, I have to call Eric and 
let him know Yogi and Diva are okay. Do you know where I 
left my backpack?" 

Her cell phone was nearly out of juice. She found the 
power cord and plugged it in, then switched it on and dialed 
her brother. Snake's answering machine took the call, and 
she left a brief message for Eric that their parents had called 
but weren't back home yet, then hung up. 

At least she knew they weren't being held hostage 
somewhere, but it wasn't comforting to think they'd likely end 
up in police custody. God, what a mess. 

Feeling more energized now that she was moving around, 
she and Cami popped some microwave popcorn and got out 
the bag of Reese's. Cami put Steel Magnolias in the VCR and 
they sat in front of her large screen TV, laughing at Shirley 
MacLaine and crying when Julia Roberts died. 

"I just love that movie," Cami said when it was over, and 
blew her nose in a ragged tissue. "Do you think we'll end up 
like Weezer? Eccentric old Southern women?" 

"Hell, Cami, we're like her now. We're just younger 
versions, that's all." 

"I hear Dixie playing. Is that your cell phone?" 

"Oh yeah. I plugged it in to recharge." It took a moment to 
remember where she'd left it, but she found it in the kitchen 
on the china cabinet. Sam the cat leaped up on the cabinet 
shelf purring again, and she petted him as she answered on 
the third ring. 

"It's been twenty-four hours, bitch. Do you have it?" 

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Her mind went blank. The voice was low, raspy, 
threatening. 

"I know where you live. I know where you work. I'll be 
watching your every move." 

Gulp. 

"We'll make a trade. Give me the necklace and I'll let you 
live. For a little while." He laughed, an eerie sound that lifted 
the hairs on her arms and fogged her brain. "Next time we 
meet, I won't be so nice, cupcake. Maybe we'll have a little 
fun first." 

That did it. "Look, asshole," she snarled into the phone, "I 
don't have the necklace, and you aren't gonna do a damn 
thing. Now stop calling me." 

There was a shocked silence. She'd blown it. Now he'd 
come after her with an AK-47 or whatever they were, some 
big gun that would be lethal and painful. 

Then, sounding peevish, he said, "Then who does have it? 
I've got to have that necklace back, and I've got to have it 
tomorrow." 

"Well, you're askin' the wrong person, dude." For some 
reason, it seemed best not to tell him it was now in police 
custody. 

"You have to have it. Or know where it is." He sounded 
almost frantic. "I've got to get it back." 

An idea clicked into place. She couldn't believe she even 
thought it much less said it, but it came out so smoothly it 
was like she'd planned it. "I don't have it, but I can get it for 
you. Call me back at noon tomorrow and I'll tell you where we 
can meet." 

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She hung up before he could answer. Well. This should be 
interesting. 

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Chapter Eight 

"Are you sure, Harley?" Cami looked wide-eyed and 
excited. She wore the black leather jump suit her ex-husband 
had bought her, and it fit like a glove. "Do I look like Lucy 
Liu?" 

"You could cash her paychecks and no one would know the 
difference." 

They stood in front of the long hallway mirror. The ceiling 
light reflected on Cami's leather and Harley's baseball cap. It 
was a bad hair day. Blond strands stuck out like a scrub brush 
atop her head, so she'd given in to the inevitable and covered 
it with a cap. She wasn't into dress-up like Cami anyway, nor 
into dying her hair black like Cami had done. 

"I guess Jace's habit of shopping at Frederick's of 
Hollywood turned out okay after all. At least this outfit doesn't 
have the butt-cheeks cut out like the one he wanted to buy 
me." Cami did a little turn, looking satisfied. "If you want a 
Charlie's Angels disguise, I have a halter top that might fit 
you." 

Harley looked at Cami's generous chest. "Not even in my 
dreams. It'd be like putting my fists in a five-gallon bucket. 
They'd be lost. I'm happy with my tee shirt." 

"Well, I can't argue with success. You've got two gorgeous 
men trailing after you like stray dogs, so you must be doing 
something right." 

"Yeah? Who would that be, and how'd I miss them?" 

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Cami slid her a skeptical glance. "You know who—Bobby 
and Bruno. Both are drop-dead gorgeous." 

"And both hate me. Forget it. I'm not interested anyway." 
That wasn't quite true. She still thought about Morgan's kiss, 
and when she did, even her toes tingled. Not that she'd do 
anything about it. Getting mixed up with cops held little 
appeal for her. It involved too much stress. 

"Okay," she said, changing the subject, "here's what we're 
going to do. I have a feeling that Mrs. Trumble's nephew is 
employed by NuVo Rich. I thought we'd cruise out to their 
warehouse and see if we can find the black car I saw in her 
driveway not long before she was shot. If it's there, we call 
Bobby. Or Bruno. The fact that the warehouse is on Jackson 
makes me wonder if Yogi and Diva aren't in that area, too, 
since they called me from a pay phone on Jackson." 

"This is so exciting. Too bad I don't know any karate." 
Cami did a couple of jabs at her reflection, looking like a 
spastic frog. 

Harley's eyes crossed. This could be trouble. If Tootsie 
wasn't out doing his thing as Julia Roberts tonight, she would 
have asked him to go with them. She'd even considered her 
brother, but Eric hadn't answered her earlier message. The 
best she could come up with in the way of safety was a can of 
Mace and the company stun gun kept in a drawer at work. 
Just in case. She didn't intend to get close enough to the 
nephew or the warehouse to put them in any danger, but it 
never hurt to be prepared. 

They took her motorcycle, partly because it was easier to 
maneuver in traffic, and partly because Cami thought it would 

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be more like Charlie's Angels. Since she didn't have an extra 
helmet, Cami wore her ex's old football helmet. Harley began 
to feel like she was in a bad remake of the movie. 

Memphis Tour Tyme offices were dark and closed. If not 
for the fact that she really wanted the stun gun, she'd have 
gladly omitted this part of the evening, but Be Prepared was 
her new motto. Just like the Girl Scouts. Or was that Boy 
Scouts? Not that it mattered. With nasty phone calls and a 
head-bashing lunatic on the loose, it was either the stun gun 
or a rocket launcher. Either would do. 

"If you want to stay here with the bike, it won't take me 
long to fetch the gun," Harley said, but Cami shook her head. 

"No way. I'll watch your back." 

"Uh, okay. But I should tell you, there's a security guard 
for that kind of thing. Mr. Grinder may be ninety, but he can 
dial 911 if he has to. It's up to you." 

Cami chose to go with her. Because she didn't really want 
Mr. Grinder to write down in his log that she'd been there— 
Mr. Penney had a rule about taking company property home— 
Harley preferred stealth. 

"We'll go in the back way. I have a key, so we can use the 
stairs. The elevator's not in use at night anyway." 

Their footsteps echoed eerily on the concrete steps leading 
to the second floor. 

"This is spooky," Cami whispered, and even that seemed 
to echo in the stairwell. "I feel like I'm on a Halloween prank 
and should have rolls of toilet paper under my arm." 

"Yeah, and if we get caught, we may need it for its original 
use." Harley wasn't sure why she was whispering. No one 

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would be here except Mr. Grinder, and he was very nice, but 
deaf and prone to napping. His gun, if he had one, was 
probably rusted and had only one bullet. 

"You're kidding, right?" Cami's voice shook a little. 

"Oh yeah." Like hell. "Just kidding. If you want to back out, 
you can. We'll just go back to your house once I've gotten 
what I need here, and you can wait for me." 

"No. No, I'm in." 

Harley unlocked the office door and stepped in to turn off 
the office alarm. She flicked on a light and a subtle glow 
illuminated the waiting room. It looked more dingy than ever. 

"What is it we're here for?" Cami wanted to know. 

"A stun gun. It's for emergencies only, like a really drunk 
tourist or a soccer team. If we run into any trouble, it may 
come in useful. Along with your karate expertise." 

"Right, I can use karate," Cami said seriously. 

Harley gave her a speculative look. "You're getting too far 
into this, you know. Let's be realistic. And prepared." 

"Gotcha." 

The security alarm beeped and she punched in the code, 
then went to the back office. When she flipped on the 
overhead light, she squinted in the fluorescent glare, but she 
found the stun gun stored neatly in the desk drawer where 
she'd left it. 

Cami peered over her shoulder. She stood in the doorway 
and could still rest her chin on Harley's shoulder if she'd 
wanted; it was that small a room. 

Harley held up the stun gun. "It works. I know. I had to 
use it once. So many who need to be zapped, so little time." 

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She pressed the buttons to demonstrate how it worked 
and a loud ZZZZZZ startled Cami. Stumbling back a few 
steps, her arms flew up and her right hand flapped against 
the wall. And the panic button on the alarm system. 

It sounded instantly, a deafening siren loud enough to 
burst ear drums. Harley lunged for the cancel button. 
Naturally it didn't work. Cussing a blue streak, she frantically 
punched in codes and buttons with fingers and even the heel 
of her hand, but the high-pitched wail yodeled on. Cami's 
shrieks were mercifully drowned out by the alarm. Harley 
resisted the urge to pinch her. 

"We gotta get out of here," she yelled, and when Cami just 
stared at her with wide eyes, she gave up and grabbed her 
hand, jerking her out the door and down the hallway. No time 
to do much else. Mr. Grinder would be creaking up the stairs 
any minute. Even worse, the security system was hooked up 
directly to the police department. They definitely had more 
than one bullet for their guns. 

Pulling Cami along, she lurched down the hallway and out 
into the waiting room. The elevator light signaled it was in 
use. Mr. Grinder. Or the cops. Oh boy. 

"This way. The stairs." 

Cami followed close on her heels. Harley snatched at the 
door to the stairs. It remained resolutely shut. Oh no ... 
locked. Another self-locking door. She hated them. She really 
did. 

"Fire escape," she shouted, and charged down the hall. 

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When she came to an abrupt halt under a pool of fuzzy 
light, Cami obviously wasn't prepared and slammed into her, 
knocking her against the wall. 

"Ow!" they said in unison, reeling from the impact, and 
then both caught their balance. Harley rubbed her head and 
envisioned them as Lucy and Ethel on speed. God, they were 
pathetic. 

"Door," Cami gasped, and her leather-clad arm snaked out 
to snatch at the handle. It turned. Maybe Cami should be in 
charge of all doors. They opened for her. 

This door led to a broom closet. Mops, buckets, but no 
brooms, cluttered the tiny square of linoleum floor. 

"We can hide," Cami said. 

"No we can't. Unless you want me on your shoulders. We'd 
never fit. There's an exit here somewhere. It's probably 
marked Men." 

It wasn't marked at all. That had to be a safety violation. 
Not that she'd be picky about it. Freedom beckoned. Cool air 
that smelled of car fumes and asphalt swept in when the door 
swung open. The sound of traffic flowed past, and in the 
distance—sirens wailed. Oh joy. 

"Hurry!" they both said at the same time again, and 
clambered out onto the metal grill of the fire escape. Harley 
froze. It was the height thing. Even the second story seemed 
like the top of Lookout Mountain. 

"Come on," Cami said, grabbing a metal rung to swing her 
feet onto the rickety, tiny tiny steps that looked far too fragile 
to hold the weight of a crow, much less a hundred and twenty 
pound woman. "We've got to hurry." 

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Harley crouched motionless. "Go without me. I'm fine 
here." 

"Harley. I hear sirens." 

"Take my bike keys. Remember to put your feet down 
when you come to a stop." 

"No." Cami looked pale in the distorted glare of passing 
headlights. "I can't drive a motorcycle. You have to come." 

She might have clung to the cold metal grill all night, but 
Cami played the trump card: "I put a Reese's in your 
backpack. You can have it when you get down." 

Harley caved. "Fine. But you better not be lying. I have the 
stun gun." 

She closed her eyes and turned to go down backward. If 
she didn't look, it couldn't scare her. One shaky foot at a 
time, she felt her way down with Cami urging her on, until 
she finally stood on solid ground that tilted a little bit. The 
earth steadied after a moment. The smell of tar had never 
been so sweet. She looked up. 

"Give me my chocolate." 

Wordlessly, Cami dug into Harley's backpack, and then 
held out a Reese's. Harley crammed it all into her mouth. She 
didn't feel the least bit guilty about it, either. 

There wasn't much time to waste. The sirens sounded 
really close now. All they needed was for Bobby to show up. 
Protective custody would seem like Club Med by the time he 
finished with them. He had no sense of humor about these 
things. 

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"What now?" Cami wanted to know when they stopped at a 
red light. Traffic whizzed by on Highland as they waited in the 
left turn lane. 

"I'm thinking." That wasn't quite true. She was still 
shaking too much to think clearly. It had been a close call, 
and no doubt poor Mr. Grinder would turn in his notice 
tomorrow. Of all the things to keep in good working order, a 
panic alarm, in what used to be a broom closet, would not 
have been her first choice. But Lester Penney had never been 
the brightest bulb in the pack, in her opinion. Tootsie would 
just love this story. If she ever told him. 

"We used to have nerves of steel," Cami said sadly. "We're 
getting older." 

"I prefer to think of it as getting smarter." 

"Recent activities not counting, of course." 

"Of course. We're much smarter than when we used to 
steal your dad's old truck so we could ride around at night." 

Sounding muffled by her helmet, Cami laughed. "Not too 
much. We were pretty creative then. I always thought it was 
brilliant of you to use Dad's big Craftsman screwdriver to shift 
with when he caught on to us and started taking the gear 
shift into the house at night." 

"It worked. Improvisation was my strong suit then. Now 
I'm into peace and quiet." 

"Right. I can tell." 

"Recent activities not counting, of course." 

The light changed and Harley gave the bike gas, so that 
Cami had to hold on to the safety strap and any talking 
ceased for the moment. They were headed toward Jackson 

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Avenue, so she had obviously made a decision on some level. 
Traffic thinned out close to Summer Avenue, and then picked 
up again when she hit the eight lane thoroughfare. She'd 
planned on getting to the Jackson Avenue warehouse by the 
back way, but maybe she'd made a wrong turn. Better 
planning would have helped. 

At the next stop light, Cami leaned forward again. "Are we 
going the right way?" 

"I don't think so. Damn." 

"Why don't we get on the Interstate?" 

"We'd be road kill. All those eighteen-wheelers own the 
road." 

"Hey. Is that Vanna?" 

Harley's head snapped around, and she caught a glimpse 
of a familiar lime-green VW van turning a corner. All thoughts 
of Trumble's nephew and the warehouse evaporated, and she 
did a U turn right in the middle of the road that made both 
tires and Cami squeal. She then gave the bike gas and roared 
off in pursuit. The van turned and she followed, taking the 
narrow roads at a faster rate of speed than was advisable. 

A single taillight winked as the van dipped into a valley, 
and the bike took the top of the rise like a ski jump, sailing 
through the air to land several yards away on hard asphalt. 
Cami hung on valiantly, though her fingers were making 
permanent indentations in Harley's ribs. Good thing she wore 
a sturdy cotton tee shirt. It was taking a lot of abuse. 

She flashed her lights to get their attention, but the van 
kept going down the residential streets that wound in 
confusing loops and cul-de-sacs. Yogi should recognize her 

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bike. He loved it almost as much as she did. Why weren't 
they stopping? 

The warm night air was muggy but a lot cooler at nearly 
fifty miles an hour; Harley had goose bumps up and down her 
arms. And a sharp pain in her ribs where Cami kept digging in 
to hold on. Gunning the engine, she stuck close to the van as 
it screeched down narrow streets that had cars parked at the 
curbs, leaving barely enough room for one vehicle to pass. 
She lost sight at a four-way stop when a slow-moving station 
wagon got in front of her and she couldn't get past it. 
Frustration tempted her to cut through a few yards, but she 
resisted until she got the chance to jump a curb at the corner. 

Just when she thought she'd lost the van, it suddenly 
reappeared right in front of her, making a sharp turn on a 
side street. She smiled grimly. A yellow sign warned Dead 
End, and the van braked. Now she had them, and she could 
find out just why the heck they were running from her. 

Leaping from her bike and leaving Cami struggling to hold 
it up, she reached the stopped van and jerked open the 
driver's door. A cloud of fragrant smoke billowed out, smelling 
strongly of wacky weed. That might explain it. She pulled off 
her helmet and squinted through the smoke. 

"Yogi?" 

"Harley?" Eric's face peered at her from layers of smoke. 
"Chiick. Was that you behind me?" 

"Who the hell did you think it was?" Disappointment made 
her cranky. Then it occurred to her that if he had the van, 
he'd seen Yogi and Diva. "Where are they, dude? The police 
don't have them, do they?" 

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"You mean Yogi? No, chick, they're okay. I saw 'em just a 
little while ago. Why were you chasing me? I thought you 
were the cops." 

"I thought you were Yogi and Diva, you idiot." She 
narrowed her eyes at him. Sometimes he didn't have a clue. 
"Where are they? And where's my car?" 

Looking irritated, he said, "You don't have to be so bitchy. 
Your car's okay. I ran into Yogi at a store, and we switched 
vehicles, since you don't want me smoking in yours." 

She thought about that a moment. Maybe that was a plus. 
The police were looking for the van, not her Toyota. "Does 
Bobby know about this?" 

Eric shook his head. "Why would he?" 

"So where are Yogi and Diva staying?" 

"They didn't say. But I didn't ask. They're okay, chick. 
Stop worrying so much." 

Staggering a little, Cami reached the van. She wheezed, 
"Hey Eric." 

"Chick, what happened to you?" Eric asked, staring at 
Cami. 

She'd pulled off her helmet and her hair was stuck to her 
scalp, looking like she had one of her black cats clinging to 
her head. She ran her hand through it, but it didn't help 
much. 

"I'm Lucy Liu," she said. "I'm supposed to look like this." 

Eric rolled his eyes, but was smart enough not to argue. 

"Listen," Harley said to her brother, "try to stay out of 
sight, okay? With the van, I mean. If the police see it, they'll 
stop you. And then you'll be in jail for possession." 

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"Of what? You ought to know I don't drive around with that 
stuff." 

"Then what do I smell?" 

"Clove cigarettes. Or mandarin. I can't remember. They 
make margarita flavor, too." 

"I better not smell the slightest whiff of cloves, mandarin, 
or margaritas in my car, dude." 

He rolled his eyes again and restarted the van. "Do 
something with your hair, chick. You look scary." 

When they were once more on her bike, Harley sat there a 
moment. It was late. The need to check out the warehouse 
wasn't as urgent now. Her biggest worry was apparently 
doing much better than she was, driving around in her car, 
oblivious to the mayhem their disappearance had caused. It 
figured. 

Cami tapped her on the shoulder. "What now, Kemo 
Sabe?" 

"Damned if I know. Maybe we should go back to your 
house. Yogi and Diva are okay, and Eric isn't riding my clutch, 
so all should be right with the world. Oh God." 

"What?" 

"Yogi has that damned dog in my car." 

Cami laughed. 

* * * * 

Morning came far too early. Light poked through the 
window where the shade didn't quite reach, a splinter that fell 
right across the bed and into her eyes. Harley squinted and 
saw something move next to her on the bed. 

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She came immediately upright and threw herself 
backward, forgetting that the bed was against the wall. Her 
head smacked so hard into unyielding Sheetrock that she saw 
stars. Grabbing her pillow to use as a weapon, she peered 
into the gloom for the intruder. Her ears rang and her heart 
pounded like a bass drum, but other than that, there was no 
sound. Nothing moved. The house was quiet. 

