“That’s so sweet,” I said, reaching out to hug her and almost falling off my stool. “I would miss you, too.”
“Yes, but I’m serious.”
“I know.” I patted my heart. “Thank you.”
“No, I mean about your atrocious taste in clothes,” she said with a smirk.
I glanced down at my gray suit. “You picked out this outfit. And come on, my shoes are hot.” They were killing me, too. Working in four-inch heels should be against the law.
“Okay, you look good today,” she allowed. “But I still have nightmares about those Birkenstocks.”
“This is San Francisco,” I shouted over the din. “Everybody wears Birkenstocks.”
“If everybody jumped off the bridge, would you jump, too?”
I rolled my eyes and turned on my stool to check on the bartenders. I’d lost count of the number of drinks I’d had, but that didn’t mean it was time to stop, did it?
The mirror behind the bar reflected both Robin and me as well as the burgeoning crowd and the lights of the bay behind us.
“So you didn’t call me stupid and I appreciate that,” I said. “But you did call my clothes stupid.”
“No, I didn’t. I called them atrocious.” She sipped her drink. “Atrocious. I like to say that word.”
I stared in horror. “Oh my God, you’re drunk.” I giggled. “You never get drunk.”
“I’m not drunk. I don’t get drunk. I’m a control freak.” She downed her drink. “We should go.”
“Not yet.” The Irish whiskey was definitely taking effect and I couldn’t quite figure out why I’d been so offended by Robin’s words.
Oh yeah, my atrocious clothes. But she’d hate to see me dead, which was nice, although it implied that I was stupid enough to get myself killed.
I pointed at her. “I have no intention of getting myself killed simply because I’m looking for a few answers.”
“Okay, good.”
“But if you think it’s a possibility that I could get myself killed, then you must think I’m stupid.”
“How do you figure?” she asked.
“Is that a trick question?”
She laughed, but I knew she was trying to confuse me. And thanks to the booze, it was working. Robin thought she had the upper hand just because she was relatively sober compared to me. Maybe I was two drinks ahead of her, but I was also a Wainwright. We did all our best thinking when our brains were marinated in alcohol.
And coffee fueled the brilliance. I was fast approaching the intellectual level of Albert Einstein.
“What was the question?” I asked.
Robin laughed and sipped her drink.
“Miss?”
“He’s talking to you, Brooklyn,” Robin shouted.
I turned. It was the bartender, the kid. What was his name? Oh yeah, it was right on his shirt. Neil. “Yes, Neil?”
“Anandalla’s at the end of the bar if you want to talk to her.”
I tensed up. Here was my chance. I leaned back on the stool but couldn’t see her from where I sat. Then I remembered the bar mirror. Now I could see the whole room, including the woman sitting at the end of the bar. She looked short, with dark curly hair, cute, probably in her mid-twenties. She twisted around in her stool, searching the crowd, her eyes wide, her jaw tight.
I watched her gaze drift to the mirror and her eyes suddenly met mine. She recoiled but recovered in a flash, threw some cash on the bar and disappeared in the bar crowd.
“Hey!” What was that about? Did she know me?
I jumped up. “Let’s go!”
“Are you nuts?” Robin said. “I’m not finished. We haven’t paid our bill.”
“Hold my bag,” I shouted. “I’ll be back.”
My heavy bag hit her in the stomach, but she managed to grab it before it slid to the floor.
“You’re insane,” I heard her say as I thrust myself into the horde.
Once I was out the door, I looked both ways and saw Anandalla sprinting up Hyde Street toward North Point. I took off after her, watched her reach the crest of the hill. She glanced left and right, chose right and disappeared.
The hill was unbelievably steep. Halfway up, I had to stop and hold my stomach, which was starting to cramp from the combination of alcohol, four-inch heels and a skirt that was tighter than it had been when I put it on this morning.
I leaned one hand against the building, panting and puffing like an old man.
It wasn’t my best moment.
But why had she run away from me? How did she know me?
I turned and saw Robin waiting patiently at the bottom of the hill. With another heavy breath, I shuffled back down and she handed me my bag.
“I paid the bill,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“You owe me.”
“I know.”
We crossed Hyde when the signal changed. For a few minutes we strolled without speaking, enjoying the evening air. We’d walked three blocks and were passing Ripley’s Believe It or Not when Robin finally spoke.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“That was the girl I was looking for,” I explained as I stared at a two-headed ferret in the Ripley’s display. “That was Anandalla.”