Maybe she'd been dreaming. It happened sometimes, one 
of those realistic kind of dreams where she thought she was 
awake but really wasn't. Feeling a little foolish, she put down 
the pillow and scooted across the bed. To reassure herself 
there were no monsters or Friday the 13th kind of maniacs 
hiding under the bed, she bent over and peeked beneath the 
dust ruffle. Soft gloom hid a couple of packing boxes, but no 
serial killers. It was safe to get up. 

What was the matter with her? She'd let that guy spook 
her with his phone calls and silly threats. She knew better. 
Wiggling her toes in the carpet, she stood up and stretched, 
then bent to touch her toes, a sort of "rise and shine" routine 
guaranteed to give her an early heart attack but was good to 
get the blood flowing back where it should be. 

A sharp pain immediately clutched her ankle and she let 
out a yelp. Upside down, she saw a flash of blue eyes and 
furry tail. Aha. She hadn't dreamed an intruder after all. Sam 
the cat put a paw out again to tap her bare foot. 

"How did you get in here," she said, and turned to sit on 
the floor. Sam joined her, curling up in her lap like he 
belonged there. "You're really a sneaky devil, aren't you? I 
don't like cats, by the way. Maybe you didn't notice." 

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Or maybe he didn't care. He was doing that purring thing 
again, a vibrating fur ball with a satisfied feline smile. This 
wasn't so bad. In fact, it was almost nice. 

When Cami stuck her head in the door, Harley looked up. 
"We've bonded. It's amazing." 

Cami only smiled. "Coffee's ready." 

Three cups of coffee laced with French vanilla creamer 
later she was ready to face the day and a van load of tourists 
hyped up about the Memphis in May barbecue festival. 
Normally, she'd enjoy attending the barbecue billed as the 
world's largest. It always drew a huge crowd from all over the 
country. Friday and Saturday were the biggest days. Harley 
considered it a sort of springtime Mardi Gras, with people 
dressed up in outlandish costumes and drunk as skunks. 
Since this was her first year as one of the sober people in 
attendance, she anticipated boredom, mixed with pulled pork 
sandwiches and cokes. No beer while on duty. Bummer. 

When she got in, Tootsie looked up and held up a hand to 
stop her while he finished a call. She stood at the desk sorting 
through the message slips he gave her, most of them 
unimportant. 

The last one said: "Your time is running out. I'll call at 
noon." 

There was no name, but she didn't have to work hard to 
guess who'd left it. So he really knew where she worked. She 
wasn't surprised. 

"What's up, baby?" Tootsie wanted to know, eying her. "I 
don't like the sound of that message, and the guy wouldn't 

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leave his name. And you wouldn't know anything about the 
break-in here last night, would you?" 

"Maybe. It wasn't really a break-in, more like a break-out. 
I have keys." 

"Jesus, baby. What's going on now?" 

She gave him a quick rundown, including the fact that Yogi 
and Diva were apparently okay, and ending with her phone 
stalker. "He's probably just bluffing anyway." She crumpled 
the message slip into a ball and tossed it into the trash. 

"So why did you want the stun gun?" 

"I'm just borrowing it until he stops calling. And until I 
check out that warehouse." 

"Yeah, well, I did some more checking for you. It belongs 
to some guy named Norville Bates. Ever hear of him?" She 
shook her head. "I didn't think so. He specializes in cheap 
knockoffs, Mexican imports, fake Chinese porcelain, statues, 
rugs, crap like that. I'm not so sure there's a connection." 

"There has to be. His car was in Mrs. Trumble's driveway 
right before she was shot. There are two options I can see, 
one being that for some reason Bates shot her, and the other 
being that her nephew did it. Personally, I opt for the 
nephew. Archie must know Bates somehow. Maybe he's an 
employee. Maybe he's a friend or business partner." 

"And maybe he's a homicidal maniac, and you should stop 
messing around with this shit and tell Baroni about it." 

"Bobby and I have communication problems." 

"Then tell Jett. Call Crime Stoppers. Stay out of it, baby. 
It's dangerous." 

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He was right. Here she was playing detective and getting 
nasty phone calls, putting herself in danger when she knew 
better. Cami wasn't the only one who'd gotten too far into the 
Charlie's Angels thing. 

"Look," Tootsie said, leaning toward her and lowering his 
voice, "my new friend is a cop. Don't look so surprised. You're 
not the only one who appreciates a man in uniform, baby. I 
had him check out a few things for me. You know that 
necklace? It never made it to the evidence room. That doesn't 
necessarily mean it won't, you understand." 

She thought about that. "But if it's not there, where could 
it be?" 

"Who knows. Could be that it's being appraised or 
delivered to an insurance company for identification. Or.... 
"He let it drag out suggestively. 

"You're so trusting." 

"According to Steve—my friend—it gets checked in and 
only authorized police can sign it back out." 

"So, is this how you can find out so much stuff? Steve 
knows where and how to look?" 

"I never share trade secrets, baby. Just enjoy the perks." 

"Right." 

She had an excellent idea where that necklace was—and 
she bet Morgan did, too. Damn. She really hated what she 
was thinking. 

* * * * 

Of all days, she had a bunch of rowdy corporate guys away 
from home and family and set for fun, to take to the 

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barbecue. Fate had a way of tormenting her at times. She 
fielded propositions and not-so-subtle pickup lines with her 
usual aplomb. Pointing to the can of Mace on her belt and 
wagging a stun gun usually worked fairly well. Most guys, no 
matter how drunk, responded to a sense of self-preservation. 

"Whassa'matter, baby?" one of them said, smelling like a 
brewery already, and it was only eleven in the morning. "Don' 
you like me?" 

"I don't know you. Step back, please. Regulations require 
that all passengers be seated and seat-belted." 

"We haven' lef' yet. Still..." He hiccupped. "...sittin' in front 
of the hotel." 

"And we'll still be sitting here at five this afternoon if you 
don't take your seat, sir. I can't drive with you unseated." 

He belched, not the response she desired. Maybe the walk 
down Beale Street would sober him up enough that he 
wouldn't be arrested before he got back to his hotel, but it 
was doubtful. If he was this far gone before noon, he was 
hopeless. 

"Hey Bailey," one of the other guys said, "get in and leave 
her alone. There'll be more women than you can shake a stick 
at down on the river." 

Harley hoped the women down on the river had sticks of 
their own. Bailey was trouble. He had a belligerent, bulldog 
kind of expression on his face that didn't bode well for the 
future. It was obvious he didn't like getting turned down, 
though he must have a lot of experience with it. He had one 
of those flat, pug noses in his fleshy face, a round head like a 
cue ball and with just about as much hair, and a single 

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eyebrow that made her think of caterpillars. He probably 
didn't get much action. Horny men were such a pain in the 
ass. Horny drunk men were downright begging for Mace. 

The urge to reach for her stun gun only increased when he 
sagged into the front passenger seat with the obvious 
intention of remaining. She considered insisting he sit in the 
back, but since he'd subsided into a sulky heap and all the 
other seats were taken, it'd be a mistake to make a big deal 
out of it. Bailey could very well be the guy who signed the 
checks for these little outings. 

She began to think she'd escaped disaster as they got near 
Beale Street. Bailey had said only a few words on the entire 
ride from East Memphis. The rest of the group were jovial and 
ready to party. Typical guys away from home and business. 

Traffic was a nightmare, but she'd expected that. It was 
always like this during Memphis in May, with Riverside Drive 
closed to traffic and the detours bumper to bumper. She'd get 
them as close as she could, then park the van in The Peabody 
lot and agree to a meeting time and place for their return to 
the Marriott. That left her with a few hours to kill. 

"If you want to leave earlier," she told them when she 
pulled up in the parking lot of a restaurant on the river bluffs 
overlooking Tom Lee Park and the barbecue booths, "call Tour 
Tyme and they'll contact me." 

Bailey's head swung around to face her. "Come with us 
and we won't have to go to that kinda trouble, sweetheart." 

She smiled brightly to keep from following up on her urge 
to gas him. "You're very kind, but that's against the rules." 

"Rules are made to break." 

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"I'm very law-abiding. Watch your hands." She popped the 
door locks on the automatic van door, and it slid back with a 
grating sound that drowned out his reply. "It's nearly noon 
now, gentlemen. We can meet back here or wherever you 
prefer." 

Everyone left the van but Bailey, who obviously intended 
to be persistent. No point in giving him another chance to get 
turned down. She opened her door and got out, moving 
around the end of the van to settle on a time for pickup with 
the most sober man in the group. This needed to be hurried 
up. Her stalker would be calling in a few minutes, and she 
wanted to tell him the police had his necklace. That would 
end his harassment and any danger to herself. Let the cops 
handle it from now on. 

She made arrangements to meet them in The Peabody 
Hotel at seven unless they called, and then she reminded 
them of the company policy that guaranteed extra pay for 
overtime. Tying up a van and driver all day didn't come free. 
Or cheap. For most corporate guys, the cost didn't matter. 
Memphis Tour Tyme even had a couple of sleek limos they 
rented out, but she avoided driving them when she could. 
Wearing a uniform and driving kids around on Prom Night was 
on a par with getting a root canal without Novocain. 

"Hey, Blondie," Bailey hollered from the front seat of the 
van, "your phone's ringin'." 

The guy was such a jerk. She really had to resist aiming a 
shot of Mace at him. If ever a man needed Mace.... 

"Hey," she said, scowling at him as he held up her cell 
phone, "that's personal property." 

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All she needed was Bailey scaring off her stalker before 
she had a chance to get rid of him permanently. 

"Don't get your panties in a wad, Blondie." He juggled it 
from one hand to the other as Dixie kept playing, his grin 
making him look like a malevolent full moon. 

"My name is Harley. Give me my phone." She held out her 
hand, rapidly losing patience. He kept juggling it, even when 
one of his buddies said to give it to her, for Chrissake. 

It was a matter of pride with jerks like this, the need to 
assert some misbegotten sense of masculine superiority. 
She'd show him superiority with a full shot of Mace in his eyes 
if he kept it up, dammit. 

Only a yard from him, she unsnapped the Mace canister 
from her belt loop. Usually the fact she was willing to use it 
convinced drunks to play nice. Bailey just looked at her as 
Dixie played louder and she got madder. 

"Give me my damned phone," she snarled, and gave the 
can of Mace a healthy shake, "or I'll get it from you once 
you're lying on the ground bawling like a baby." 

Bailey tossed the phone at her but it went wide, landing on 
the concrete. Plastic parts went in several different directions 
and Dixie stopped playing. This did not make her happy. She 
shared her sentiments with Bailey, his buddies, and anyone 
within earshot, resulting in the much soberer Bailey shoving 
some hundred dollar bills into her hand and apologizing 
profusely. 

"Buy a new phone. Buy two of 'em. Just take the money 
and we'll pretend this didn't happen, okay, Blondie?" 

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There was nothing like Benjamin Franklin to make her 
forgiving, but she warned him that if he wanted a free tour of 
the Memphis jail, he was in the right neighborhood. 

It was a relief to leave them behind and head for the lobby 
of The Peabody Hotel where they were to meet later. Why 
had she ever thought this job would be stress free? It was 
just another kind of stress. Maybe she should rethink her 
career choices. 

It was cool inside the hotel, and she headed straight for 
the bank of pay phones just off the main lobby. The marble 
fountain with its profusion of fresh flowers had the usual 
ducks swimming around the bottom, drawing a crowd. Twice 
a day, the music of John Philip Sousa ushered the ducks from 
the elevator and across a red carpet to their elegant marble 
pool, always to a big crowd. What a life. She'd seen the duck 
house on the roof, a twenty-five thousand dollar cage with 
gilding and artwork. Not bad housing for a duck. Or a tour 
guide. 

Music from a grand piano added to the noise of tourists 
drinking at the lobby bar, and she had to put one finger in her 
ear to hear Tootsie. She told him about her broken phone, 
said she'd call him as soon as she replaced it, and swore she 
hadn't zapped Bailey even though he'd deserved it. 

"He came really close to tasting Mace, though," she added, 
and Tootsie laughed. 

Harley hung up and went looking for another cell phone 
store. There had to be one close by, so she could walk. The 
trolleys would be crowded, and getting a taxi during Memphis 
in May nearly impossible. It was almost one o'clock by the 

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time she had a new phone, after shelling out more money 
than she thought proper. Where did they find such rigid 
employees? You'd think she was the only person ever to 
break a phone. And as much as she paid in monthly fees, 
they ought to furnish new ones for free. 

She sat in Starbucks at Peabody Place, drinking an iced 
mocha latte and programming her new phone. Then she 
called Tootsie and had him call her back to test it. 

"It works," she said. "Looks like I missed my stalker's noon 
call, though." 

"He'll call back. I think you ought to go ahead and call 
Bobby anyway." 

"Yeah. Maybe. Here's the thing. I told Jett everything I 
knew. Those guys obviously talk to each other a lot. They 
always seem to know too much." 

Squinting at the Irish pub across the atrium area of glass, 
greenery, and ceramic tile pool, she saw a familiar face. She 
sat up straight. Morgan. And he was sitting at a table with the 
guy she'd seen parking the Lincoln in the lot behind Jernigan's 
jewelers. 

"Gotta go," she said to Tootsie, and hung up. This didn't 
look good. Morgan sitting with a guy she'd seen going in the 
back door of a shady jewelers. She'd just told Morgan about 
him yesterday, so if he was sitting here all chummy with him 
less than twenty-four hours later, he had to already know 
him. No one moved that fast. Unless—Morgan was a dirty 
cop. It happened. Maybe he was in on the jewelry heists. It'd 
be easy for a cop to look the other way, especially an 

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undercover cop, but she didn't think it was true. Didn't want it 
to be true. 

Then she thought about the necklace Morgan was 
supposed to have "found" in Yogi's workshop, and it began to 
seem more likely. A queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach 
made her glad she hadn't eaten yet. Jeez, she really didn't 
want it to be him. Disappointment left a bad taste in her 
mouth. 

Oh God—she'd told him everything she knew. Had he even 
passed it on to Bobby? If he was crooked, he hadn't. If he 
was clean, he had. One way to find out. 

Still feeling shaky, she punched in Bobby's number, but he 
wasn't at his desk. She tried his cell phone next, but she had 
to leave a message there, too. Damn. Of all times for him to 
be out of reach, it had to be now. 

She ordered another iced latte and kept her eyes on Dan 
McGuinness' pub and the men at the atrium table. Her phone 
rang just when she was contemplating confronting Jett 
herself, and it was Bobby. 

"What's up?" 

"I'm at Peabody Place watching Jett drink a beer with the 
guy who was in Mrs. Trumble's driveway right before she was 
killed. How coincidental is that?" 

"Shit, Harley, you're always in the wrong place at the 
wrong time." 

Not exactly the reaction she'd hoped for. "Look, Bobby, 
doesn't it seem funny to you that Jett just happened to be 
there the night I got hit? And just happened to be the one to 

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find me? And just happened to find the necklace in Yogi's 
workshop?" 

"I hope you're not saying what it sounds like you're saying. 
Dammit, Harley, stick to what you do best, driving drunks 
around, and leave police work to the police. You're gonna end 
up in a cell or a coffin if you keep this up." 

Then he hung up on her. She stared at her cell phone in 
disbelief. He'd sounded really irritated and not at all 
interested. And he hadn't even let her tell him what she 
suspected. That was so—Bobby. He really carried that macho 
thing too far. 

Why hadn't he even asked how she knew the guy who'd 
been in Mrs. Trumble's driveway? He hadn't seemed the least 
bit curious. That wasn't like Bobby. In fact, it was so not like 
Bobby she began to think maybe Morgan had already passed 
on the information she'd given him. That made her feel a little 
better. It'd mean he wasn't dirty after all. 

Across the atrium, Morgan and the guy she thought of as 
Lincoln stood up. They were leaving. She'd follow them, see 
how chummy they were, see if they did anything too 
suspicious. It shouldn't really matter if Morgan was a dirty 
cop, but on a personal level it mattered. That was crazy. Why 
did she care? 

The two men walked out together, exiting on Second 
Street. It was broad daylight, with no shadows to hide in, so 
she hung back, staying out of sight. Wasn't it risky for them 
to be seen together if they were involved in something illegal? 
Yet they stood on the curb within sight of anyone passing by, 

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looking like tourists. Maybe that was the intention. Hiding in 
plain sight. 

Then Morgan went one way, Lincoln the other, and she 
stood uncertainly. Which one to follow? She decided on 
Lincoln before he got too far away; he was least likely to 
recognize her. It occurred to her as she tried to be 
inconspicuous that it was a very good chance this guy's name 
was Norville Bates, owner of the NuVo Rich warehouse and 
the black Lincoln. He looked too old to be Trumble's nephew. 
And if Mrs. Shipley was right, Archie didn't have a car that 
nice, though he might have access to it. 

Heat came up off the sidewalks, mixing with car exhaust to 
create a thick stew. She should have worn shorts. It was 
going to be a hot day, a west wind sweeping clouds and dust 
and probably rain across the river from Arkansas before 
nightfall. It'd already been a wetter than usual spring and 
promised to be a soggy summer. That'd be a break from 
thermometer smashing temps. One good thing about 
Memphis weather—it was consistent in its inconsistence. 
Summer was usually hotter than hell and had little 
resemblance to spring, but the winters were bearable. 

Bates—if that was him—crossed the street and headed 
toward The Peabody Hotel. She trailed behind, keeping him in 
sight but not too close. She really wasn't bad at this kind of 
stuff. It wasn't so hard. 

She hurried to keep up once he got to the valet parking 
area outside The Peabody, and followed him down an alley 
that cut behind the service entrance and convention area. A 
huge gray Dumpster that smelled of unsavory debris squatted 

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close to the opened door, and a delivery truck had backed 
close to the ramp. Bates disappeared somewhere between. 

Damn. Had he gone inside the back way? Gotten in the 
truck? She went up and down the smelly alley a few times, 
gagging a little. Jeez, the stuff people threw away. A pair of 
ladies bikini panties lay near the curb in the alley. Anyone 
desperate enough to get it on in an alley like this one had to 
be really horny. She didn't want to even consider other 
reasons they may be there. 

A man in a tan uniform emerged from the hotel pushing a 
dolly. She asked him if he'd seen a man about six feet tall, 
wearing a sport jacket, blue shirt, and khaki pants, but he 
hadn't. It wasn't too big a surprise. Bates had given her the 
slip. Dammit. 

Glumly, she clomped back down the slanted concrete ramp 
and went around the front of the truck. An arm snaked out to 
grab her around the waist and yanked her back against the 
metal side of the gray Dumpster. Her head jerked backward. 
She fumbled for the can of Mace attached to her belt loop, 
but her wrist was grabbed and held. 

"Oh no, don't even think about it. What the hell do you 
think you're doing?" 

Mike Morgan. She tried to glare at him when he moved in 
front of her, but his arm pressed across her chest to hold her 
back against the Dumpster so tightly she couldn't maneuver. 
Just where the hell had he come from? 

"At the moment," she got out, "I'm just focusing on trying 
to breathe." 

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The pressure on her chest eased, but his grip on her arm 
didn't. He looked mad. His eyes had gone that dark blue that 
was almost black, and a muscle flexed in his jaw. Oops. She 
wasn't so sure anymore that he was a good cop. 

Self-preservation kicked in. 

"What a surprise seeing you here, of all places, in an alley 
behind The Peabody. Taking a shortcut? That's what I was 
doing, but this is the service entrance and it sure does stink 
back here, doesn't it? Yep. Smells really bad. Excuse me, but 
you're holding my arm a little tight there, Mac, and it's cutting 
off my circulation." 