“Anandalla? The one whose note you found in Abraham’s studio?”
“Right. And as soon as she saw me, she ran away.”
“How do you know it was her?”
“The bartender said so.” I absently studied Ripley’s poster of a pregnant man who used to be a woman. “And how many women have a name like that?”
Robin twisted her lips. “I’ve never heard it before.”
“She looked straight at me, Robin. She recognized me. I don’t know how, but she knew me. And as soon as she saw me, she raced out of there. I tried to catch up with her, but I guess I’m a little out of shape.”
“You’re in great shape,” she said. “You’re just drunk.”
“Not anymore, sadly.” I cast an artful glance her way. “Maybe we should have one more.”
“That’s one of the seven warning signs,” she said.
“Okay,” I conceded. But a tingling sensation along my spine made me glance around. Why did I feel as though someone was watching me? I’d felt it earlier at the Covington. I rubbed my arms briskly to ward off the icy apprehension. I’d never experienced this before. Then again, I’d never had a friend murdered in cold blood before. And I’d never been surrounded by so many suspicious characters before.
I took another look around. Was Anandalla standing in the nearby shadows, watching me?
“You’re getting weird,” Robin said with a sigh, and slipped her arm through mine. “Come on. We can’t come this close to Ghirardelli Square and not stop for a hot fudge sundae.”
I woke up in my own bed wearing my own underwear, always a good thing. I just couldn’t quite remember how I got there.
I was shaking. Had I forgotten to turn on the heater? As I contemplated whether to jump out of bed and check, I considered the distinct possibility that the shaking might be a result of consuming four-five?-Irish coffees the night before.
If yes, I didn’t need to turn the heater on, I just needed some aspirin and more sleep. I was going with yes.
I jumped out of bed and my legs almost crumpled under me.
“Oh Lord, that hurts.”
Why did my legs feel like two lead weights? I wobbled into the bathroom, where I gulped down two aspirins, then scuffled back to bed and pulled the covers up. I had a vague memory of running up Hyde in high heels. Big mistake. I closed one eye to focus on the alarm clock and was pretty sure it said six o’clock. I really hoped that was a.m., not p.m.
The next time I opened my eyes it was nine o’clock. I threw the covers back and jumped out of bed. Then moaned and sank back down, clutching my pounding head with one hand while trying to knead my aching calves with the other.
“Oh, sweet Jerry Maguire, what did I do?”
The sudden and distinct memory of sucking down all that alcohol and caffeine did little to help my swirling stomach. I stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the hot water and stepped into the shower to do what I could to wash away the misery.
Forty minutes and two more aspirins later, after downing a cup of weak Earl Grey and a piece of dry toast, I managed to get myself down to my car and headed out of the parking garage.
I reached the Valley of the Moon in one hour and six minutes flat. Turning onto the road to Dharma, I said a silent prayer of thanks to the traffic gods, then another one to the wine gods who kept most tourists from starting their wine country tours until at least noon.
I wasn’t speaking to the Irish coffee gods.
I parked the car a block from the large town hall at the top of the hill. As I walked across the blacktop parking lot, I heard a tenor from the Dharma choir sing the first tremulous notes of “In My Life.”
I snuck in through one of the back doors. The arena-style auditorium had a capacity of six hundred and today it was standing room only. I stood at the back and gazed down at the backs of the colorful crowd. It only took a moment to pick out my mother and father seated three rows from center stage. My brother Jackson sat next to Mom, and my sister China sat next to Dad. Their spouses were with them, but I didn’t see any of the kids. Probably a wise decision to leave them home.
On the stage, Guru Bob stood at the podium, his head lolling serenely to the music of the choir behind him. He sported a purple dashiki and matching rufi, the fez-style hat he wore on special occasions. For a tall, fair-haired man, it might’ve seemed an odd choice, but Guru Bob was nothing if not eclectic in his wardrobe choices. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him in anything from a formal tuxedo to a cashmere bathrobe. I think he liked to keep his flock guessing.
As I stared at the backs of the people, a disturbing question invaded the tranquility I’d begun to feel with the harmony of the music and the familiar faces and surroundings.
Was Abraham’s murderer here in this room?