He let go and took a step back but still barred her flight. 
He must really be using the set of weights in his back 
bedroom. His tee shirt stretched taut across his shoulders and 
chest, biceps bulging out of the sleeves. It was intimidating. 
So was his furious expression. 

"Why are you following me?" 

"Following you?" She gave him her most innocent look, a 
wide-eyed stare and slow blink, and let her mouth open a 
little as if shocked at even the mere suggestion. "Following 
you? Why on earth would you think I'm following you?" 

"Because you sat in Starbucks watching me for half an 
hour, then followed us out. Got a good reason for that?" 

Yes, but not one he'd want to hear, she was sure. 

"Believe it or not, there are such things as coincidences, 
Bruno." She injected righteous indignation into her tone, 
careful not to overdo it. "I'm working. I just left a group of 
rowdy, randy corporate jerks at the entrance to the barbecue, 
and I'm really not in any mood to listen to twenty questions 

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from you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to find my way 
into the hotel by way of a door that has security." 

She left in what she hoped passed for a huff, though she 
wasn't even sure what a huff really was, and she knew he 
watched her until she reached the mouth of the alley. When 
she turned the corner and glanced back, he was gone. Thank 
God. 

Not that she had any illusions he'd bought her excuse for 
one minute, but at least he hadn't gotten nasty about it. Too 
nasty, anyway. Her wrist still hurt where he'd grabbed it to 
keep her from using pepper spray on him. That would have 
been interesting. Good thing for him that his reflexes were 
sharp. He could have been in real trouble. 

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Chapter Nine 

She went back to the lobby bar and this time ordered a 
Bloody Mary. Juice was good for the nerves. The vodka was 
just a perk. She chewed on the celery stalk and considered 
getting another drink before deciding against it. She still had 
to drive, and if Bailey had been frequenting the beer stands, 
she'd probably end up having to hose down the van interior 
as well. 

Ordinarily, she would run a few personal errands or read a 
good book while waiting, but the traffic was too bad to leave 
and she wasn't in the mood to read about stalwart Scottish 
heroes and spunky heroines at the moment. She went across 
the lobby to the gift shop and bought an Enquirer and a few 
duck-shaped mints. Everything at The Peabody focused on 
ducks, from decor to food. However, duck was not offered on 
any of the menus in the hotel restaurants. She completely 
understood. It would never do to have guests look at the 
ducks swimming in the lobby fountain as if they were lobsters 
in a tank. That might lead to fowl play. She actually smiled at 
her own pun and thought appreciatively about the amazing 
properties of tomato juice and vodka. 

After lunch, she'd make a few calls, see if she could get 
anything new about Yogi and Diva out of Eric, and check on 
Cami to see if she was up to some more snooping later on. 
Bobby didn't believe her, and she no longer trusted Morgan. 
Maybe this time she'd see if she could talk Tootsie into joining 
them. He was thin, but he was wiry, and besides, some of 

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those cross-dressers could be pretty vicious. Not that she 
thought Tootsie was too brutal, but a man in his position had 
to know a lot about self-defense. Some of the "good ole boys" 

a.k.a. rednecks, took perverse pleasure in victimizing guys 
like Tootsie. 
Her budget didn't stretch to affording lunch at The 
Peabody, so she decided to go down to the barbecue and see 
if her friend Butch still worked security. He'd not only get her 
in, he'd feed her, too. She and Butch went way back, almost 
as long as her friendship with Bobby and Cami. He was a 
couple of years older and hadn't gone to St. Ann's, but he'd 
lived in the neighborhood as a kid and hung around with all of 
them. Now he owned a security company and provided 
guards for city functions as well as private companies, an 
endeavor completely at odds with an adolescence spent 
driving his parents nuts. He had grown past all that, it 
seemed, now married with three kids and a house in the 
suburbs. Butch still liked to keep his hand in the daily 
operations, though, and loved attending the barbecue. He 
even had his own booth in the barbecue contest, the Porky 
Pigs or some other ludicrous name. She'd find him. 

Gray clouds banked ominously across the river, stacking 
up over Arkansas rice and cotton fields. Flat land stretched 
from the Mississippi to Crowley's Ridge and the foothills of the 
Ozarks. In West Memphis, Arkansas, where gambling was 
legal at the dog track, Memphis residents could win or lose 
their grocery money every week during the racing season if 
they didn't feel like the long drive to Tunica and the casinos in 
Mississippi. Tennessee had finally passed legislation 

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permitting a state lottery, but being in the Bible Belt, they'd 
had to fight every inch of the way to legalize it. 

The smell of hickory smoked pit barbecue hung heavy in 
the air, reaching from the foot of Beale Street and Riverside 
Drive all the way up to Second. Harley ended up in a long line 
slowed by extra security measures. No purse or backpack 
went unchecked, anything over a certain size or even slightly 
suspicious was rejected. No coolers, no food, not even 
umbrellas were allowed. 

She flashed her ID and asked for Butch, and with the help 
of Abraham Lincoln's face on a bill, was escorted directly to 
his booth. 

"Harley-hoo." Big and bear-like, he engulfed her in a hug, 
smelling of sauce, spices, and roast pork. He wore asbestos 
oven mitts on both hands and a plastic pig snout atop his 
head. His face was flushed from a surplus of beer and 
standing over a metal drum filled with hot coals and hog 
halves. He looked really happy to see her. "Get yourself a 
beer out of that cooler and sample some of the best pulled 
pork you'll ever put in your mouth, girl." 

She opted for just the pork. There was nothing like 
Memphis barbecue. Methods and recipes were closely guarded 
secrets of the couple of dozen teams competing for the trophy 
and prize money, and presentation played a huge part. Teams 
from all over the country came every year to cook pork. They 
took it pretty seriously, but managed to have fun along the 
way. It was obvious Butch was getting into the having fun 
part. 

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Kicking back in a folding chair at a long table covered with 
butcher's paper, she chowed down on a huge sandwich 
dripping with sweet, tangy sauce, pulled pork that was juicy, 
tender, and crisp on the edges, and topped with a generous 
mound of fresh coleslaw between two buns the size of dinner 
plates. Just the way she liked it. Messy. 

"Ever had better?" Butch wanted to know when she'd 
wedged the last bite into her mouth and she shook her head. 

"Never," she said when she could talk again. "It's the 
sauce." 

"And the slow cooking. We've been at it since Wednesday. 
Judging's tomorrow. I think we have a good shot at it this 
year. Came close last year. What you been up to, Harley 
girl?" 

"Working. I brought some tourists down to sample beer 
and barbecue." 

"Not a bad job. Guess you aren't with that banking 
company anymore, huh. The one you worked at last time I 
saw you." 

"Nope. Stress got to me. Now I just deal with drunks and 
old ladies. It has its moments." 

A fat man in Spandex shorts and no shirt jiggled into the 
booth; he was bald, wore a pink plastic pig snout held on with 
elastic bands over his ears, and had a cup of beer in each 
hand. 

"Hey, cutie," he said, leering at Harley, "wanna come 
dance?" 

Music blasted from all the booths, country, rock and roll, 
and bluegrass, CD players vying for air space. The Porky Pigs 

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had opted for country, and Travis Tritt belted out a song 

about love gone wrong. Like that was a new theme. 

"No," she said politely, "but thanks for asking." 

"C'mon, baby, it's time to par-tay." He bounced around, 
rolls of fat jiggling so hard it was a wonder he didn't start a 
seismic episode. Maybe he didn't realize Memphis was on the 
New Madrid fault line and earthquakes were predicted for 
some time in the next century. 

"She's not interested, Junior," Butch said, and gave the fat 
man a shove that sent him back toward the gate in the white 
picket fence erected around their booth. "Drunks," he 
observed genially as Junior ambled away, then poured a cup 
of beer down his throat and belched. "You ought to come 
work for me, Harley-hoo. It'd give you a chance to Mace guys 
like Junior." 

She grinned. "Thanks, but I'm already packing." 

He squinted at her pepper spray on her belt. "Damn if you 
ain't. You always were the most dangerous girl in the 
neighborhood." 

That gave her an idea. He'd grown up on Carnes, right 
around the corner from Mrs. Trumble. Not really expecting 
success, she asked if he'd known Mrs. Trumble's nephews. 

"The weasels? Yeah. A little. They were a couple of years 
older than me, about seven or eight years older than you, I 
guess. They didn't hang around much when they came down 
for their summer vacation. Not that I blamed 'em since they 
had to deal with Trumble. Crazy old bat. I heard she recently 
got killed in a home invasion." 

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"Yeah, that's the story." How tactful of him not to mention 
Yogi and Diva. 

"Wouldn't put it past Archie and Neil to go in like vultures 
now. They moved down here a while back, heard that they 
visited her every blue moon. Probably couldn't stand each 
other's company too much. Not that that'd stop 'em from 
wanting anything they could get." 

"Neil?" She frowned. Why did that name ring a bell? 
"Archie's brother?" 

"Yeah. The two of 'em had different last names. Half-
brothers. Archie's daddy came from up in Michigan 
somewhere, I think. Why you askin' about those screw-ups?" 

He looked a little drunk, but it was hard to tell with Butch. 
He always had such a happy expression anyway. 

"Well, Mrs. Trumble's dead now. Makes you wonder about 
her family, y'know? She used to give us all such a hard time. 
I never really thought about her having her family visit, 
especially kids. Maybe that's why I never met them. And, of 
course, she hated us." 

"Hell, Harley, I'd have hated us, too. We used to hang out 
on my corner and get into all kinds of shit." 

"It was fun." 

"Oh yeah." 

Reminiscing was always fun, sometimes helpful. Like now. 
It had popped into her head why the name Neil rang a bell. 
The manager at Jernigan's Jewelers was named Neil 
Campbell. It was one more link. Bobby really shouldn't 
underestimate her. Neither should Morgan. 

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It was hot and muggy, even with a fan blowing pork fumes 
across the plywood and canvas booth built to look like a 
farmhouse. Plaster and concrete barnyard animals had been 
set on lurid green outdoor carpet, and bales of hay were 
strategically planted all around the fifteen square foot area. 
Wooden blocks spelled out The Porky Pigs on a weathered 
plank hung above the gate. The booth directly across the 
wide stretch of avenue crowded with people had a Hawaiian 
theme. Hula dancers swayed provocatively in grass skirts, but 
the effect was somewhat diluted by pink plastic snouts. Miss 
Piggy goes Hawaiian was painted on a piece of driftwood 
stuck into mounds of sand scattered over their allotted space. 
A couple of fake palm trees with real coconuts swayed in the 
rising wind. It was nice just sitting and enjoying the crowd 
and warm weather. She could almost forget everything but 
the moment. 

Still, she kept an eye on the darkening clouds over 
Arkansas. If it rained, she'd rather be in the lobby of The 
Peabody than trudging through mud. Besides, she had a 
couple of calls to make, and it wasn't exactly quiet here. 
Bands were cranking up near the huge metal scaffold erected 
at the other end of the park. She sat back and enjoyed the 
day while she could. 

She hadn't run into any members of the group she'd 
brought to the barbecue, but she doubted they'd care about 
the rain. It was nearly five now, and she hadn't heard from 
them. Two more hours and she'd be free, but the approaching 
storm apparently had other ideas. 

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Clouds moved in fast, and the wind picked up. Butch gave 
her another hug and insisted she take some barbecue with 
her. It had begun to rain by the time she reached the gates at 
the foot of Beale Street. Slow at first, then faster, it came 
quickly across the river like storms so often did. Only this one 
looked pretty bad. Officials using bullhorns ordered everyone 
in the park to leave, even those participating in the cook-off. 
People vacated Tom Lee Park in droves, funneling like 
lemmings through the gates. Fierce winds blew canvas tents 
and trash all over the bluffs, whipping rain against people and 
cars. The smell of rain diluted exhaust fumes and made 
streets slippery. Cars switched on headlights and horns 
brayed warnings. At the first sign of any inclement weather, 
Memphis drivers turned into complete idiots with homicidal 
tendencies. Tempers flared, metal bent, and police handed 
out tickets like Mardi Gras beads. The drive back to the 
Marriott ought to be really fun. 

By the time she reached the hotel she was drenched. Even 
her tennis shoes squelched with each step. Her tee shirt stuck 
to her like a second skin and the hem of her jeans flapped 
against her bare ankles. It was uncomfortable, and worse— 
cold. Her sports bra did little to hide the fact her own 
headlights were on, nipples beaded up and very visible under 
thin white cotton. 

Teeth chattering, she crossed her arms over her chest and 
stood in the lobby while she tried to figure out what to do. A 
trip to the bathroom might help assess the damage. It was 
just off the lobby past the pay phones, and a line curled out 
into the hallway. She wasn't the only one to take refuge. She 

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looked longingly at the lobby bar. Irish coffee sure would 
taste good right now. 

Wedging her way into the crowded Ladies room finally, she 
let out an "Eek!" when she saw her reflection. Mascara 
streaked her cheeks, her hair stuck out in wiry spikes, and 
she had barbecue sauce on her chin. Not her best look. 

It didn't take too long or much effort to scrub her face, but 
the hair took ingenuity. Gel had clumped into a gooey mess 
not even her comb could separate, and ignoring the horrified 
look from the restroom attendant, she stuck her head in the 
sink. It was the only way. When she came up dripping, the 
attendant handed her a small terry cloth towel. It was worth a 
five dollar tip when she left. 

She went outside to the covered walkway and sat on a 
bench away from lobby music and conversation, and dialed 
Tootsie. He hadn't heard from Harley's group yet and declined 
her suggestion they go out to Jackson Avenue later on. He 
didn't even sound too sorry about it. 

"Can't make it. Did you call Baroni?" 

"You're turning into a nag, Tootsie. That's not an attractive 
quality in a man wearing chiffon." 

"Bitch," he said affectionately. "Now answer my question." 

"Bobby's not interested. He thinks I'm crazy and making 
stuff up. And I'm about halfway convinced Bruno's a lost 
cause. He may be working for the dark side." 

"It's always possible. Take my advice—and I know you 
won't—go to a movie tonight. Stay away from Jackson 
Avenue. Let the cops handle it, baby." 

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"That's just it. They aren't handling it. They're after Yogi 
and not paying any attention to the guilty guys. All I need is 
some solid proof to get Bobby to listen." 

"Just what kind of proof do you expect to get?" 

"I don't know." That was, unfortunately, true. She hadn't 
the least idea what would turn the lightbulb on for Bobby. 
"Photos, maybe." 

"Of—?" 

"Pictures of thieves in action, or maybe stolen jewelry. 
Christ, Tootsie, offer suggestions instead of questions." 

"You aren't listening to my suggestions." 

"I hate it when you're right. Okay. I'll stay away from 
Jackson. Maybe Cami will help me clean up my apartment 
instead. It looks like hell." 

"Come by and see my show if you're out later. I go on at 
ten." 

"I'll bring that dress to you Monday, I swear. I oughta be 
able to find it by then." 

"No sweat, baby. I'm feeling more Marilyn than Liza 
tonight anyway. Storms always make me feel blond instead of 
brunette." 

"You're so crazy." 

He laughed in a throaty, Marilyn Monroe kinda way and 
hung up. 

She called Cami, but there was no answer. Probably 
feeding the zoo. She'd just get rid of the Marriott guys, then 
clean up the van and head that way. Good thing the storm 
had put an end to a long evening baby-sitting drunks. 

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This time, Bailey sat in the rear of the van, reeling and 
singing all the way to the Marriott in East Memphis. It took 
nearly an hour due to the wet streets, traffic lights out, and 
the usual crazy drivers. By eight o'clock, she'd cleaned the 
van and let herself into the office to log herself out and leave 
the keys. Old Mr. Grinder greeted her in the lobby on her way 
out, and he spent fifteen minutes giving her a replay of the 
break-in the night before. 

"I mighta got 'em if I'd seen 'em," he vowed, "but they got 
clean away. Guess they knew better than to mess with me." 
He looked like a dried apple doll, all wizened and shrunken, 
with tufts of white hair sprouting randomly atop his head, but 
he obviously had an exaggerated sense of his own power. 

"You're fearsome, Mr. Grinder. I wouldn't want to mess 
with you." 

That was very true. He'd probably end up shooting her by 
mistake. 

The last shreds of light were fading when she reached 
Cami's house. No lights were on. It had rained here, too, 
though it didn't look like it had stormed as badly. It was weird 
that Cami's house was the only one without lights. 
Streetlights put off a fuzzy glow and neighbors had lights. 

Even stranger, the front door was unlocked so that all she 
had to do was walk inside. The dogs met her barking 
frantically, but there wasn't a cat to be seen. "Curiouser and 
curiouser," she muttered, feeling a lot like Alice in 
Wonderland. She flicked on the den light but nothing was out 
of place that she could see. Of course, it might be hard to tell, 

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with cat toys littering the floor and doggy doodles here and 
there. 

"Hey Cami?" No answer. There was no sign of her in the 
house, and she wasn't outside on the wooden deck or in the 
backyard. The Saturn still sat in the garage. Hair prickled on 
the back of Harley's neck as she walked back through the 
house. It was just as odd that there were no cats as it was 
that there was no Cami. A dozen cats would be hard to miss. 

Going back to the kitchen, she flipped on an overhead 
light. A white sheet of paper stirred under a magnet on the 
refrigerator. It was short and to the point: 

"If you want to see your friend alive you'll answer your 
phone at 9" 

Jesus. A cold chill seeped through her that had nothing to 
do with damp clothes. She looked at the clock over the door. 
Five minutes to nine. She dug in her backpack for her phone. 
The battery was low. She plugged it into the charger just in 
case. It rang almost immediately. 

The familiar voice said, "Go to a pay phone at the corner of 
Ridgeway and Knight Arnold. Bring the necklace. Wait for my 
call. If I see one cop, she's dead." 

The line went dead before she could say anything. Damn. 
This was crazy. What if he was bluffing? But what if he 
wasn't? This was all her fault. She'd led Archie right to Cami. 
If anything happened to her, she'd never get over it. Okay. 
Now she'd call Bobby. This was some serious shit. True to 
form, he wasn't in and she left a message on his cell. It was 
brief and to the point: 

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"Bobby, I'm at Cami's and she's been abducted. I've got to 
meet the guy somewhere, but I don't know where yet. I'll let 
you know as soon as I do. Call me." 

She hung up. For whatever reason, the nephew—one or 
both, and her money was on Archie—had hidden the necklace 
in Yogi's workshop. Now he wanted it back. And she didn't 
have it. Damn, damn, damn. 

The pay phone at the corner of Ridgeway and Knight 
Arnold was at the edge of the Circle K parking lot. On Friday 
nights, it was busier than usual, people going in and coming 
back out with six packs of beer and the usual chips and 
cigarettes. A strip of townhouses sat on the other side of the 
convenience store, fronted by a white rail fence and scattered 
trees. A man came up the hill and approached the phone, and 
her stomach dropped. He didn't look like the guy who'd hit 
her, but she wasn't really positive Archie had Cami. He could 
have hired someone else to grab her. She watched the guy 
warily. 

"You gonna just stand there, lady? I need to use the 
phone." 

"Uh, I'm expecting a call. It won't take but a minute." 

He gave her an impatient look. The unspoken rule of pay 
phone etiquette demanded he remain at least a yard away 
from the phone when it was in use, but there were no rules 
regarding the distance if she was just waiting for a call. The 
guy paced back and forth a few minutes, and then came back 
to within a foot of her. 

"I gotta use the phone, lady. If you ain't gonna, step 
aside." 

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She held out her cell phone. "Use this one until I get my 
call." 