The thought gave me the heebie jeebies. Most of those gathered here were commune people who had known Abraham for twenty or thirty years. What would any of them have to gain from his death? The others in attendance were probably friends or business acquaintances of Abraham’s. Again, where was the motive?
I glanced to the left and abruptly met Inspector Jaglow’s pointed stare. He stood against the wall thirty feet away, but even from that distance I could feel the severity of his disapproval. I tried to smile at him, but his frown didn’t change, so I looked away, clutching my coat more tightly around me.
What was that about? Was I in trouble? Was I going to get a ticket for being late? Maybe Derek had told him I was meddling in their investigation, which wasn’t true at all. Nevertheless, I felt guilty and vaguely sick to my stomach.
I tried some deep breathing, matching my breaths to the rhythm of the music. That might’ve helped if I wasn’t recuperating from a slight hangover, but I was, so it just made me dizzy. I leaned back against the door and waited for the room to stop spinning.
“You’re not going to pass out again, are you?”
I jumped, then saw it was Derek.
“Stop sneaking up on me,” I whispered irately. He merely smirked, so I ignored him as Guru Bob began to speak in measured phrases, starting off with a short but stirring cosmological lesson in how planetary body types align in order to produce conscious harmony in all things-always a favorite topic at our house.
“Today,” he said, “with the loss of our dear friend, we all suffer. I remind you that with great suffering comes true purification-if we can only remember to suffer willingly and consciously. Only then can our suffering create a cosmic connection that will allow us to cross over to higher ground, higher consciousness, bridging the interval to begin a new octave.”
I snuck a peek at Derek to see whether he was gagging or falling asleep, but he was attentive, his strong arms folded across his chest, his feet planted firmly on the foor. He wore black as usual, but he seemed taller. Or maybe my headache made me imagine I was shrinking.
“Brother Abraham is on the astral plane now,” Guru Bob assured us, spreading his arms toward the ceiling. “He has shed his mortal coil to travel at light speed, free of all fears, free of lamentation and regret. There is only joy now. He is the sun.”
The commune people nodded their heads and murmured words of encouragement and praise, but I figured most of the visitors were wondering what in the world he was talking about.
“Brother Abraham has embraced the fire and the light of true humility that may have eluded him on this earthly plane. We urge our brother, in his glorious journey along this astral plane, to embrace the wonder, the splendor, the reality of higher consciousness. And in so doing, he raises all of us to a higher plane.”
There were shouts of “That’s right” and “Teach, Avatar,” around the room.
Derek leaned in and whispered, “Who is that guy?”
I bristled. It was fine for me to carp on Guru Bob, but nobody from the outside world got that privilege.
“Avatar Robson Benedict is a highly evolved being.”
“Clearly.” Derek nodded. “Very powerful.”
I looked at him in surprise. Was he kidding? Most people either laughed nervously or ran off into the woods after experiencing a stirring oration from Guru Bob.
Then the service was over and Derek and I were abruptly separated by the thick stream of people exiting the hall. After a brief moment of panic, I allowed myself to be carried along in their wake. Knowing my people, I had high expectations that we would wind up at some massive buffet of food and liquid refreshment.
Sure enough, the crowd headed straight for the dining hall, where tables had been laid with every sort of finger food imaginable, from tiny cheeseburgers to miniature pigs in blankets to more gourmet fare such as toasted squares topped with caviar and salmon. Everything had an accompanying sauce or dip or spread, naturally. Guru Bob did enjoy a good spread.
A wide table at one end of the room held every kind of dessert imaginable. Chocolate éclairs, pies, cakes, puddings and flan and mousse, lemon bars and cookies everywhere.
At the other end of the hall were several long tables where five or six men poured glasses of wine. There was a huge keg at one end, and barrels stuffed with soft drinks and water bottles.
I figured it would be better to eat a little before I headed for the wine, given my slight overindulgence the night before. But as I bit into my petite chicken salad sandwich, I felt my stomach twist.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
Holy spoilage, Batman. What in the world was Minka LaBoeuf doing in Dharma?
I turned and saw her. She stood barely two feet away from me, clutching a glass of red wine with one hand and Enrico Baldacchio’s arm with the other. She wore another one of her dominatrix ensembles, a black leather skirt and matching vest over a white lace blouse with poufy sleeves, accessorized by leopard-patterned gloves and matching pillbox hat with a black tuft of mesh that covered most of her face.