Blinking, he looked from her to the cell phone in her hand, 
then shook his head, walking away and muttering about crazy 
white women. She completely sympathized. 

Ten minutes later the phone finally rang and she leaped to 
answer it. 

"Go to the pay phone in the Cloverleaf shopping center and 
wait for the next call at ten." 

Again, before she could ask anything, he hung up. 
Dammit. 

"This is freaking stupid," she muttered, and got back on 
her bike and fired it up. If it was just a trick, she'd kill the 
asshole when she caught up with him. Was she sure he even 
had Cami? She could have just taken the cats to an all night 
vet for shots or something. Of course, that'd be damn near 
impossible without her car. Or a bus. He must have Cami, but 
why would the guy take the cats? It would not only be 
impossible but crazy. 

She cruised by the house again and quickly checked to be 
sure Cami hadn't miraculously appeared, but there was no 
sign of her. However, she did spot a couple of the cats. 
Punkin sat in a chair, eyes narrowed at her as she stepped 
over the baby gate. Sam came up to her, his cry rather 
strident. 

"Got scared and hid, huh," she said, and he pushed at her 
hand with his head. So Cami obviously hadn't taken cats 
anywhere, as they were still here, just hiding. She let the 
dogs out to pee and thought about calling Bobby again. No 

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way would she call Morgan. He could be a part of this. There 
was some kind of connection between him and Bates, and she 
was positive there was a connection between Bates and Mrs. 
Trumble's nephews. Both Neil and Archie had ties to Bates, 
but she didn't have time to ponder the situation. She let the 
dogs back in and shut the back door, then put out some dry 
food for all the animals. 

She grabbed a sweater from Cami's closet and left. The 
night air dripped with recent rain. Slick streets gleamed under 
street lights and the red and green glow of traffic signals. She 
made the turn onto Mt. Moriah and headed west. It was a 
toss-up whether to take the interstate or city streets. Traffic 
was always a bitch on rainy nights. 

When she stopped at a red light and put her feet down for 
balance, she glanced in her side mirror and saw a long black 
car going east make a U-turn. An adrenaline rush pushed 
through her veins as tires squealed on wet asphalt. Cami? 
Was it the prick who'd taken her? The car looped around cars 
slowing for the light and ended up in her lane, two cars back. 
She peered hard in the side mirror. 

Tinted windows hid the occupants' identity, but there were 
two of them. Archie must be following her to be sure she 
didn't bring the cops. She'd just go on like he'd said and wait 
at the pay phone for his call. He'd probably been watching her 
wait at the Circle K. 

The light changed and she took off, watching the mirror. 
The car kept a few car lengths behind, but stayed with her 
when she turned onto Ridgeway. She put on her blinker to 
get on Nonconnah and the car shifted lanes to follow. At the 

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last minute, she shot past the exit and continued down 
Ridgeway. The car swerved from the exit to stay on 
Ridgeway. Oh yeah. 

Picking up a little speed, she cruised toward Poplar 
Avenue, and the car stayed right on her tail. She debated 
stopping. A confrontation might result in Cami getting free. Or 
it might end up with Archie taking off with her. But maybe 
she could delay until Bobby called. It was worth a chance. 

The light at Ridgeway and Quince turned yellow and she 
zipped through it. Still two car lengths behind, the black car 
had to stop. She did a U turn through the parking lot of a 
strip mall, sped across Quince and came up behind the car 
stuck at the light. Damn. It wasn't the Lincoln. It was a shiny 
new Crown Victoria. With two men. No Cami. So who the hell 
was following her? 

Several possibilities came to mind, none of them savory. 
Peeling away, she went up and over a curb on the corner, 
sped down Quince and hit Kirby Parkway. There was no sign 
of the car behind her, and she relaxed a little when she 
turned onto Poplar. She kept her speed down here. This was 
Germantown, and cops loved to give out tickets. Any more 
delays and she was liable to miss that phone call. She'd 
already wasted too much time. 

It wasn't that far to Summer and White Station if she got 
on the expressway, even with all the construction. Crews had 
some of the off-ramps closed, and she tried to think if it'd be 
worth it to take a chance. Traffic got thick on Poplar as she 
got near Ridgeway again. The air smelled like wet dog, rank 
and heavy with noxious fumes. 

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Waiting at the light, she glanced into her side mirror just in 
time to see the damn black car pull in behind her. It flashed 
its lights. Oh yeah. Like she'd answer to that. 

She gave the bike some gas and wedged between an SUV 
and the curb, ignoring the angry beep from the driver worried 
about a scratch. Right turn on red after stop ... she took the 
corner and sped down Shady Grove. Memphis loved to 
confuse newcomers and longtime residents with creative 
engineering. Ridgeway doglegged three times, changed 
names twice, and anyone with a city map was bound to have 
a nervous breakdown trying to figure it out. City engineers 
had to be on drugs. There was no other rational explanation. 

Shady Grove narrowed into a two lane road right past a 
medical complex. Upscale houses and exclusive gated 
enclaves sat on each side. Huge trees hung over the road and 
dripped rain. The road rose and fell in a narrow winding 
ribbon, ending at a three-way stop. Headlights popped up 
right behind her. Damn. They'd caught up. Who were those 
guys? Maybe she could lose them if she took back roads, but 
time was running out and she didn't dare take too long. 

What the hell were they doing? Falling back, speeding up, 
hanging like a tick on a hound dog, the black car kept up, 
even when she made a sudden turn onto Walnut Grove, 
another six lane main road. Weaving in and out of traffic, she 
thought she'd lost them once, but when she slowed down to 
get around a minivan, they bore down on her like a black 
barracuda. 

Gunning the bike, she took another abrupt turn, speeding 
through a residential area. Tree branches laced overhead, 

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diffusing light from the street lamps. There was no sign of the 
car in her mirror. She'd lost them. Maybe. 

Headlights suddenly loomed up on her right side, coming 
off one of the side streets, bright and demonic. She gave the 
bike more gas and careened down the street like she knew 
where she was going. By this time she didn't even know 
where she was or how to get where she needed to be. Bright 
lights danced over her from behind, glinted off her side 
mirror. 

Who were those guys? 

Not even slowing down for railroad tracks, she cornered 
the next street, a looping curve that swung back around west 
and crossed Highpoint Terrace. She caught a glimpse of 
interstate to her right, and tried to remember if this was the 
street that dead-ended into Chickasaw Country Club. 
Probably. Unless this bike could climb fences, she'd have to 
turn back onto Highland, and maybe hit Sam Cooper 
Parkway. Or maybe not. The thought of trying to outrun those 
guys while dodging speeding semis was starkly unappealing. 

They were close behind when she turned north on 
Highland, just far enough back she might avoid being a hood 
ornament if she stopped quickly, but that wasn't something 
she wanted to risk. Macon Road was close and would get her 
to the Cloverleaf shopping center at Summer and White 
Station if she could just shake these guys. 

Who are they? she thought again, palms sweaty on the 
handle grips, fingers nearly numb as she held on tightly. 
Muscles ached, arms strained, and her feet were cold. Blood 

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pounded hot and heavy through her veins. She felt slightly 
sick. And time kept ticking past. 

With people getting weekend shopping done, Summer 
Avenue was pretty busy on Friday night. These were low and 
middle-income families out here, smaller houses for the most 
part, tidy and clinging to respectability. Only a few Trans-Ams 
up on cinder blocks in these yards. A little farther down, 
prostitutes and drug addicts hung out at an old NiteTime Inn, 
a seedy motel now when once it had been a decent place for 
businessmen or travelers to stay. Eons ago. 

Her favorite cousin lived a few blocks north, in a nice, neat 
little brick house in a quiet neighborhood where senior 
citizens rubbed elbows with young mothers. Harley knew 
these streets pretty well, and she abruptly turned off 
Summer. There were more than a few dead-end roads in this 
area, narrow asphalt edged by trees and sidewalks and often 
lined with parked cars. 

The black car still hung close behind her. Okay. She had an 
idea. 

Macon loomed ahead. She took another right, a quick left, 
and tires squealed close behind. Taking another right, she 
sped down the wide street with the black car following. Just 
ahead, construction barriers littered the side of the road, 
barring cars from taking the Y ramp onto I-40. Concrete 
drains, wooden sawhorses with bright orange stripes, and a 
few flashing lamps warned drivers it was temporarily closed. 
Chunks of asphalt lay in a pile. Thick red mud, like gumbo, 
sported a few more sawhorse barriers. A ditch separated the 
ramp from White Station Road. 

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She'd always wondered if the Deuce would make it as a 
dirt bike. This was her chance to find out. Cutting back on 
acceleration she let the black car get close, slowed like she 
was about to stop. Blinding lights flashed twice. Her heart 
raced, her stomach tied in knots, and she clutched the handle 
grips determinedly as she gauged the right moment. They 
were almost on her. 

She gunned it, then gave the Deuce enough gas to send it 
leaping forward, across the opposing lane, to fly over the 
narrow ditch. Airborne for a brief moment, she resisted 
closing her eyes. Nerves thrummed. This wasn't as thrilling as 
she'd always assumed it would be. She hoped she didn't wet 
herself 

Landing, she spun the bike around and almost lost it, 
spraying dirt clods out like red bullets. Then she righted, still 
in one piece. Relief made her want to collapse, but there 
wasn't time. She half-expected real bullets. 

Instead, blue lights flashed. Cops. Oh shit. A whoop-whoop 
accompanied the lights. A voice boomed from the unmarked 
cruiser's speaker. 

"This is Officer Delisi. Stay where you are." 

Fat chance, Delisi. All she needed was for Archie to pass by 
and see the cops. 

She bumped over chewed concrete onto the interstate and 
got off at the next exit, hung a left on White Station and 
found the Cloverleaf Shopping Center and the pay phone. It 
was ringing when she stopped her bike, and she grabbed the 
receiver. 

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She jerked it from the hook, saying before he could get in 
his list of demands, "I want proof you've got Cami or this 
ends right here." 

"Look, bitch, you're not in any position to make deals." 

"That right? I thought you had to have the necklace 
today." That stopped him cold. There was silence for a long 
beat. She gripped the phone tightly, not sure if it was rain or 
sweat making it so slick. 

"Damn pain in the ass," he said after a minute, "hold on." 

Harley listened to muffled sounds like an engine running, 
and then Cami came on the line. She sounded scared. 

"H-H-Harley?" 

"Cami, are you all right?" 

"I'm-m okay." 

"Listen, I'll get you away from that jerk as soon as I can, 
just hold on, okay? Are you close to Summer Avenue?" 

Cami made a squeaking sound, and then the nephew came 
back on the line. "She ain't gonna answer no questions, 
cupcake. Bring the necklace and you can take your friend 
home. Show up without it, you're both dead." 

"When and where?" 

"One hour. Take Jackson to Warford. There's an industrial 
park. Stop at the entrance and walk past the empty guard 
shack. Go down that first road and wait. I'll find you. And 
remember what I said. No cops. I'm watching." 

Right. She called Bobby as soon as she hung up, but he 
didn't answer his cell phone so she left another message. She 
thought about calling Morgan but after seeing him with Bates, 
she still wasn't sure she could trust him. Maybe she shouldn't 

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have blown off Delisi. It was hard to know what to do. Archie 
could still be watching her. No telling what he'd do if blue 
lights showed up. 

Play it by ear, she decided. A convenience store was on 
the next corner, and she went for coffee and a pit stop. Then 
she got on the interstate and took the Jackson exit, getting 
off to head southwest. This was an industrial area, with a 
Sears warehouse and the Quaker Oats company near a snarl 
of railroad tracks. Plough, Incorporated lay to her right. 
Several years ago Yogi and Diva had led a demonstration 
against animal testing and been arrested in front of Plough. 
Apparently, the company had no tolerance for that sort of 
thing, and neither did the MPD. 

Warehouses clumped together. She turned off at the 
Velsico Chemical plant. Another line of warehouses stretched 
near railroad tracks that stitched weeds and asphalt together 
in a quilt of debris and barren ground. Huge metal buildings 
studded both sides of the wide street. Semis hooked to 
trailers waited in front of closed cargo doors. 

Faded paint marked parking spots, and vapor lights shed 
fuzzy haloes. An air of desolation and eerie emptiness hung in 
the air. An industrial park was a spooky place at night. The 
chemical plant smudged the already leaden sky with smoke 
from tall stacks. Wide strips of asphalt ran between lines of 
metal buildings. Debris littered chainlink fences and parking 
lots—broken beer bottles, old tires, assorted trash. An empty 
guard shack stood silent sentry beyond a locked gate. A gust 
of wind rattled the heavy chain looped through wire. How was 
she supposed to get in? 

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She shivered. The rain had cooled everything off. Puddles 
reflected broken pools of light. The air was wet enough to 
wash her face in, dripping humidity. She killed the engine on 
her bike and sat immobile for a moment. Every minute she 
wasted could mean trouble for Cami. She had to do 
something, even if it wasn't top choice. Maybe she should call 

911. She opened her backpack. It smelled like barbecue. 
Probably all over the bottom by now. Damn. She got out her 
cell phone. Holding it in one hand and the can of Mace in her 
other, she shouldered her backpack. All she had to do was hit 
the #3 button on her phone to dial it. Once she had Cami in 
sight, the cops could be here within minutes. Delisi was 
probably still in the area, circling like a vulture looking for 
her. 
It'd be risky to leave the bike in plain sight, so she pushed 
it between a waist high patch of weeds and the fence and 
hoped it'd still be there when she got back. This wasn't the 
best area but it'd be a bigger risk to take the spark plug when 
they might need to leave in a hurry. She left her helmet 
strapped to the back. 

The gate presented an immediate problem. A narrow gap 
lay between the bars, the chain loose enough she could 
barely squeeze through. She sucked in her stomach and 
willed her butt muscles to shrink, and she finally wedged 
herself through to the other side. One more bag of Reese's 
and she'd have to stand out here and yell. Maybe she'd take 
up jogging when this was all over. Maybe not. Gain hardly 
seemed worth pain. 

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Her hair hung damply in her eyes. She felt like a wet 
sheepdog. The wind didn't help. It cut easily through Cami's 
loose sweater and her cotton tee shirt. She splashed through 
a puddle, steps echoing eerily, and turned down the first 
road. 

No vehicles were visible. Asphalt stretched empty and 
narrow between a line of high metal buildings like 
warehouses. She had cotton-mouth and her palms were 
sweaty. Not a good trade-off. This could be just a colossal 
joke, if it weren't for the fact Cami had sounded terrified. 
Would Archie go to all this trouble if he wasn't serious? 

She walked all the way to the end, but there was no sign 
of anyone. She moved to stand by a cargo door, whistling 
softly to keep up her spirits. And courage. This was really 
spooky. It grated on her nerves, made her jumpy. Time 
dragged. She shifted from foot to foot. 

"I do believe in spooks, I do believe in spooks," she 
muttered in her best Cowardly Lion imitation. All she needed 
were flying monkeys. 

"Hey, dumbass," someone said behind her, and she 
whirled around with the can of Mace, "you came in the wrong 
way." 

Flying monkey, right on cue. Shoulders hunched, a thin, 
wiry man in a dark slicker stood just a few feet away. 
Shadows kept her from seeing his face but she knew the 
voice, recognized that raspy tone. Archie, the infamous 
nephew. He was alone. So where was Cami? 

"You gave me shitty directions," she said, giving the Mace 
a brisk shake. Just in case. 

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"You were supposed to come in off Warford. I been waiting 
fifteen minutes at the other end before I figured out most 
women don't know direction from shit. Toss me that pepper 
spray or you won't never see your buddy again. Don't try to 
dick me around, girl. I'm in no mood. Did you bring the 
necklace?" 

"I told you I would." If she Maced him, it'd buy enough 
time to call in the cops and they could find Cami. She had to 
be close by in one of these buildings. She shifted to watch 
Archie. He looked nervous, eyes darting back and forth from 
her to the end of the road. 

"Yeah, I know what you told me. That ain't what I asked." 

He took a step closer. Rain slicked his face, pooled around 
his shoes. She should've pulled the stun gun out too. Wonder 
what it'd do if she zapped him? Probably fry him like an egg. 
That wasn't completely undesirable. She narrowed her eyes. 

"Before I say anything about the necklace, I want to see 
Cami. You better not have hurt her, you little weasel." 

He acted insulted. "I keep my word. You better do the 
same." 

She had no idea what she'd do once she saw Cami, or how 
she'd explain the fact she'd lied like a rug about having the 
necklace. This would be another one of those things she'd just 
ride out. Stalling for time seemed the best option for now. 

"Now gimme that spray," he said, and held out his hand, 
"or we ain't goin' nowhere. I don't need some dumb broad 
gettin' all excited and juicin' me up with that shit." 

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There didn't seem to be a way out of that, but she still had 
her stun gun. She gave him the spray only when he started 
getting even more jumpy, then said, "I'm not a broad." 

"Right. Turn around." 

"I don't think so." 

"Look, turn around and walk, cookie. Or I'll give you some 
help." 

"I've already got enough motivation, thanks." 

She wondered just how Yogi had gotten mixed up with this 
guy, but it didn't seem like the time to ask. She turned 
around, but only halfway, keeping an eye on him when he 
gave her a push forward. She unzipped her backpack and felt 
inside for the stun gun. He stayed close behind. 

"Why do I smell barbecue? What's in your other hand, 
cupcake?" 

"Have you got a food fixation? I'm not your cookie or your 
cupcake. My name is Harley. I really hope this is the way to 
where Cami is, because I'm not having a good time." 

"Like I give a damn." 

He reached out to grab her arm and she lurched away, 
thumbing the button of her phone to dial 911. Archie 
slammed into her, catching her by surprise, and the cell went 
flying through the air to land in a puddle. It didn't go splash 
so much as crack! Oh shit. 

"What the hell are you doing," she yelled, and gave him a 
shove back. He was a wiry little thing, and he smelled like 
sweat and strong after-shave. It was not a good combination. 

Archie erupted in a real hissy fit. Screaming that he'd had 
enough of her shit and he wasn't going to take more of this 

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damned crap, he slugged her. It came so quickly she couldn't 
avoid it completely. His fist caught her on the side of the jaw. 
Stars exploded, bells rang, and she went down like a sack of 
potatoes. 

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Chapter Ten 

It was dark and she was wet and cold. Shivering, Harley 
tried to sit up. For some reason, her arms and legs didn't 
work properly. It hurt to even blink. A glass jaw. She'd never 
make it in a boxing ring. Not that she was tempted. Pain had 
never been something she ignored. 

She wanted to rub her jaw but couldn't lift her hand. It 
took a few beats to figure out that the reason for that seemed 
to involve rope. Her arms and legs were tied at wrists and 
ankles. She was curled into a fetal position, her knees close 
to her chest. Archie seemed to be adept with this kind of 
thing. That didn't bode well. 

It took a few minutes for her eyes to adjust to the dim 
light. She was on the floor in some kind of office, judging by 
the metal desk and chairs. A low hum vibrated. Except for 
that, it was quiet. No sign of Archie, and worse—no sign of 
Cami. If she wasn't so damned uncomfortable and worried 
about Cami, she'd probably be scared shitless. 

As it was, growing anger thawed her out enough that her 
brain started working again. It was stupid and infuriating that 
a guy too damn lazy to work had endangered her parents, her 
best friend, and now her. Enough was enough. 

She worked herself around until she could sit up. A window 
in the closed door let in a bit of light from dropped ceiling 
fixtures high overhead in what looked to be a warehouse. 
NuVo Rich, no doubt. Archie and Bates. An unholy team. The 
brother figured in this as well. He had to. Bates had been at 

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Jernigan's Jewelers, and Archie's brother Neil worked there as 
an appraiser. What was still uncertain was how Yogi was 
connected. There was no doubt of his involvement. If he 
wasn't, Archie would never have hidden that necklace in his 
workshop and risked Yogi finding it. 

What really frightened her was just how deeply Yogi might 
be involved. It was scary to think he might be in some kind of 
business with Archie and Bates. How did this warehouse tie in 
with Archie having a valuable necklace? And why would he 
hide it anyway, especially in Yogi's workshop? It didn't make 
sense. Unless the real Bruno Jett—or Morgan—were involved. 

Scuffling noises distracted her from that line of thought. 
She froze. God. Not rats. She had a thing about rats. 
Memories from childhood involving rats as big as raccoons 
running around the commune where they'd lived for a brief 
time still had the power to turn her into a gibbering idiot. It 
was one of her phobias. Along with a fear of heights. And 
spiders. Can't forget the spiders. Big hairy spiders. Jesus, as 
if she didn't have enough to worry about right now, she had 
to think about all that scary stuff. 

A shadow fell across the window in the door, and she had 
just time enough to brace herself before the door opened and 
a light flicked on. She squinted against the sudden glare. 
Archie gave her a disgusted look. 

"You finally awake, cookie? 'Bout damn time. Where'd you 
hide the necklace? It ain't in your pockets or that luggage 
you're carryin' around with you." 

He'd been in her backpack. That meant he'd found her 
stun gun. And no necklace. 

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"Do you think I'm stupid enough to bring it with me?" 

The door slammed shut. Disgust changed to mad. "You 
damn well better have it with you, bitch. We had a deal." 

"And I don't see Cami. How'd I know you'd keep a deal if I 
brought it with me? I'll tell you where it is once I see Cami." 
That was true. It might be in the police evidence room by 
now. 

Archie kicked a chair. It scraped across the floor and fell 
over. "I gotta have that necklace now," he screamed. "Don't 
you get it? If I don't have that fuckin' piece of shit within the 
next hour I'm as good as dead." He pushed a hand through 
his hair. It stood up in greasy strands like black spaghetti. He 
had suspicious red smears on his chin. "And I ain't goin' down 
alone, I swear I ain't." 

Her eyes narrowed on the red smears. Then she smelled 
sauce. "You ate my barbecue." 

"Damn straight. Where's my necklace? I gotta have it now, 
chickie." 

"So you don't have the necklace yet. What's the big deal?" 
She'd started working at the ropes tying her wrists together, 
scrubbing her palms together and twisting. It gave a little, 
but not much. It was some kind of cord, like a drapery 
tieback. Soft and not abrasive. She kept her knees close to 
her chest to hide what she was doing. 

"What's the big deal?" he repeated, his voice going up at 
least two octaves. "The big deal, cookie, is that I've got to 
hand it over in an hour and I ain't got it yet. It isn't supposed 
to be like this. Shit shit shit." 

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"You're upset." She ignored the amazed look he gave her. 
"I understand. Just explain to your ... er, client ... that 
delivery has been unavoidably delayed." 

He laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "You're somethin', 
you know that? Your whole fuckin' family is nuts. I shoulda 
known better. But no, I had to do it anyway. Aunt Mavis 
warned me. I didn't listen. Jesus H ... I shoulda listened." 

He shoved both hands into his hair and clenched his fists 
like he intended to rip it out by the roots. He looked frantic. 
There was a lot more going on here than just hocking a 
necklace. 

Archie dragged his hands over his face, fingers leaving red 
marks. He looked like Barney Fife on drugs. He laughed 
again, sounding a little hysterical. 

"I knew Yogi was goofy, but I thought he was harmless. I 
never thought he'd steal from me—shit, never thought he'd 
figure it out, much less try to pass off the fake on me. And I 
sure as hell didn't know he'd shoot Aunt Mavis." 

Harley started to shiver. "You're overwrought. You don't 
know what you're saying." 

"Overwrought?" he shrieked, suddenly dancing around like 
a puppet. "Overwrought? I ain't overwrought—I'm so far past 
wrought I'm ready to hurt somebody." 

She tried to shrink against the side of the metal desk. He 
looked like he was very capable of hurting someone. Maybe 
he already had. There was no sign of Cami. 

When he finally stopped jerking aimlessly around the tiny 
office, knocking papers off the desk to the floor, kicking 

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chairs, and stomping his feet, she asked, "What'd you do with 
Cami?" 

He stared at her. His nostrils flared out and he really did 
resemble a weasel, like Butch had said. "You're somethin', 
you know that? Maybe you need to worry more 'bout what 
I'm gonna do with you than your friend." 

"I'm a loyal kind of person. I worry about my friends. 
Where is she?" 

"Waitin' on you to cough up that necklace and save her 
ass. Where is it? I'm tired of this shit, dollface. You give me 
that damn necklace right now or I'll make you wish you had." 

"I told you—" 

"Now." He got an ugly look on his face and loomed over 
her. She worked frantically at the cords around her wrists, 
hands tucked between her knees so he wouldn't notice. He 
stuck his hand in her hair, jerked her head back so that she 
had to look up at him. "It ain't in your bag or pockets. So 
where is it? You got it hid somewhere, don't you? Tell me 
where it is and we'll get it. Once I got it in my hands, I'll let 
you go." 

"D-do I get a guarantee on that?" 

"You just gotta take my word for it. Like I gotta take your 
word you have it." 

"And ... and if I don't actually have it in my possession, 
what happens then?" 

He reeled. His face had gone all red while he was yelling. 
Now it went a pasty white. His eyes were narrow and close-
set. Now, they bugged out like they were on stalks. 

"You're shittin' me, right?" 

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She hesitated. He looked like he was on the edge. No 
telling what he'd do if she told him she couldn't get it, but she 
couldn't stall him much longer. Some creative fiction was in 
order. She ended up with a half truth. 

"I intended to give it to you, but someone stole it from 
me." 

He stared at her. His prominent Adam's apple bobbed a 
few times. He staggered back a step or two, clutched at the 
surface of the desk for balance. 

"Jesus. You stupid—I don't believe this. I just don't believe 
it. I've wasted all this time when you don't even have the 
damn thing?" 

She had an irrational impulse to comfort him, but she 
quickly stifled it when he lurched toward the door and gave it 
a kick. Silence seemed the best course of action for the 
moment. He muttered something about running out of time, 
then turned back to look at her. 

"Who took it?" 

"Bobby Baroni," she said without a qualm. "Know him?" 

"No." 

"Too bad. I have his cell number if you want to call him. 
He'll tell you he's got it." 

"Right. You want me to believe that, you must think I'm 
dumb as dog shit." 

That pretty much covered it. 

She'd managed to work one hand free. If she kept her 
hands close to her chest and knees up to hide what she was 
doing, she could get the ropes off and then work on freeing 
her legs. No telling how soon she'd have to make a break for 

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it. Archie looked about ready to evaporate in a puff of smoke. 
She could almost see steam rising from his oily black hair. 

He paced the small floor, muttering things she'd rather not 
hear, then finally whirled to look at her with his small, narrow 
eyes. His nose even twitched like a weasel's. 

"I'll just let you explain where it is, chickie." 

"Fine by me. To who?" It was amazing how calm she 
sounded, when inside her heart raced like Jeff Gordon's 
souped-up NASCAR Chevy and her stomach did flip-flops. 

"You'll find out soon enough." 

That sounded ominous. She inched back a little bit on the 
cold concrete floor. 

"Where's Cami?" 

"You keep askin' me that." 

"And you keep not answering." 

"Life's a bitch, ain't it?" 

Oh yeah. Archie seemed calmer now that he'd decided 
she'd take the heat for the missing necklace. She tried not to 
shiver, and wondered what had happened to Cami's sweater 

"So tell me, Archie—you are Archie, aren't you?—just 
what's your connection to Yogi?" 

"Like you don't know." He gave her a dark look. "I never 
shoulda done business with him. He's a flake. A fuck-up." 

"Your Aunt Mavis warned you." 

"Yeah. I shoulda listened to the old bitch. She may have 
been bitchy, but she wasn't stupid." 

Unlike her nephew. "But you know Yogi didn't kill her." 

"Sure he did. Who else would it'a been?" 

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You, she started to say, but then knew that wasn't right. 
Archie hadn't killed her. He was too pissed at Yogi about it. 
Maybe Bates, who was probably on the way right now to get 
the necklace she didn't have. Oh boy. She slid a free hand 
down to pick at the satin ropes binding her ankles and cutting 
off circulation. Her feet were numb. She had to distract him. 

"You don't think it was a home invasion? Someone who 
wanted to steal from her?" 

"Hell, she didn't have nothin' worth stealing. A TV from the 
eighties. A car from the fifties. She got Social Security and a 
widow's pension that barely paid for prescriptions. Barely 
enough money left to plant her in the ground." 

"There's the house. It's worth something, maybe. You and 
your brother should inherit." 

His eyes narrowed. "Don't go there. We didn't have 
anything to gain by killin' her. It was Yogi. Had to be. He's the 
only one had anything to lose or gain." 

"Just how do you figure that?" 

"That damn stupid dog. Yogi's crazy about that mangy 
mutt. If he'd just done what we said and given it back, we'd a 
given him his dog and none of this shit would be like it is 
now. Why the hell didn't he just give it back?" 

"The necklace?" 

"What the hell you think we been talkin' about the last five 
minutes, chickie? Hell yes, the necklace." 

She shook her head. "If Yogi had your necklace, he'd have 
traded it for King. Nothing's worth more to him than that dog. 
Except maybe Diva." 

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"That's what I thought. Aunt Mavis said he went nuts when 
he couldn't find his dog that time it got locked in her garage. I 
thought for sure he'd make the trade." 

"Why'd you give him the necklace if you wanted it back?" 
She shifted on the floor, still sitting up, her butt nearly numb 
from the cold concrete. 

"Don't play games. You know damn good and well he kept 
it, swapped that worthless crystal shit and probably thought 
we'd never notice until it was too late. Joke's on him. We did 
notice. Or Neil did, anyway." 

It began to make a little bit of sense. It wasn't very 
encouraging, but at least it wasn't as confusing. 

"So, Yogi made a copy of the real necklace, then gave you 
the copy instead of the real thing?" 

"Ain't you bright. I can't figure out how he thought he'd 
get away with it. Greedy bastard shoulda known a jeweler 
would see right off it wasn't the real piece." 

"Maybe it was a mistake." 

"Right. A mistake. He coulda kept on gettin' paid to make 
copies if he and Aunt Mavis hadn't gotten into it about that 
damned dog. I shoulda sent the dog back to him in a paper 
bag instead of leaving it with her. She bitched the whole time 
anyway, hated that dog and said she didn't want it in her 
house, didn't want anything to do with Yogi 'cause he's 
crazy." 

This didn't look good for Yogi. He'd made copies of 
necklaces and quarreled with Mrs. Trumble about the dog. 
Making copies to defraud was definitely illegal, and last she'd 
heard, murder was on the illegal list, too. 

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"So just what did you do with the copies Yogi made, 
anyway?" 

Archie's mouth snapped shut. He gave her a narrow, 
squint-eyed look, then went back to stare out the window in 
the door. 

"I think I can guess," she said after a couple of minutes' 
silence. "You swapped them for the real pieces customers 
brought in to get appraised." 

Archie snorted. She frowned, thinking. It didn't really 
make much sense and was too risky. A simple appraisal 
would reveal the truth. Unless ... she thought about what her 
grandfather had said about Charles Freeman getting his wife's 
jewelry appraised to sell after he lost money in stocks. There 
had to be a connection with the appraisals and recent rash of 
jewelry thefts. 

She eyed Archie a long moment, then said, "So when they 
wanted to sell their jewelry, you stole the fakes, using your 
own alarm company to get into their houses." 

Archie didn't turn around. 

"I'm right, aren't I, Archie? So, how did you manage to 
keep customers from getting too suspicious? Why not just 
steal the real stuff in the first place instead of going to all the 
trouble to make copies and then steal them?" 

He turned back around to look at her. "Those kind of 
people think they're so smart. They all got insurance up the 
ass, but can't tell crystals from diamonds. Always wantin' a 
bargain, to get somethin' for nothin'. It felt good to give 'em 
nothin' for somethin' sometimes." 

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"But if somebody noticed they had a fake, they'd come 
back to you with it." 

"Nobody never did. Neil knew who to pick. Then the 
economy went bust, and we had people wanting a current 
appraisal so they could sell the stuff. Needed money to pay 
for the Ferrari or a junket to Las Vegas. Shit. We took care of 
it. Insurance paid up on their claims, nobody ever figured out 
it was for crystal and not real stones, and everybody was 
happy." 

"Except the police." 

"Cops are never happy." 

"And the insurance companies." 

"Insurance companies are bigger thieves than we ever 
thought about being." 

It made sense, in a warped kind of way. Maybe that was 
how Morgan figured into it. If he was mixed up with Bates 
and Archie, he'd get a cut for diverting suspicion from them. 
If he was really undercover, he'd be getting evidence against 
them. Too bad she didn't know which side he was really on. 
Too bad she didn't know how involved Yogi was with them. 
She thought about it a few seconds. 

Yogi hadn't liked Jett, had insisted he had King. But Yogi 
would have turned over the necklace to get the dog back. 
He'd have turned over the house and all he owned for that 
stupid mutt. All of which combined wasn't worth what the 
necklace was worth. So, if Yogi hadn't given it back that must 
mean ... she looked up at Archie. 

"You didn't tell Yogi what you were doing, did you. That 
you were using the crystal pieces to swap with the real stuff?" 

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"The less people who know about it the better." 

That meant Yogi hadn't realized he'd given back the wrong 
necklace. He probably still hadn't figured it out. She frowned. 
Archie's last comment transferred slowly. It translated to the 
less people who still knew about it the better. Like her, for 
instance. And Cami. Uh oh. 

"So where's Cami?" 

"We back to that?" 

"Just thought since we've gotten so friendly you might 
want to tell me." 

"We ain't friendly, chickie." 

That was true. It was mutual necessity that kept them 
from each other's throats at the moment. And ropes. 

She almost had the cords around her ankles loosened 
enough, but still needed a little more time. She didn't have a 
plan, just increasing urgency telling her to get out of there 
before anyone else arrived. She wasn't doing real good one 
on one. Two against one could be fatal. 

The phone rang. Archie looked at it a moment, then 
answered. "Yeah. Shit. I'll take care of it. All of them? Look, I 
got to hurry, then. Just—get me a little more time. Right. I'll 
do it quick as I can." 

He hung up and looked at Harley. "I'm outta here." 

She perked up. "Okay. I'm ready to go. Want to untie me 
now?" 

"You ain't going nowhere, cookie. And I've got stuff to do 
first." 

He jerked open desk drawers and pulled out papers, then 
flicked on a shredder. It growled into service, gobbling up 

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papers as he fed it several at a time. Harley watched for a 
minute. If he was destroying evidence, then maybe that 
meant cops were on the way. She hoped. 

The shredder noisily snarled paper and Harley quietly 
tugged at cords. It seemed as if the shredder was much more 
efficient in its task. Her ankles remained firmly bound. Of all 
things for Archie to be good at doing, it had to be this. 
Probably had a lot of practice at it. Meanwhile, he worked 
frantically, jamming papers into the shredder until it choked. 

Archie's urgency was contagious. Focused on freeing 
herself, Harley jerked her head up when the office door 
opened with a loud bang, slamming back against the wall. 
Archie gave a startled yelp and her heart sank. Tall. 
Expensive suit—Bates. And he looked pretty pissed. 

"You idiot. You total fucking idiot." 

Thank God he was looking at Archie and not her. Archie 
made some kind of squeaking sound similar to "Who, me?" 
and seemed to shrivel. She knew the feeling. If she could 
shrivel into a tiny knot she'd do it right now. 

"Yes, you, you damned moron." The office door slammed 
closed. "You've got shit for brains. And you've been made." 

Archie's hand shook too badly to shred papers. He just 
stared up at Bates in his Armani suit and his mouth worked 
soundlessly for a moment. Then he said, "Uh—we have? But 
how—" 

"A simple job. That's all I gave you. A simple, frigging job 
to do and you screwed it up. I'm not an unreasonable man, 
Archie. I like to see people succeed. Your brother assured me 
you're a hard worker." Bates loomed over him. "He forgot to 

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tell me you're also an idiot. I'll get him for that. But right 
now—right now, I want to know what you intend to do about 
that damn stolen necklace." 

Archie looked stuck for an answer. Harley wanted to tell 
him to think of something fast, because Bates didn't look at 
all happy. 

"Look, Bates, it wasn't my fault Yogi wouldn't give it up. I 
tried to get it," Archie said after a long moment ticked past 
and the shredder still loudly masticated empty air. 

"By kidnapping a dog? Friggin' brilliant. You couldn't give 
him a photo of the piece like I told you? You had to risk the 
real thing?" Then Bates glanced at the papers in Archie's 
hand, and his voice got real soft. "You're covering your 
tracks. You're shredding any paperwork with your name on it, 
aren't you?" 

"No ... no, I'm just ... These papers are just invoices you 
wouldn't want in the wrong hands. Chickie here told me she 
had the necklace." 

Bates swiveled his gaze toward her, and Harley gulped. 

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Chapter Eleven 

"Tell me where the necklace is." 

Harley stared up at Bates, paralyzed with terror. This guy 
was no moron. This guy meant business. She resorted to 
ignorance. 

"What necklace?" she squeaked. 

He moved to stand over her, and then bent to put a hand 
on each shoulder, his fingers digging into her skin and muscle 
and bone, like the talons of a hawk, as he hauled her up and 
slammed her down into a chair. 

"No games. Just answers. The necklace. Where is it?" 

"At ... at the police station." She heard Archie let out a 
long sigh. Paper and keys fell from his hand to the floor. 
Bates straightened, gimlet eyes boring into her for what 
seemed an eternity. 

"Well, well." He turned to look at Archie. "Looks like you 
can kiss your ass good-bye." 

Archie stood up quickly. His chair went spinning across the 
floor, wheels clacking. The paper shredder kept growling. 
Harley shuddered. 

"It was a sweet setup," Bates said, "then you got fucking 
greedy. Wasn't your share enough to suit you?" 

"It wasn't just that." Archie looked a little desperate, but 
oddly defiant. "You and Neil, you always act like I'm some 
damn idiot. I wanted to show you I could do stuff on my 
own." 

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"And ended up showing us all what an idiot you are. 
Moron." 

Archie's eyes narrowed again. His nose twitched, and he 
really looked so much like a weasel that Harley almost 
laughed. She must be hysterical. Insane. God, she was 
terrified. 

Bates went behind the desk, unlocked and jerked open a 
drawer. Then he sat down in the chair, and it squeaked a little 
as he rocked back in it to study Archie. Bates had a broad 
face, but his eyes were small and close together. His hair was 
dark, not the greasy brown of Archie's, but a dyed blue-black 
color and style like an Elvis impersonator. A flashy gold 
nugget ring winked on his left hand, a diamond horseshoe 
ring on his other. Obviously, the jewelry theft business paid 
well. He turned the ring on his finger idly, and then bent to 
scratch his ankle before straightening. 

"Archie, Archie," Bates said with a sigh that sounded 
almost like regret, "you ruined a lovely scam." 

"How the hell did I do that?" He sounded belligerent. "You 
and Neil had your own deals going. I just took advantage of 
opportunities. For all of us." 