She’d already spilled wine on her white shirt. Such a waste of good wine.
“Minka,” I said, trying not to choke on the word.
“Brooklyn,” she said, stretching the mesh veil back so she could actually see me. “You remember Enrico, don’t you?”
Of course I remembered Enrico. He was an unpleasant little man with a tendency to sweat. And he’d been present at the Covington Library the night of Abraham’s murder.
Abraham had told me they’d tried to work together again but it had ended badly. Before that, they’d barely spoken in years, beginning back when they wound up on opposite sides of a lawsuit involving a counterfeit Marlowe folio sold to the Palace of the Legion of Honor years ago.
“Hello, Enrico,” I said. “It’s been a long time.” Not long enough, I thought, but didn’t say aloud because I’m basically a nice person.
“Che piacere è vederti, il mio caro.” He grabbed my hand and kissed it.
Minka cut in. “He’s saying something like, ‘How are you, my dear? Such a pleasure.’ Blah, blah, blah.”
“Yeah, I get it,” I said, then cringed at the trail of slime Enrico left on my hand. I furtively wiped it off with my appetizer napkin.
“Che posto bello!” he cried, sweeping his arm around. “Una montagna bella! Una montagna bella! Un giorno bello-ma che tragedia!”
“Uh, right. It’s a real tragedy.” I thought that was what he said. But what was up with the Italian? With a name like Baldacchio he had to be Italian, of course, but I remembered him coming from New Jersey.
“Quite a service,” Minka said, but I could see her tongue in her cheek so I knew she was lying. She viewed the crowd for a moment, then said, “Where the hell are we?”
I detested her with all of my being, but this was my town, my home, and my mother would be appalled if I treated any visitor badly, so I sucked it up and said stiffly, “Sonoma County. Really glad you could make it.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
I turned to Enrico. “What are you working on now, Enrico?”
“Ah, signorina.” He shrugged dramatically and fiddled with the cuffs of his dark brown shirt.
Minka slipped her arm through his. “We’re working with an important collector whose name cannot be revealed.”
My bullshit meter must’ve been showing on my face because she continued. “It’s true. He made us sign a confidentiality agreement.”
Who was she trying to impress? And why was she speaking for Enrico? I remembered him speaking English.
“Enrico,” I persisted, “I was so glad to see you at the Covington the other night. It gave me hope that you and Abraham had become friends again. Is that true? Did you bury the hatchet, so to speak?”
“Hatchet?” His eyes widened. “No hatchet! I did not do it.”
“Enrico,” Minka said through gritted teeth as she tightened her hold on his arm. “That’s an American joke. It means, you’ve made friends with Abraham.” She glared at me. “Stop baiting him.”
“I’m not,” I protested, then said to Enrico, “I’m sorry. I meant, I’m so glad to hear you and Abraham were able to be friends again.”
Minka nodded. “And his death is even more tragic because Baldacchio and Karastovsky”-she struck a dramatic pose-“the two greatest bookbinders in all the world, had once again joined together on a very important project.”
Enrico pulled a silk scarf from his pocket and dabbed his dry eyes. “Sì. È una tragedia.”
Minka’s head bobbed in agreement. “The book world has suffered a double blow.”
“Totally,” Enrico said, blowing the Italian for a moment. He nodded rapidly, like a bobblehead. “Sì, sì, si, signorina.”
So not only was he faking the accent, but he was lying about his renewed friendship with Abraham, who’d told me himself that Enrico was a deceitful thief.
“That must’ve been such a comfort,” I said. “To know that you became friends again before he died. Otherwise, you might’ve had to live the rest of your life feeling guilty for never repairing the friendship.”
“Guilty?” he cried. “Non sia stupido! I do nothing! Karastovsky! He try to ruin me! Guilty? Siete pazzeschi! ”
He continued sputtering in outrage. I might’ve touched a nerve. But did he just call me stupid? I hated that.
“Oh, great,” Minka said. “Now I’ll have to listen to this crap all the way home. Thanks a lot.”
“Sorry,” I said flimsily.
“I need more alcohol.” She stomped off, leaving me with one angry Italian. I needed alcohol, too.
“Enrico, I apologize.” I grabbed his oily hand. “I’m so sorry. I did not mean to accuse you of anything.”