"No, you took advantage for yourself. We had it sweet. 
Easy. What made you do it?" Bates put his hands together 
fingertips to fingertips, his tone almost benevolent. 

He didn't fool Harley. She saw the muscle in his jaw flicker 
with suppressed fury. Uh oh. It didn't look good for her or 
Archie. Squirming a little, she felt one of the drapery braids 
shift. That was good. She flexed her toes. She couldn't feel 
them. That was bad. 

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Apparently, Archie wasn't fooled by Bates's benevolence 
either. 

"What made me do it? Shit, you oughta know! All the time 
going on about how dumb I am, like I'm not even standing 
there listening—cutting me outta some of the take 'cause I'm 
just the errand boy. I got sick of it. I've been running my own 
scam for almost three months, and made more money than I 
got the entire time we've been at it." 

"And managed to catch the attention of the cops while you 
were at it. Did you think they wouldn't figure it out?" He 
leaned forward in the chair to stare hard at Archie. "I've got 
one more deal to finish, and I'm handling it. I don't need any 
screw-ups hanging around me." 

"Fine. I got my own thing going." Archie sounded 
defensive, and beads of sweat gleamed on his forehead. His 
eyes looked kinda glazed. Harley's stomach rolled. This was 
serious. "Just give me my cut and I'm outta here," Archie said 
then, adding insult to injury. 

"No friggin' way," Bates said. "Do you know how hard I 
worked to pull it off? It takes time to set up everything, but 
the payoff—the payoff is so sweet once the hard part is over. 
You ruined it, breaking into damn houses. Now the cops are 
looking at the jewelry store, and they'll figure out Neil 
switched clients' stones, if they haven't already." 

"I didn't have to break in. I knew the codes. I just walked 
in, took my time, and took the incriminating stuff." 

"You and Neil got greedy. You shoulda left it alone. We had 
photos of the real pieces we gave to the insurance reps. No 
one could prove we'd switched anything. Until now." 

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"I don't know what you're talking about." 

"Sure you do. You and Neil stole other pieces, fenced 
them, and got stupid about it. You didn't stick to the plan, 
Archie. You got greedy. You screwed up, you dumbass." 

Archie looked indignant and uncertain. "No, I didn't." 

"The hell you didn't. Which means I'm out of here." He 
bent to scratch his ankle again, then sat up and looked over 
at Harley, as if considering what to do with her. Her stomach 
flipped. She tried to blend into the scenery. Unsuccessfully. 
He smiled, but it wasn't a smile that she found pleasant. "Now 
we have the added problem of what to do with our visitor." 

When Archie looked at her and narrowed his eyes, she 
knew it wasn't going to be good. Then he surprised her. He 
just shrugged and said, "She's better as a hostage than 
dead." 

"You think so?" Bates nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps. Or 
perhaps she's another liability. Like your aunt. Like you." 

"You won't do nothin' to me," Archie said, and Harley 
rolled her eyes in exasperation. He really was an idiot. But 
Archie's smile was suddenly sly. "Neil wouldn't like it." 

"Neil can kiss my ass. Both of you screwed up. You used 
me, and I don't like that. I had a nice little business going 
here until you got greedy and stupid." 

"Maybe, but you didn't mind taking your part of the 
money. Neil was the brains; you just gave us a good cover, 
fencing stuff through the warehouse. You got just as greedy 
as we did." 

"And I regret that." 

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Harley went cold when she saw his hand drop to the open 
drawer. Beads of sweat popped out on her skin. This was 
about to get really ugly, and she'd be in the crossfire. 

Maybe Archie finally figured it out, too, because he took 
several steps back, bumping into the paper shredder and 
knocking it over. It made a loud growling sound, gears 
grinding. 

Bates smiled. "Where's the other one? The other girl?" 

Don't tell, don't tell, Harley pleaded silently, but Archie 
obviously had no compunction about telling all he knew. 

"In the trunk of my car. What do you think we should do 
with 'em?" 

Harley had to do something. Say something. Put some 
kind of wedge between them if nothing else. Anything to 
delay the inevitable. 

"Ask Bates how your aunt got killed," she threw out for 
lack of anything better to say, a desperate attempt to create 
suspicion. 

Archie looked first surprised, then doubtful. He frowned. 
"Yogi killed her." 

"No, he didn't. He wouldn't have anything to gain by it. 
Master Bates, however, had a lot to gain by shutting her up. 
Isn't that what happened?" 

"Shut up," Bates snapped. "I don't like bein' called Master 
Bates." 

Archie turned back toward him. "Did you kill her? Did you 
kill Aunt Mavis?" 

"You're so damn stupid." 

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"Don't call me that," Archie snarled. "I don't like being 
called stupid. You did it, didn't you. You killed her because 
she was threatening to go to the cops to report Yogi!" 

Harley realized suddenly that it had to be true. When it 
became clear Mrs. Trumble could blow everything, she had to 
be eliminated. Panic set in. So Bates would think nothing of 
killing her and Cami next. 

"No, you dumbass, I didn't kill her," Bates said impatiently. 
"I should have. The old bat drove me crazy the one time I 
met her. But I didn't kill her. I only saw her that one time." 

"But your car was there," Harley said without thinking. 
"The day she was killed." 

Bates flicked his eyes toward her. "You're lying." 

"No, I'm not." Archie was glaring at Bates, and if she could 
just get them focused on each other instead of her ... "I saw 
it. GR8LIFE, right? It was in her driveway that afternoon. I 
went to talk to her, but you were there so I didn't knock on 
the door. Listen to me, Archie, he's lying. He was there. He 
had to be the one who killed her." 

Bates stared at her, and something flickered in his eyes. 
He nodded. "Right. My car may have been there. But I 
wasn't." 

Harley blinked. "So who—?" 

"Isn't this cozy," a voice said from the open doorway and 
they all glanced to see a bulky, balding man standing in the 
opening. He wore black glasses and had a rather pleasant 
face, but the gun he held in his hand detracted from his 
harmless appearance. 

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Christ. Harley gulped, shifted her feet, and felt the ties 
around her ankles fall away. It was a miracle. Not that it'd do 
her any good. Not with a gun waving around. Just who was 
this guy? 

"Neil," Archie said, and the mystery was solved. "I thought 
you'd never get here." 

"Got here as quick as I could. You never do listen when I 
tell you what to do. I figured you'd get into something over 
your head." Campbell's eyes flicked to Bates, who had bent to 
scratch his leg again like he had chiggers. "Sit up. Open your 
coat. Slowly. Then your shirt." 

Archie looked startled and Bates looked resigned. He 
slowly opened his coat and then unbuttoned his shirt. "You 
think I'm wearing a wire," he said, and Campbell nodded. 

"Just want to be sure this isn't one of your setups." 

Archie blinked rapidly in obvious surprise. "But why would 
he wear a wire, Neil? He's been in on everything with us. If 
we go down, he goes down." 

"But maybe not as hard. Someone tipped off the cops and 
they're all over the shop." Neil leaned forward, flipped up the 
tails to Bates's shirt, and then nodded when he didn't see 
anything. "It pays to be careful." 

Harley thought she should subscribe more freely to that 
outlook on life. It paid to be careful, indeed. Excellent 
philosophy. If she got out of this in one piece ... Well, no 
point in going in that direction. She'd end up paralyzed with 
fear and that wouldn't help. She was already getting 
lightheaded. There were too many people in this tiny office, 
sucking out all the oxygen. 

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Apparently, Neil Campbell thought the same thing. He 
looked at his brother. 

"Archie, go get that girl and bring her in here. The one 
you've got in your car." 

"But Neil—" 

"Now." The single word came out like the crack of a whip, 
and Archie scuttled out the door and disappeared into the 
shadows of the warehouse. That left just Harley and Bates 
looking at Neil. 

Bates sat down in the chair, and it squeaked slightly under 
his weight. He stared at Neil with wary regard, one hand 
inching toward the open drawer. Neil waggled the end of his 
pistol. 

"Both hands on the desk, Bates. You and I have a little 
business to tend to while Archie's away." 

"I don't think so." 

Campbell smiled, only it wasn't a real smile. "You ratted us 
out. To that undercover cop. I know you did, so don't bother 
lying. It's time to take care of some loose ends around here. 
You and the motorcycle mama first." 

Harley tensed. Her hands were free. Her feet were free. 
But she'd never make it across the office before a bullet got 
her if she rushed him. And that damn paper shredder kept 
snarling on the floor, sounding way too loud and distracting. 

"What are you saying, Neil?" Archie appeared in the 
doorway, staring. "You aren't gonna shoot anybody, are you? 
Not for real?" 

Neil looked disgusted, and Harley spoke up before he could 
lie some more. Speaking loudly so she'd be heard over the 

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paper shredder, she said, "He's going to shoot both of us and 
Cami, too. Just like he shot your Aunt Mavis." 

She wasn't sure about the last, but suddenly it was the 
only thing that made any sense. Bates's denial had held the 
ring of truth. 

Archie looked at her and laughed, but he didn't sound too 
certain. "He didn't do that. Tell her, Neil. Tell her you'd never 
have killed Aunt Mavis." 

Campbell lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "She's just 
flapping her gums, Archie. What are you doing back here? I 
told you to go get that other one." 

"I left my car keys in here." 

Archie walked over by Harley, and she said, "He's lying to 
you, Archie. He killed your aunt, and he's going to kill us." 

Archie unplugged the paper shredder and picked up his 
keys from the floor where he'd dropped them earlier, then 
turned to look at his brother. "Neil, where were you the day 
she got killed?" 

The office was suddenly quiet, the abrupt absence of the 
noisy shredder leaving a wake of heavy silence. 

Bates spoke up. "He borrowed my car that day. The one 
Blondie here saw in the driveway right before your aunt was 
killed. You figure it out, Archie, since you think you're smart." 

Anger flitted over Archie's sharp features, and Harley could 
almost see the wheels in his head slowly turning. 

"Neil? Did you borrow Bates's car?" 

"Shit." Campbell shook his head, irritation recognizable. 
"Yeah, I borrowed the car that day." 

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Archie staggered a little, and put out a hand to grab hold 
of the table. "You did, Neil? But you wouldn't have shot Aunt 
Mavis." 

"Not if she'd been smart enough to keep her mouth shut. 
Going on about that damn dog and Yogi—I was about ready 
to strangle her anyway. Then she said she'd called the cops to 
report Yogi for violating the restraining order, and she 
intended to tell them all about him stealing a diamond 
necklace from us. I had to shut her up. There was no other 
way." 

Archie let out a howl, and then everything happened so 
fast Harley had no time to think, only react. Bates grabbed 
for a gun in the open drawer just as Archie leaped for Neil, 
hands out like he intended to go for his throat. Two shots 
rang out, deafening in the small space, and the smell of 
cordite hung thick and heavy in the air as she flung herself 
from the chair to the floor. Seconds later, a body fell on top of 
her. 

She pushed it off frantically, flipping to one side. Someone 
kept screaming but it wasn't until Neil Campbell told her to 
shut the hell up that she realized she was the one doing the 
screaming, and she stopped. 

Neil knelt down to where Archie lay sprawled on the floor, 
felt his neck, and then shook his head. "Damn. Damn it! Ah, 
Archie. You stupid bastard ... damn." 

When he stood up, Harley stared at Archie, lying still and 
quiet. His mouth was open, his eyes staring but empty. Like 
windows into an abandoned house. Blood spread in a bright 
crimson blossom on his shirt. She shuddered and got to her 

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feet somehow, stood there swaying, her knees wobbly. Neil 
blocked the way to the door, but then he turned toward the 
desk. 

Bates lay face down on the desk. A pool of blood spread 
beneath him. He still held a pistol in his hand, fingers loose 
around it. Neil bent over him, checking for a pulse in his neck, 
and Harley took the opportunity to edge toward the door. Her 
ears rang, fear beat a swift pulse through her body, and her 
feet felt like heavy concrete blocks. 

Neil straightened up and turned to grab her by the shirt. 
"Oh no, you ain't going nowhere. I got to make this look like 
it was between all of you somehow.... "His fist tightened in 
the cotton fabric as he held on to her, and he chewed on his 
lip while he thought about it. 

Harley had no intention whatsoever of hanging around to 
participate. Twisting agilely for someone scared half out of 
their mind, she ducked out of her shirt and left him holding it. 
She was free of Neil but not yet home free. Leaping forward, 
she grabbed the office door, slammed it shut on him, and 
shoved a heavy garbage can in front of it to slow him down. 

Then she headed for the warehouse doors at top speed. 
Only she had no idea where the doors were located. The 
warehouse was huge, one of those gigantic metal structures 
with rows and rows of shelving and pallets of wooden crates 
stacked up ten or twenty feet high. 

She was halfway to the back when she heard the office 
door smack open, and she ducked down a narrow aisle 
between metal shelves cluttered with merchandise. She 
shivered, glad she'd worn a sports bra. At least she wasn't 

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completely naked from the waist up, though the damn thing 
didn't do much to keep her warm. Cool air made her nipples 
pucker. Neil coming after her made something else pucker. 
She tried to blend into the shadows. 

Fuzzy light from hanging fixtures lit up the main part of 
the warehouse, but back in the storage area metal shelves 
soared up twenty feet or so, darkening the wide aisles 
between. It was like hiding in a briar patch. Merchandise like 
statues, tin suits of armor, vases and rolled up rugs clogged 
the shelves and aisles. She darted down the closest aisle 
when she heard Neil yell at her to come out or he'd start 
shooting. Like he intended to do anything else anyway. If she 
could just lose him in this maze... 

Running wasn't as easy as if she had both her shoes. She'd 
lost one somehow, so she had a lopsided gait, one athletic 
shoe clomping, her sports sock sliding on slick floors. Easy 
enough to fix. Hopping along on one foot, she wrenched off 
the shoe and stuck it on a shelf out of sight. No point in 
leaving a trail for Neil to follow. She heard him out there, his 
feet slapping hard against concrete, but apparently he hadn't 
seen which way she went. A definite point in her favor. 

Panting for breath, she paused to get her bearings. Her 
hands were shaking and her knees quivered like jelly. This 
wasn't nearly as much fun when it happened to her as when it 
happened on TV. Huge porcelain vases lined one aisle, barely 
visible in the deep, dusky shadows that were both advantage 
and curse. Neil would have a hard time seeing her in the 
dark, but she would have a hard time seeing him, too. There 
should be another door back here somewhere, a cargo door 

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or a back exit marked with a light and one of those red signs. 
If she could just get through this maze of shelves and kitsch 
before he caught up to her, she had a chance. 

She put a hand on one of the shelves to lean out and peer 
around a corner. Her fingers struck something cool and 
smooth and slick. She jerked back in surprise, and then 
turned to come face to face with a snarling Chinese pug that 
teetered dangerously forward. Unbalanced, it rocked toward 
her on ceramic feet, threatening to crash into her head and, 
worse, onto the floor. Diva's warning about Chinese pugs 
flashed through her mind. Just in time, she caught the heavy 
ceramic dog in her arms. Good God, it weighed a ton. 

Puffing with effort, she lowered the pug to the floor in one 
piece. Sweat dampened her face but she was shivering. Time 
for a bathroom. She'd never been so close to peeing on 
herself. Her mouth was dry, her teeth chattered, and goose 
bumps rivaled her nipples in size. And she was willing to bet 
her hair stood straight up on her head even without gel. 

Feeling her way along in places, especially at the very back 
where the light from the front didn't reach at all, she edged 
slowly around shelving, pausing to peer around the corners 
before moving on. The only thing she could hear was her 
heart pounding, sounding like native drums in her ears. Neil 
probably skulked around the next corner, waiting to pounce. 
Or shoot. 

It was spooky back here in the dark. Nothing but cheap 
Oriental rugs stacked in fat rolls like tamales, and a few 
strange-looking statues that looked like they'd come out of an 
old Tarzan movie. Chewing on the end of her finger, an old 

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habit she hadn't quite broken yet, she eased forward and 
stuck her head around another corner. Something moved at 
the far end. She saw a silhouette, a shadow. 

Heart pounding even harder, she crouched down behind 
one of the statues. It was about four or five feet high, made 
of some kind of aromatic wood, and holding a sword straight 
out. Or a club. She squinted. What the hell—that was no club. 
This statue had a humongous erection. And looked quite 
happy about it. The face was grinning, one carved hand 
resting atop its most prominent feature in a very suggestive 
pose. People would buy this? Some wooden guy whacking his 
willy? Pornographic Pinocchio? 

Caught up in amazed admiration by the wooden 
proportions, the spat of a bullet caught her by surprise and 
made her yelp. Something struck her arm, and for a moment, 
she thought she'd been shot. Shaking in terror, she grabbed 
at her arm, looked down, and saw that she'd been hit by a 
piece of the statue. Neil had shot it instead of her. And of all 
things to hit, he'd shot off the phallus. A fertility god without 
his goods. What irony. Another bullet spat, whizzing over her 
head. 

Scrambling to her feet, she grabbed up the hefty wooden 
penis and darted around the end of the shelves to backtrack. 
He'd expect her to go forward, but if she could come up 
behind him and whack him with the pecker, she might just 
gain enough time to get away. It was worth a try. 

Dust got up her nose and she swallowed a sneeze, but her 
eyes started to water. Then she made a snfftt! sound as she 
muffled another sneeze. Uh oh. This coming up behind him 

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thing had backfired. She'd hit a wall. A concrete block wall, to 
be exact. The shelves ended here, leaving her no place to go 
but up. Feeling a little lightheaded, she craned her neck back. 
Shelves reached up what looked like a hundred feet in the air 
but was probably only thirty. Heights again. God, she hated 
heights. There had to be some other way around this... 

Something hard clattered on concrete. It sounded close— 
way too close. Time to conquer one of her fears. 

Still holding the wooden penis, she caught hold of the thick 
metal framework and hoisted herself to the second shelf, feet 
flailing for footing. Footsteps sounded closer this time, and 
she shoved hard at the shelf and propelled herself up onto a 
fat, musty-smelling roll of carpet. Fringe tickled her nose as 
she wedged her body between two of them, trying not to 
think about what else might be nesting close by. It would be 
a Mecca for mice, a Disneyland for roving rodents. 
Fortunately, mice were not on her list of Greatest Fears. 
Spiders, however, were. She shuddered at the thought. 

When she looked up, she saw in the distance the faint red 
sheen of an Exit sign. It glowed cheerily, promising escape. 
Visions of freedom beckoned. She'd find Cami, and then get 
as far away as she could before calling the cops. She tried to 
calm her panic, thought of other things besides the danger 
that pursued her so doggedly. 

It'd be okay. She'd get out of this. Something would save 
her. Then she'd claim the Crime Stoppers reward for catching 
the jewel thieves and replenish her bank account. Financial 
security was at hand, if she could just get past Neil. That's all 
she had to do. Escape a homicidal maniac. Piece of cake. 

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Breathing hard, she hunkered down and waited. 

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Chapter Twelve 

"I know you're here, bitch." 

Harley held her breath. Neil stood at the far end of the 
aisle, light behind him putting him into silhouette. Her heart 
pounded furiously in her chest. She'd have bruises there if 
she survived. She'd have bruises everywhere. All her muscles 
ached. She'd banged her knee somehow and it throbbed. Her 
boobs were squashed flat against carpet backing that was 
rough and abrasive, and her head hurt. 

Most of all, she was scared shitless. She'd been brave right 
up until she saw Neil again, the gun in his hand catching the 
light from behind him. That had taken the wind right out of 
her. 

Shivering so badly she had to clench her teeth to keep 
them from chattering, she clung to the edges of the carpet 
and waited. She held the heavy wooden penis in her right 
hand like a club. Tension contracted her muscles, made her 
palms sweat, and throbbed in her ears. It was like being on a 
roller coaster, the hollow feeling that she got in the pit of her 
stomach going down the hills. Like the world had dropped 
right out from under her. 

Neil came closer. He moved cautiously, a step at a time, 
holding the pistol in front of him like he was at a shooting 
range and she was the little metal duck. It wasn't a nice 
feeling. She'd never been a target before. Trapped like a rat, 
a fish in a barrel. 

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Neil's breathing sounded asthmatic. Loud. Wheezy. Wet. 
He was midway down the aisle now, and paused right beside 
a stack of big porcelain vases. They were the fake Oriental 
kind, separated by some kind of industrial paper that made a 
rustling sound when he brushed against it. Neil went still, 
turning to see what had made the sound. What an idiot. A 
scary idiot, but an idiot just the same. Archie had felt bad for 
nothing. He paled in comparison to his brother. 

Her heart beat so loud it was like thunder in her ears. 
Maybe that's what he heard. It'd be amazing if he couldn't. 

Outlined against the light behind him, Neil stood peering 
into the shadows and waiting for her to make a mistake. She 
had to distract him somehow, get him away from where she 
hid. Then she could go the other way if she got him headed in 
the opposite direction. Clenching and unclenching her hand 
like it'd help her think, her fingers grazed against something 
small, hard, and round. A possible missile. A distraction 
provided free and easy. It didn't matter what it was. She 
palmed it, edged out a little, afraid to go too far and reveal 
her position, and got ready to try what had worked on a 
recent episode of Law & Order. And on all the old cop shows. 
Maybe Neil wasn't into cop shows. She could only hope. 

As a kid, she'd played softball. If she could lob this metal 
thingy far enough, he'd head in that direction to investigate 
and she could jump down and make for the exit. She didn't 
want to think about the possibility the door was locked. That 
would be too cruel. If Neil found her, that would be the end. 
There'd be three bodies—no, four once he went for Cami—left 
for the police or janitors to find. 

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Shifting, she transferred the metal thing to her right hand, 
gauging how far she'd have to throw it to get him to leave 
this aisle. Twenty feet. Piece of cake. She could do that in her 
sleep. 

She drew back her arm to let fly with the metal, but her 
hand snagged carpet fringe that flew up and slapped her in 
the face. Her hand hit the shelf overhead, and the heavy 
metal dropped from her fingers to plummet to the floor right 
beneath her hiding place. It made a sound like a pistol shot in 
the thick silence of the warehouse when it landed, and then 
rolled with a clinka clinka clinka noise. 

Oh God. 

Panic set in again. Neil moved forward, with purpose this 
time, bearing down on her as if he knew exactly where she 
was hiding. He got close enough that she saw the bluish tint 
of his glasses, and the faint gleam of bald head. A line from 
some movie popped into her head: "Don't fire until you see 
the whites of their eyes." 

Good advice for someone with a gun. All she had was a 
wooden dick. She switched it to her right hand. It was better 
than nothing. 

"Might as well come out, bitch," Neil said, "you've got no 
place you can go. Save me some trouble and I'll make it 
quick. Make me keep hunting, and you'll wish you hadn't." 

He was almost right under her. Blood pounded through her 
veins, but her hand was pretty steady, oddly enough. She 
scooted closer to the edge of the rolled up carpets, held up 
the penis club and waited as he came another step closer, 
then another one. Then she saw the whites of his eyes 

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gleaming behind the lens of his glasses and heard him 
wheezing. It was time. 

Whap! 

She smacked him right on top of his head as hard as she 
could. He went down like a felled moose, grunting and 
kicking. His gun clattered to the concrete floor and spun into 
the dark shadows. 

She gathered her courage and her legs beneath her and 
leaped down from the shelf to the aisle, landing hard. Neil 
was making funny little sounds in the back of his throat, but 
not moving much. She did a quick search but there was no 
sign of the gun. No time to waste looking for it. If he came to 
and had another gun ... she took off. 

Getting traction was hard. Sliding in her socks, she 
rounded a corner and saw freedom ahead. Beyond that next 
line of high shelves, the red Exit sign at the front of the 
warehouse was a promising lure. Too bad she hadn't taken 
track. Her side hurt, her throat hurt, her lungs struggled. 
Some kind of ominous noise made her run even faster. She 
should have looked longer for the gun. Arms and legs moving 
like pistons, up and down, pumping as hard as she could, she 
half-slid around another corner and saw too late a dark-clad 
form leap in front of her. All she could think was that Neil had 
outmaneuvered her. Slamming into him, she reacted on 
instinct when he grabbed her, whacking him hard on the side 
of the head with the wooden phallus. 

"Shit!" came the yelp, and she pulled free, her momentum 
taking her a few steps past before she realized she recognized 
that yelp. Skidding to a halt, she turned. 

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Staggering back against the metal shelving, Mike Morgan 
had a hand to his head and was glaring at her. "What the 
hell? Why are you half-naked? And what did you hit me with?" 

Relief made her almost giddy. She glanced down at her 
hand, then grinned. "My dick." 
* * * * 

"Christ, Harley Jean." Mike looked disgusted. "You're a 
walking catastrophe." 

They stood at the front of the warehouse, while a crime 
scene unit took photos of the two bodies in the office, and 
uniforms pursued Neil. Apparently, Neil knew where the exits 
were. 

"Is that any way to talk to a woman who narrowly escaped 
death?" She didn't feel so bad right now. Not even Mike could 
take the red off her apple at this moment. She was alive. And 
it looked as if she'd stay that way a while longer. It didn't 
even matter that he was staring at her in obvious 
disapproval. 

"You look like you rolled in a cotton field. Is that lint in 
your hair along with the dirt?" 

"Probably." She smiled. "You really shouldn't be so mean 
to me. I almost died. If I'd depended on you to save me, I'd 
probably be toast about now." 

He gave her a wry look. "While you're patting yourself on 
the back, mind telling me how you lost your shirt? Playing 
strip poker?" 

"I told you it was a narrow escape." A shiver went through 
her, even though Mike had given her his black tee shirt. He 

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was bare-chested again, a state that seemed to be frequent. 
And appealing. Oh yeah, it was really good to be alive. 

"So when is Cami getting here?" she asked to distract 
herself from pecs and abs. "She is okay, right?" 

"Just cramped. A few hours in the trunk of a car can do 
that." Mike leaned back against a stack of pallets and rubbed 
at his biceps like he was cold. "An officer is taking her 
statement. She oughta be in here soon. I figured you'd want 
to see her since you got her kidnapped." 

"That was all Archie. He seemed addicted to kidnapping. 
He was apparently a two-stroke kind of criminal, couldn't 
really get too far from a central theme. Sad, really." 

She thought about Archie and shuddered again. Death had 
made him more likable, more pathetic, somehow. She hopped 
up on a stack of pallets to sit, and looked at Morgan. 

"What about Bates? I saw him with you at Peabody Place 
that day. Was he undercover?" 

"I can't discuss the details of a case." 

"Bull dust. He's dead. I thought he'd killed Mrs. Trumble, 
but it wasn't him. It was Neil." 

Morgan nodded slowly. "Bates flipped once we made him 
on fencing stolen jewels. He made a deal to wear a wire. I still 
thought Archie might have killed the old lady." 

"Neil did it because she was going to call the cops on Yogi 
and tell them about the stolen necklace. Neil shot Bates. And 
I think Bates shot Archie." She drew in a shuddering breath. 
"You know now that Yogi didn't do it, right? That he's 
innocent?" 

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Bobby walked up then, and he shook his head. "Yogi didn't 
kill anybody, but I'd still like to know what the hell he was 
doing with stolen property." 

"Making copies," she said before Morgan could say 
anything, and then something he'd said a moment before 
rang a bell. "Wait a minute—you said Bates was wearing a 
wire? Tonight?" 

Morgan nodded. "On his leg. How do you think we got here 
so quick?" 

"You didn't get here quick. You took a helluva long time to 
get here—and Bates is dead, so you didn't get here quick 
enough." 

"Thanks for pointing that out," Bobby said irritably. "The 
wire stopped working after we heard Archie incriminate 
himself pretty good. We got enough to take him down. Neil 
too. Bates would've done less time since he cooperated. Too 
bad the wire failed." 

"Or he got it off somehow. He figured Neil would check 
him, and he did." She bit her lip and thought for a moment. "I 
think Bates pulled the wire. He planned to run. Or worse. He 
pulled his gun about the same time Archie went for Neil's 
throat." 

"Yeah, well, we'll find out just what happened when the 
crime scene unit is through with their investigations. You'll 
have to give your statement. Delisi can take it here, or you 
can come downtown. I know you're pretty shook up." 

Bobby was being really nice. That was so ... unlike him. 
She narrowed her eyes. "What's going on? Why are you being 
nice? Has something happened—Yogi. Where's Yogi?" 

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"We were hoping you'd tell us." 

"But he's cleared, right? Right? Bobby?" 

"Look Harley, I'm not going to get into specifics with you. 
Yogi's mixed up with these perps somehow, and it may not 
work out so well for him." 

"He's an innocent dupe!" 

Bobby glanced at Morgan, who was being very quiet. 
Neither of them said anything. She hopped off the stack of 
pallets, panic mixing with irritation. 

"You can't be serious. Didn't you hear what Archie and 
Bates said? Yogi didn't know he was committing a crime. He 
was just making jewelry copies for Archie. Yogi accidentally 
gave him back the fake one instead of the real one. That's 
all." 

Bobby rubbed the back of his neck and didn't look at her, 
and Morgan seemed to find the concrete floor fascinating. 

"But didn't you hear—" No, they hadn't heard. Her 
conversation with Archie had been before Bates showed up. 
And now both Archie and Bates were dead, and Neil wasn't 
likely to want to clear Yogi. He struck her as the type who'd 
be more than willing to share the blame with someone, 
whether they were guilty or not. Just great. 

"So, happen to know where he is?" Bobby asked a moment 
later, and the look he gave her betrayed nothing but mild 
interest. Like she'd be fooled by that. 

She shook her head. "Not the slightest." 

"Right." 

"So where's Neil? Why isn't he in custody? He was right 
here. He killed Bates. He shot at me. Where is he?" 

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Bobby scowled. "We'll find him." 

"Really? How'd you manage to lose him? I've never seen 
so many cops in one place. Except maybe at the Krispy 
Kreme." 

"Funny, Harley. And while you're being so amusing, we can 
discuss what the hell you're doing here when I expressly told 
you—" 

"Ah. Here comes Cami." Harley moved away from Bobby 
and toward Cami, who'd come in the warehouse door with a 
uniform at her side. She looked pale but otherwise unhurt, 
and ran toward Harley. An officer she recognized as Delisi 
followed close behind her. 

Cami hugged her tightly. "You okay, Harley?" 

"Just fine. How about you?" 

"Bruised, cramped, and I've got to pee, but other than 
that, no problem. What's going on here?" 

"They're looking for Neil. The jeweler you met. I'll explain 
later. I think we need to get out of here right now. You know. 
Find the bathroom?" 

Cami caught on quick. After a glance toward Bobby and 
Morgan, she nodded. "Yep, I really have to go, too." 

"Ladies room," Harley called over her shoulder, "we'll be 
right back." 

"Uh, where do we need to go?" Cami asked once they were 
outside, and Harley hurried her along before Bobby and 
Morgan caught on to the fact they were going farther than the 
closest bathroom. 

"We've got to find Yogi before Neil does. I've got a bad 
feeling." 

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Chapter Thirteen 

"What are you looking for?" Cami's teeth were chattering, 
and she hopped from one foot to the other while Harley got 
down on the wet pavement by her bike. Police cars crowded 
close to the warehouse, but it was empty out here by the 
fence. They just hadn't gotten this far yet. 

"The extra key. I hide one in the fender for times like this." 

"You mean times when we've been kidnapped, tied up, 
nearly arrested and almost killed? Does that happen often?" 

Cami sounded dubious. Harley found the magnetic key 
case and stood up. "No. This is the first time. I just wanted to 
be prepared. Like a Girl Scout." 

"You were never a Girl Scout." 

"Even more reason. Look, Bobby and Morgan are liable to 
be out here any minute. Let's go." 

"Morgan?" Cami asked as she straddled the bike behind 
Harley, "who's that?" 

"Bruno Jett's alter ego. The legal side of his personality. I'll 
explain it all later. Right now, we have to find Yogi. I'll start 
with Eric, since he was the last one to see them." 

The University of Memphis campus, formerly known as 
Memphis State and still called that by most alumni and much 
of Memphis, sprawled over eleven hundred acres of prime 
real estate at four different sites. Red brick buildings spiked 
the main campus skyline between huge oaks, a maze of 
them, confusing to anyone not a student or teacher. 

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"So where is he staying?" Cami asked when they stopped 
on Central at the light. "One of the dorms?" 

"No, a friend's house, but it's right behind the campus. I'm 
just not sure which street." 

"Great. You'd think we'd know everyone, seeing as how we 
grew up here, but nothing's the same anymore." 

Cami had said aloud what Harley was thinking. It was an 
area in flux, always changing. And the chance of finding Eric if 
he didn't have the van parked out front somewhere was slim 
to none. 

"Can't we call?" Cami asked when they took off from the 
light, and Harley shook her head. 

"Even if I had my cell phone, it was new and I didn't have 
his friend's number entered in it yet. Just look for Vanna. It's 
bound to be in a driveway. Unless the police found him and 
have it impounded or something." But Bobby would have 
mentioned that, even if Morgan didn't. 

They cruised up and down the streets as quietly as 
possible, but there was no sign of the van. Since they were in 
the area, Harley decided to drive by her parents' house in 
case Eric had gone home to get clean clothes. Or more weed. 
Most likely, the latter. 

What she didn't expect to see in the driveway was her own 
car. Wait—didn't Eric switch vehicles with Yogi? Excitement 
made her hands shaky, so that she barely got the bike killed 
and put the foot stand down without laying it down on the 
curb. Fortunately, Cami knew by now to jump off pretty 
quickly, and stood on the narrow strip of grass between the 
curb and sidewalk. 

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"Do you think they switched vehicles again?" Cami asked, 
peering doubtfully toward the house. It was dark, with what 
looked like only a single lamp left on in the front room. 

"Possibly. Either way, we have to find them quickly. Come 
on. If it's Eric, that means he's seen them, and if it's them ... 
Well, we can get Yogi a lawyer before he talks to the police." 

To her surprise, the front door was locked. It was never 
locked. Not in all the years she'd lived in this house, nor since 
she'd left. Diva said it was too much like telling people they 
were untrustworthy. Even Harley pointing out that most 
people weren't trustworthy hadn't changed her mind, and 
since they'd never been burglarized—except for Archie—Diva 
was convinced she must be right. She knocked and rang the 
bell, but no one came to the door. 

"It's locked?" Cami sank down on Diva's wicker couch. 
"Maybe your brother locked it." 

"Right. Like Eric would remember to even close it. I'll see if 
the back door's open. I can always use the dog door if I have 
to. You just stay here and I'll open the door when I get in. No 
point in both of us tromping through the weeds." 

"Gladly. I may just nap while you visit." Cami sagged back 
into the cushions with a sigh. 

Navigating the windmill, metal Tower of Pisa, whirligigs, 
and menagerie of plastic and plaster rabbits, gnomes, and 
toads scattered under sunflowers and wild Vinca vines, she 
went in the back door that led to the screened porch. The 
porch held an assortment of furniture and other items, usually 
stacked fairly neatly to one side, but cluttered now, probably 
from Archie's search. And then the police investigation 

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afterward. Neatness wasn't exactly a professional 
requirement. 

The back door opened easily and she stepped into the 
kitchen. A chair was overturned. Archie had really torn stuff 
up. Diva was probably horrified, and Harley was surprised she 
wasn't already cleaning up, armed with rubber gloves and 
herbal-based cleansers. Sometimes Diva was more like 
Grandmother Eaton than she wanted to admit, preferring 
cleanliness if not organization in her life. 

"Hey," she called as she went toward the front door to let 
Cami in. "Where are you all? Eric? Diva?" 

They could have just left the car here and gone off with 
friends, of course. She hadn't thought of that. The house was 
still and quiet, no music playing, only the one lamp on in the 
living room, no rowdy dog, but it didn't feel empty. It felt— 

A light snapped on suddenly and she turned, blinking 
against the bright glare. "Eric?" 

"Not even close, Blondie." 

Neil Campbell. She knew that voice, recognized the slightly 
raspy, wheezy sound of his breathing. She froze in place. As 
her eyes adjusted she saw Diva and Yogi sitting on the 
slipcovered couch, looking out of place and bewildered in a 
bed of rioting pink peonies. 

"Do you know what this idiot's talking about?" Yogi asked, 
sounding afraid and angry at the same time. She understood 
completely. Having a loaded pistol waving around was enough 
to create that sort of emotional stew. 

"Let me guess. He's asking about a necklace." 

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"How did you know that?" Yogi started to get up, but 
Campbell pointed the pistol at him and he eased back into the 
soft cushions. Diva didn't say anything at all, just gazed at 
Neil Campbell with opaque blue eyes that remained serene. 
Maybe she was reading his aura. Or trying to send him 
telepathic demands to put down the weapon. 

Harley tried to convey a sense of confidence. "Because 
he's killed three people for it." 

Yogi made a strangled sound, and Campbell wheezed 
angrily. "I didn't kill Archie. Bates did that, the bastard." 

"But you killed Mrs. Trumble. And you killed Bates." 

"And you're liable to be the next one. You know so much, 
so tell me where the necklace is, or I'll shoot the old hippie 
first." 

"You can't shoot us. You can't afford to risk the noise," 
Harley said. 

While she was talking, Harley tried not to look out the 
windows at the porch, hoping that Cami wasn't really napping 
and had noticed what was going on and gone for help. Surely 
she'd seen the light come on. All she had to do was look 
through one of the windows. Even if she didn't recognize Neil, 
she'd see that he had a gun. If she could just stall for time, 
keep Campbell talking ... But then he waggled the gun. 

"Don't tell me what I can't afford. Just tell me where Yogi 
put that necklace or I'll shoot him." 

When Yogi started to say something, Harley cut him off. 
She took a step forward and that brought Neil's gun swinging 
toward her. She put up her hands like she meant to 

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surrender. Her mouth went dry, but she managed to speak 
steadily enough. 

"I know where he puts stuff. Yogi, uh, smokes a lot. You 
know. Weed. His memory is bad. He really has no idea what 
you're talking about." 

"Harley," Yogi said irritably, "my memory is just fine. Is 
this idiot with the CIA or the IRS? He's with one of them, isn't 
he? A damn government lackey, out to undermine American 
values and conspire with the enemy, and—" 

"Shut the hell up," Neil said, his words rattling, like he was 
having a hard time getting them out. "I don't have time for 
this shit. If you know where it is, Blondie, tell me." 

"I'll have to show you. You'll never find it. It'd be quicker if 
I got it for you." 

"Right. Like I'm letting you walk out that door." His hand 
tightened on the pistol grip. He looked nervous, edgy, 
impatient. She couldn't stall him much longer. 

"Okay, okay. Since you're in a hurry, and since I don't 
want to end up with a bullet in my head or have you shoot 
my parents, I'll make a swap with you—the necklace for 
letting us go." 