I was starting to talk with an Italian accent.
“That’s right. You donna know what you-a talking about, missy.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” I took a deep breath and wrapped my arm through his. “Enrico, we’ve both lost a good friend, and today is no time to talk about business.”
He seemed mollified for the moment. “You right.”
I squeezed his arm. “Would you like more wine?”
“No, no.” He seemed to enjoy my cozying up because he stroked my hand. “You take over Karastovsky’s work at the Covington?”
“Yes, I did.”
He looked left and right, then whispered, “I could-a tell you a thing or two about Karastovsky and those Winslows.”
I looked around, too. “Really?”
“Sì. They think Baldacchio’s a fool but I show them. They promise me a business deal, and I make sure they donna screw me. Baldacchio, he has the last-a laugh.”
“How in the world did you do that?”
“A little insurance.” He rubbed his shoulder against mine. “Maybe I show you sometime.”
“That would be lovely,” I said softly. “Maybe we could meet next week and catch up on old times. Are you busy Monday?”
He was taken aback for a moment, then slowly grinned. “Quello è molto buono. You’re a smart-a cookie.”
His Italian came and went like the tide. I patted his arm. “I’m glad you think so. Shall I come to your studio? Say, around two o’clock Monday?”
“Perfetto. I show you my latest treasure.” He moved even closer and I could see the comb marks in his overly gelled hair. “And maybe I show you a little something extra you will find extremely interessante.”
“Interesting?”
“And provocative. Tell no one. We do some business together, eh?”
“I can’t wait.”
“You’re a good girl,” he said, unexpectedly avuncular; then he frowned and shook his finger at me. “But do yourself the favor and stay away from the Faust.”
“The Faust?”
“The curse. I could-a lost my eye. Quel libro maledetto.”
“Your eye? What?”
The memory seemed to cause him pain because his eye began to twitch. He rubbed his forehead, then threw up his hands dramatically. “Eh! We talk Monday. You come see me and we talk.” He handed me his business card and strolled away. I saw Minka corral him by the dessert table and force him out the door.
Holy crap. What had I gone and done now? Ah well, I’d find out Monday.
“Hello, Brooklyn.”
I whipped around. “Mrs. Winslow.”
She looked lovely in a black Chanel suit and carried a clutch purse. She patted my arm consolingly. “I thought we should pay our respects.”
“Thank you,” I said, and breathed in relief. Her sincere kindness was a refreshing change from Enrico’s and Minka’s lies and calculations. “How are you?”
“Oh, my dear, I’m fine.” She smiled sadly. “But I know what it feels like to lose a good friend, so I wanted to wish you well.”
“That’s very kind.”
“If you’re willing to hear some advice from an old gal like me, I’d recommend that you take extra good care of yourself at a time like this.”
I smiled. “You’re hardly an old gal and I appreciate the advice.”
“I’m going to have to buy a case of that pinot,” Conrad Winslow said as he joined us. “Damn fine wine.”
We shared some small talk, and then they left. I was struck again by how genuinely nice the Winslows were, and how inexplicable it was that they’d managed to produce such a self-centered creature like Meredith.
I’d worked up a real appetite, so I grabbed two more tiny sandwiches, egg salad this time, then headed for the wine bar, praying the hangover gods would be gentle.
Robin sidled up to me. “You look pretty good for someone I had to pour into the cab last night.”
“I’m young,” I said. “I bounce back.”
“Obviously.” Robin turned to the bartender, a local boy who worked part-time in the Dharma vineyards. “Hi, Billy. I’ll have what she’s having.”
We waited until she had her drink in her hand, then began to stroll the periphery of the room.
“Who was that old guy you were talking to?”
“Enrico Baldacchio,” I said. “We just had a very interesting conversation.” I took a sip of wine, swirled it around my mouth and swallowed. I held the glass up to the light. “This is exceptional, isn’t it? Great color.”
“Don’t you dare change the subject. What’d he say?”
I gave her the short version as we walked.
“Do you honestly believe he’s got something to show you besides his etchings?”
“Ew.” But I’d had the same thought. “I guess I’ll find out Monday. I made a date to meet him.”
“A date?” She groaned. “What did we discuss last night?”
I frowned. “Fashion?”
“No, smartass.” She stopped walking and whispered hotly, “We talked about how you shouldn’t be investigating Abraham’s death by yourself because you could piss off a killer. Remember?”
“Vaguely.”
“We discussed how that was not a good idea. And this guy Enrico could be a killer.” She took a sip of wine. “And then I called your clothes atrocious and you got miffed. Any of this ring a bell?”
I took a sip of wine. “I recall the atrocious part.”
She rolled her eyes. “Good, because that was really the key point of the discussion.”
“Thanks a lot.” I pulled her along with me to keep strolling. “Look, I’m not investigating anything. I’m just meeting with a colleague who could someday throw some business my way.”
“That is so much crap.”
“I’m serious. That’s all I’m going to do. Could you please relax?”
“I’ll relax when Abraham’s killer is behind bars.”
“Me, too.” I took another sip of wine and motioned toward the door. “Austin just walked in.”
She whipped around so she wouldn’t be caught gazing longingly at my tall, handsome older brother, the one she’d been in love with since third grade. “So what?”
I laughed. “As long as you don’t deal with those deep dark feelings inside, you’ve got no business criticizing anything I do.”
She pointed her finger at me and gave it a shake. “I have every right in the world to try and talk you out of getting yourself killed.”
I put the wineglass down on a nearby table and pulled Robin into a hug. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
When I stepped back, I saw her eyes filled with tears.
I sighed. “I absolutely promise I’ll be careful-”
“You’d better be.”
“-if you’ll do me a favor.”
She sniffled. “What?”
“Go talk to Austin. He’s staring right at you.”
“Shut up.”
“He is,” I said.
“Shit.”
“There’s a good attitude.” I grinned as I walked away, hoping at least someone would have some fun today.
I spent the next hour helping my mother supervise the kitchen staff to keep the tables filled with food to feed the hundreds of people who’d stopped by to console and commiserate. I didn’t mind putting in kitchen time since I figured it would keep me out of trouble for a while. And the sprawling commune kitchen was a warm and familiar environment for me.
All through my childhood, Mom and Dad were in charge of managing food and wine for the commune. Dad still ran the winery, but Mom was semiretired from the kitchen except on special occasions like this one. With six kids, she was a natural organizer and, more important, a first-class manipulator.
My parents’ experience in food management dated back to the days when they used to travel to Grateful Dead shows in a big old UPS truck that Dad had outfitted and sectioned off into three rooms: bedroom, bathroom and kitchenette.
At the time, Dad was still out of favor with Grandfather, so he and Mom needed a way to support themselves on the road. They decided to call upon their God-given talents and created a business called Vino y Green-oh. We kids thought it was the dumbest name ever, but Deadheads and fellow campers loved it. They painted the name on the side of the truck in rainbow colors. Dad offered wine tastings at one dollar a glass and Mom made fresh green salads she sold for two dollars each, including a roll and butter.
They hooked up with several other entrepreneurs in the food trade and created a “restaurant row” in the Dead show campgrounds and parking lots. Their friends Barbara and Dexter ran a popular eatery out of their RV called Spuds ’n’ Suds. Their operation was a little more complicated, requiring a deep fryer and ice for the keg.
“We need more taquitos at the Mexican station,” Mom called from the doorway.
“I’ve got a bunch ready,” Carmen, one of the cooks, answered.
“I’ll take care of it,” I said, and lifted the large cookie sheet stacked with corn tortillas rolled tightly around shredded beef, cheese and salsa.
“Don’t forget the avocado sauce,” Carmen yelled.
“Got it,” I said as I balanced the bowl of creamy green sauce on top of the pile of taquitos and headed for the dining room-and nearly collided with two men.
“There you are,” Derek said. “When are you-”
“Brooklyn,” Ian interrupted. “I’m glad I ran into you. I’ve got-”
“Guys, let me put this down,” I said, straining from the weight of several hundred beef taquitos. “I’ll be right back.”
But they weren’t about to let me escape. They both followed me to the Mexican station, where I gratefully exchanged my full cookie sheet for the empty one on the table.
“Okay, so much for my break from reality,” I said, smiling back and forth from one ridiculously good-looking man to the other. “What do you guys want?”
“I’ll need a word with you, Ms. Wainwright.”
“Hey, plenty of me to go around,” I said, laughing as I turned and stared into the grim brown eyes of Inspector Jaglow.