Before Neil could agree or refuse, Yogi said in a tone that 
indicated he'd just now figured out what they were talking 
about, "Necklace? You mean that piece I did for Archie? He 
got his real one back, so the copy's mine, 'cause he never 
paid me for it after all that trouble with King and Mrs. 
Trumble. I stuck it in a coffee can. Is that what this is all 
about? A fake necklace? Damn, that's the dumbest—" 

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Diva put a hand on his arm, shushing him. "Remember 
what I told you? It'll be all right." 

Harley wished she had her mother's confidence. Or the ear 
of the universe. 

Neil glanced back at Harley and seemed to be making up 
his mind. Then he nodded. 

"Yeah, yeah, fine. It's not like the cops haven't already 
made me anyway. Hurry up. I just need that piece." 

He must need money really badly, Harley thought, but as 
long as she could get him out of the house and away from 
Yogi and Diva, that was all that mattered. If only there was a 
necklace she could give Neil once she got him out of the 
house ... something to trick him into leaving. 

Neil wasn't quite as trusting or hurried as she'd hoped. He 
made her tie up Yogi and Diva before he'd leave them alone, 
and he ripped out the phone line from the wall. It took 
several minutes to do all that, and by then he was really 
jumpy. He kept twitching, the gun in his hand moving back 
and forth from her to her parents and back again, snapping 
orders at her when she took too long. Harley couldn't help 
wondering where Cami was, and if she'd fallen asleep out 
there on the front porch. She'd looked pretty comfortable 
sitting on Diva's wicker couch. 

They went out the back way, Harley a few steps ahead of 
Neil. If there was any such thing as help from the gods, he'd 
trip over a whirligig or the windmill. She should have known 
better than to hope for that, though. Her luck ran along the 
lines of bad to abysmal. 

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Yogi's workshop was dark. Next door, the light over 
Morgan's garage shone down on an empty driveway. He was 
still out at the warehouse on Jackson, of course. Along with 
Bobby, and all the cops looking for Neil Campbell in 
Dumpsters and along the railroad tracks. 

"Where the hell is it?" Neil snarled, and she pointed just 
ahead of them. 

"In his workshop. That's the last place I saw it. It's hidden 
in plain sight. You could look right at it and not see it." 

Maybe she could catch him off-balance somehow, grab his 
gun and start screaming. If she could wake up Cami, or if 
Mrs. Shipley wasn't too far under the influence of her 
Benadryl and vodka nightly libation. Where was Cami? She 
had to have seen what was happening by now. 

"Harley, what's going on?" 

As if conjured up by her thoughts, Cami appeared on the 
driveway by the chainlink fence that was supposed to keep 
King in the back yard but only gave him climbing exercise. 
Harley came to an abrupt stop and Neil bumped into her, 
nearly knocking her into a spinning metal whirligig shaped 
like a flamingo. 

"Get over here," he snarled at Cami, and she looked first 
confused, then terrified, her eyes getting really big and 
gleaming in the murky glow of the vapor lights. "Hurry it up" 

"Who ... who are you?" 

"The man with the gun. Get your ass in here. Now." 

Cami pushed open the gate and scurried through it. Neil 
grabbed her arm and shoved her ahead of him, jerking his 
head toward the workshop to indicate impatience. Harley 

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understood. And now she had to worry about two of them 
escaping instead of just herself. This wasn't at all helpful. She 
should have conjured up a cop. Bobby. Morgan. Even Delisi. 
Any cop would do right now. 

"Wait, I know you," Cami was saying as they reached the 
workshop. "You're the jeweler. I met you in Midtown." 

"Shut up." 

Neil had taken the words right out of her mouth, Harley 
thought, and reached for the long string that dangled from an 
overhead light. Light swayed over the mess of Yogi's 
workbench. Bins of screws, pieces of metal, wire, cans of 
loose crystals, soldering irons, and the flotsam of his hobby 
née career lay scattered about. Three pound coffee cans were 
stuck here and there. 

"It's in one of these cans," Harley said, gauging the odds 
of flinging a heavy can at Neil and then running. Not feasible 
right now. He still had Cami by the arm and stood nervously 
in the doorway, watching her with narrowed eyes. 

"Just find the damn thing and give it to me." 

Harley made a show of looking in cans, dragging out 
crystals, half-finished necklaces, bracelets, dangly earrings, 
and a dream-catcher with colored crystals and feathers. 
Yogi's solder iron lay on the table. It had one of those really 
long cords on it, and she had the thought it'd make a decent 
weapon if she had to use it. Maybe if she plugged it in... 

"All these coffee cans look alike," she said when Neil 
snarled at her again to hurry up. Tension made her jumpy, 
and her stomach hurt. Acrid fumes wafted up from the 

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soldering iron she'd plugged in as it heated. "Wait. Is this it? 
The necklace you want?" 

Neil stepped closer, pushing Cami ahead of him, so that 
Harley couldn't get a clear shot at him with the heated iron. 

"What? That thing? Those are crystals, and cheap ones at 
that. You better not be dicking me around, Blondie." 

"No, no, I'm just not sure which coffee can. It's out here. I 
promise this is where he put it." Her voice should have the 
ring of truth since Yogi had, indeed, stuck the necklace in one 
of these cans. That was where Morgan had found it. 

Morgan. She concentrated fiercely on him, trying to 
conjure him up, feeling stupid but rationalizing that it worked 
for Diva on occasion. And it might not help but it couldn't 
hurt. 

"You've got two minutes. Then your little friend here gets 
hurt." 

He sounded serious. Cami looked terrified. Harley felt sick. 

"Gotcha. Looking." 

This hadn't been such a good idea after all. Now she had 
Cami in trouble. And she really did feel sick. With shaking 
hands, she reached for another coffee can. It tipped over and 
crystals and wire and beads went everywhere, pattering on 
the table and floor like hard rain. She knelt to pick some up, 
and Neil snarled at her to forget it, just find the necklace. 

"Right. Right. Wait ... I think this might be where it is." 
Yogi had a system of glass jars that held different size 
crystals, screwed into lids nailed to a board. A mayonnaise jar 
held what looked like a necklace, and she started to unscrew 
it from the lid with one hand, while reaching for the soldering 

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iron with the other. "Is this it, do you think?" she asked, 
leaning forward to peer at the jar and hoping Neil would come 
closer. 

He did. 

Blinking owlishly in the glare of the bare bulb overhead, 
Neil leaned closer to look at the jar, and Harley took the 
opportunity to seize the hot iron and stab it into the hand 
holding the gun. He screamed, Cami screamed, and Harley 
yelled at her to run. She did, breaking free with a sudden 
twist. Neil lunged for Harley, the gun still in his hand, cussing 
a blue streak as he grabbed a fist full of her hair and shoved 
her to the floor. She was eye-level with his chubby knees. 

"You stupid little bitch..." 

Harley bit him. He let out a howl. Then he hit her on the 
side of the head with the gun and stars exploded in the back 
of her brain. Somehow his hands were around her neck, and 
he choked her while she clawed frantically at his pudgy 
fingers, with a loud buzzing sound in her ears and blackness 
encroaching on the light. So this was it. This was how she'd 
die, on her knees gasping for air. 

As quickly as it had started, it stopped. Neil suddenly 
released her and screamed, louder this time. Someone was 
snarling and growling. Neil kept screaming. 

As her vision cleared, Harley saw a black, white, and pink 
creature tug fiercely on baggy pants and, apparently, 
generous amounts of skin. King had a good grip on Campbell, 
and he didn't seem disposed to let go despite the blows to his 
head and back. Then Neil grabbed a length of iron pipe, and 

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at the same time, Harley saw the gun he'd dropped. She 
grabbed it. 

"Hit that dog and I'll shoot," she croaked, her voice painful 
and sounding raspy. "And I'm not worried about anyone 
hearing it." 

Neil yelped louder. "Get him off! Get him off!" 

"Drop the pipe and I will." 

Neil dropped the iron pipe and Harley reached for King's 
collar. The dog didn't seem inclined to release his victim, and 
while she tried to pull him away Neil screamed louder as 
strips of flesh and denim pulled loose. 

"You move and I'll sic him on you again," Harley got out 
when she succeeded in pulling King away from Campbell, but 
he was so busy moaning and whining she wasn't certain he 
heard her. King looked rather pleased with himself, and he 
kept a predatory eye on Neil. 

Who would have ever thought the dog could be useful? 

Then, just as Harley was thinking how to get Neil out of 
the workshop so she could call the cops, Morgan appeared in 
the doorway. He sized up the situation rather quickly, and 
took Neil into custody, putting him on the ground outside the 
workshop. Then he snapped cuffs on his wrists while he 
reminded him of his rights. 

It had worked! She'd conjured him up. Maybe Diva really 
was right about that sort of thing. 

"Harley. Are you okay?" Cami stuck her head in the door. 

"I will be. One day. Did you call the cops?" 

"Yes." 

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So much for mental conjuring. Not that it mattered. Harley 
sat on the floor amidst spilled crystals and wire, Neil's gun in 
one hand and every nerve in her body screaming at her for 
help. The smell of burned skin and the soldering iron 
reminded her that she should unplug it. King sat beside her, 
his tail thumping against the floor, when Cami came in to 
kneel in front of them. 

"You don't look okay, Harley. You look like you need 
chocolate." 

"Yes. Yes, that's exactly what I need. Chocolate-covered 
Valium." 

Cami laughed. "Good thing Bruno showed up." 

"Bruno? Oh. Morgan. I didn't know you knew his number. 
How did you call him?" 

"I didn't. I called 911. They aren't here yet. Come on. Let's 
go inside." 

By now Morgan had hauled Neil to his feet. He looked up 
as Harley and Cami came out of the workshop, light from 
inside streaming across him. He'd found another shirt. Too 
bad. He looked at the gun in Harley's hand. 

"Is that his weapon?" 

"Yes. I presume you'd like to have it." 

"Master of the obvious, as always." 

Sirens sounded, getting louder as they got closer, and in 
just a minute, cops swarmed all over the house. Déjà vu all 
over again, she thought, and gladly relinquished the gun, 
King, and any pretense at courage. It felt good to collapse on 
the living room couch, while Diva fussed over her and Yogi 
kept his comments about the establishment to a minimum. 

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Cami looked like she'd been run over with a Mack truck, and 
Harley suspected she looked much the same. Not that it 
mattered. They were alive, and for a while there, it'd seemed 
doubtful. 

"I need to go home," Cami said finally, "my poor creatures 
haven't been fed yet." 

"I fed them. Earlier. You can clean up the poop, though." 

Cami nodded. "Thanks, Harley. When Archie showed up, I 
was just getting ready to feed them. Was that today? 
Yesterday? It seems years ago." 

It did. A decade at least. 

"I'll take you home," Harley said, but as she started to get 
up, Cami shook her head. 

"That's okay. Bobby's going to give me a ride." 

"Bobby's here?" 

"Outside. He's off-duty. And, uh, said he'd give me a ride if 
I needed one. So you can rest a little longer." 

Off-duty, my ass, she thought. "Right. Your generosity 
humbles me. Go get him, tiger." 

Cami turned a lovely shade of pink and didn't argue the 
point. Ah, romance was in the air. How sweet. 

"Tell Bobby he owes me the Crime Stoppers cash." Harley 
closed her eyes and snuggled deeper into the couch cushions. 

Diva brought her a cup of herbal tea sweetened with 
honey, and pressed her cool hand on Harley's forehead. 

"You did well, Harley. I'm proud of you." 

She opened one eye to peer up at her mother. Steam rose 
from the teacup. In the midst of chaos, Diva seemed an oasis 
of serenity. 

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"How do you do that?" she asked, sitting up to take the 
tea. 

"Do what?" 

"Stay so ... serene. Mother Earth kind of thing. Calm, cool, 
collected. Like you never worry about anything." 

"Worry would mean I don't trust in the universe." 

"Right. I forgot. Some of us aren't in tune." 

"Then get a tune-up. Didn't I tell you destiny was in 
charge?" 

"I seem to recall something about Rama and Ovid 
predicting disaster." 

"Not at all. They said all would be well." 

"They didn't mention pain and suffering, I note." 

"Rainbows only appear after rain, Harley." 

"Uh huh. You must have been expecting some kind of 
storm, then, or you wouldn't have taken off like you did. If 
you knew destiny was in charge, why'd you and Yogi run 
away instead of staying and getting everything resolved?" 

Diva smiled. "We did that for you, Harley. There are 
lessons we all have to learn. This life lesson was for you. To 
help you grow. To give you confidence in your own abilities. 
To give you a future. You'll understand all one day. Just 
benefit now. Listen to your spirit guides." 

Harley took a sip of her tea to keep from saying something 
tacky. This kind of discussion merely reaffirmed that life was 
returning to normal. Or what passed for normal in her world. 
Yogi, who was in the kitchen loudly declaring that the 
Gestapo were ripping out his prize pot plants, only sealed that 
realization. He'd be lucky not to get arrested before the night 

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was over. If it wasn't for Bobby, and probably Mike, he'd 
definitely be on his way to 201 Poplar and a cell. It was nearly 
two in the morning. All she wanted to do was sleep. 

She stood up. "I'm going home." 

"Stay here. You can sleep in your old room," Diva said, but 
Harley shook her head. 

"No, I think I need my own things around me right now. 
You understand." 

"Of course I do." Diva smiled. "Light your candles, cleanse 
the negative energy from your house. Let the positive energy 
flow through you again." 

The only thing positive she wanted to flow involved a tub 
of water and bath salts. Harley went outside, ignoring the 
flashing blue lights and Sadie Shipley standing on the curb 
across the street. Her bright yellow robe lit up the night. 

"Harley Jean, are you all right?" she called, and Harley 
knew she couldn't ignore her completely. 

"I'm just fine, Mrs. Shipley. Diva will tell you all about it 
tomorrow." 

Just as she got her bike started, Mike Morgan appeared on 
the sidewalk. "You need to give a statement." 

"Is tomorrow soon enough? I'm not sure I'd make much 
sense tonight." 

"Yeah. Tomorrow's just fine." 

She looked at him. He wore a dark blue tee shirt that fit 
his muscled torso like a second skin. White lettering said 
Memphis Police Department on one side. Very nice. Tempting. 
She had to say something, anything noncommittal. 

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"Guess now that you're not undercover anymore, you'll be 
moving, huh." 

"I have my own place." 

She realized she didn't even know if he was married. He 
could have a wife, six kids and a dog, a house with a white 
picket fence ... She nodded. 

"I'm sure you'll be glad to go home to your family, then." 

He cocked his head to one side. "It's not nearly as exciting 
as living next door to your parents. Or the occasional drop-in 
visitor to my basement." 

"Ah. Probably not. Yogi and Diva know fascinating people, 
it seems." 

"And have an interesting daughter." 

Her heartbeat escalated. She nodded. "I've heard that." 

"I'll just bet you have." 

When he didn't say anything else, she raced the bike 
engine a little. "Well. Gotta go. See you around, I guess." 

He stepped back from the bike. "That's possible." 

On the way home, she thought about a hot bath and cool 
bed sheets. It'd take a while to get her apartment back in 
order, but it could wait until the next day. Oh God. She didn't 
even remember if she had a tour group. She'd never make it 
through an entire day touring the Jungle Room or Sun 
Studios. Maybe Tootsie could call in a relief driver. Otherwise 
she'd be driving in a coma. 

It took all her energy just to clean up enough to reach her 
bed, and she ran a bath and sat in a tub of hot water until her 
skin looked wrinkly and her muscles relaxed. Then she put on 
an old football jersey made of thin nylon mesh that had the 

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number sixty-nine on the front. Tiny holes allowed in cool air. 
It was stuffy in her apartment, but not hot enough to pay for 
the air conditioning. She'd settle for ceiling fans. 

Armed with a glass of wine and the remote to the TV, she 
sat cross-legged in the middle of her bed and lit a lavender 
candle. Aroma therapy. Diva would say it was cleansing the 
aura. It didn't really matter which. Right now she needed to 
forget everything for a while. She found a cable music station 
that played New Age, the television screen going dark with 
only the name of the song scrolling past as panpipes played. 
Then she lay back on her pillows and willed her tense muscles 
to relax. 

Images hovered, a mental replay of the day's events, 
Archie and Bates bodies were foremost in her mind. Maybe 
she should have stayed with her parents after all. Anything 
for a distraction. The peace and solitude wasn't as comforting 
as she'd envisioned. God, she'd give anything for some 
company. Cami was probably with Bobby—who was probably 
sneezing his fool head off with all the cat and dog hair—and 
here she sat alone. Celibacy was a bitch. Right now she'd 
settle for a one night stand, someone strong and sexy enough 
to take her mind off all that'd happened. 

"You're not much of a housekeeper, are you." 

Harley sat bolt upright, stifling a scream. Mike Morgan 
leaned against the door frame, his arms crossed over his 
chest. A faint smile curved his mouth. 

"What the hell ... How did you get in here?" Her heart 
pounded so hard it was like native drums in an old Tarzan 

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movie. Morgan held up a small metal object that she 
recognized as her door pick. 

"Handy little thing. I'm considering appropriating it as 
police evidence. Why didn't you answer your phone?" 

"Ah. It's broken. A dozen pieces. Still somewhere in the 
parking lot of NuVo Rich warehouse. Is this a social call, or 
official?" 

"Officially a social call." He pushed away from the door. 
"Thought you might need to unburden your soul tonight. You 
know. After everything." 

Right. She saw the slight gleam in his wicked blue eyes. 
There were other ways to de-stress. She smiled. 

"Somehow, you don't fit the image of a priest." 

"Thank God." 

"Before you say anything else—is there a wife in your life? 
Kids? Dog? Picket fence and a house in the suburbs?" 

"No wife. No kids. No dog. Guilty on the house in the 
suburbs, but no picket fence." 

"Just checking. A girl has to be careful, y'know." 

"Right." He held up something he'd been holding. "I 
brought you this. You left it behind and I thought you might 
need it." 

It was the wooden phallus she'd used as a club. She 
started to laugh. "Think I might need that tonight?" 

"You never know." 

"Every woman should have a pet penis." 

He grinned. "Or two." 

Oh yeah. This could be interesting. 

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"By the way," she murmured when he pushed her back on 
the bed, "how good are you at getting parking tickets fixed?" 

"Not too good. I'm much better at this ... And this..." 

She sighed. "Oh yeah." 

* * * * 

Hazy light slanted through the open blinds and across the 
rumpled bed. Really, there were times that she couldn't argue 
with Fate. It seemed to know what she needed even when 
she had no clue. Maybe she was better at conjuring up results 
than she'd thought. 

Still sweaty, despite a healthy air conditioner humming 
cool air through the bedroom, she rolled over and tapped 
Mike on the shoulder. 

He let out a muffled groan and muttered under the pillow, 
"You've ruined me. I'll never recover." 

"You'll recover," she said. "Think there's anything to that 
myth about fertility gods?" 

That brought him out from under his pillow. His head 
popped out like a snapping turtle, and he looked about as 
friendly. 

"What does that mean?" 

She gestured to the wooden phallus sitting on her dresser 
across from the bed. It leaned in majestic splendor against 
the mirror so it looked as if there were two of them. "There 
has to be some reason people think those things work." 

He followed her gesture and grinned, rolling to his back. 
"It might be the power of suggestion." 

"Are you suggesting—" 

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He took her hand and brought it closer to him. Taking 
some initiative, she curled her fingers around his rising 
interest. Ah. Nice. 

"Am I supposed to live up to that thing?" Mike asked after 
a moment, and his voice sounded a little breathless. 

"If you mean the willy, no. If you mean live up to your 
potential, oh yeah. But don't worry, you do just fine, Morgan. 
Just fine." 

And that was an understatement. 

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