Читать книгу One Last Chance - Justine Davis - Страница 6

“Am I boring you?”

Chance Buckner’s hands stilled, and he looked casually sideways at the man in the gray suit who stood before him, hands on where his hips would be if they were detectable.

“You would be,” he said lazily, “if I was listening.”

Unconcernedly he went back to the informational sheet the speaker had handed out. Almost right, he thought, holding it up for a sighting, then lowering his hand to make a minor adjustment to one of the wings of the paper airplane.

Out of the corner of one eye he saw the livid flush rising above the older man’s collar, and had to smother a grin. He heard a cough but didn’t dare look at his partner. He knew that if he locked eyes with him, his laugh would break loose; he and Quisto had a way of communicating without words that got them into trouble nearly as often as it saved them.

“Perhaps you can explain to me, Detective Buckner,” the man said in barely suppressed fury, “just why you are here?”

In one smooth, fluid movement, Chance levered his lean, muscled body away from the wall he’d been leaning against. He drew himself up to his full six-foot-two height, topping the shorter, older man by at least six inches.

“I’m here,” he said with slow emphasis, “because you guys blew it. I’m here because you guys can’t find your butts with a map. I’m here because you guys couldn’t make a case on a guy you had under your thumb for two damned years.”

“You son of a—”

The man broke off, sputtering. He whirled toward the fourth man who had been sitting at the head of the long table that sat in the center of the conference room, quietly observing.

“If this is an example of this department’s discipline,” he spat out, “then we haven’t got a chance of nailing Mendez!”

“You had your chance, in Miami.”

The man’s red face snapped around to glare at Chance’s partner, the source of the comment, a compact, wiry, dark-haired young man with flashing brown eyes who was seated at the other end of the table. Quisto looked back, totally untroubled. The gray-suited man spun back toward the man at the head of the table.

“I was told we would have complete cooperation, Lieutenant!”

A pair of dark eyebrows rose over an inscrutable pair of brown eyes. “I was told,” the lieutenant said mildly, “to listen to what you had to say, and do whatever you asked. I don’t recall you asking me to maintain order for you.”

Chance managed to convert his burst of laughter to an apparent fit of coughing, but at a warning glance from Lieutenant Morgan he stifled even that. Quisto wasn’t quite so lucky, and drew another furious glare.

“If you can’t control your own men—”

“I have no problem with my men, Mr. Eaton. They know their job, and they do it well. But perhaps we can speed things up by setting down some basics. As a result of your office’s investigation—”

“We chased Mendez right out of Miami,” Eaton said smugly.

“Yeah,” Chance said caustically. “He was so scared he barely had time to pack up his whole operation and move it here.”

“Listen, pretty boy—”

“Gentlemen,” Lieutenant Morgan interrupted, in a tone his men had come to know meant they were pushing the limits of his considerable patience. “Let’s get on with this. As I was saying, as a result of the federal investigation, Paolo Mendez has taken up residence in Marina del Mar. So regardless of how or why, he is now our problem. As is—” he paused and opened the file folder in front of him on the table “—the establishment he intends to open.”

Eaton looked blank. “Establishment?”

“He’s taken out a lease on an empty building on Marina Boulevard. He’s already remodeling. Word is he intends to open a club of some sort.”

Lieutenant Morgan handed out a sheet of paper to Eaton, whose crimson face did not fade a bit as he read the report.

When he had finished, he cleared his throat and spoke reluctantly. “Well, er, yes. Good information.”

“Thank Detective Buckner. He had it within twenty-four hours of Mendez’s arrival, despite the fact that he is using the name Paul de Cortez.”

Eaton’s expression told everyone in the room exactly what he thought of the idea of thanking Chance Buckner for anything, short of dropping dead. Quisto smothered a snigger, and got a third glare.

“This is obviously going to be his cover for his drug activities.” Eaton slapped the report down on the table. “We will begin the surveillance immediately, of course. We already have the necessary court orders.”

“You mean we will,” Chance muttered, knowing all too well that it was unlikely that the federal agents would be the ones doing most of the tedious stakeout work.

“You have a problem, Detective Buckner?”

“Yeah. Something’s making me sick.” The look Eaton gave him made his glance at Quisto seem like a loving gaze. Chance waited just long enough to make it obvious what—or who— his problem was, then said easily, “Must have been that burrito at lunch. It was too…heavy.”

Eaton’s color deepened, but Chance’s innocent expression never wavered, and Eaton had to let it pass.

“Why don’t you tell us what you have in mind for the stakeout?” Jim Morgan threw Chance another warning glance as he spoke to Eaton. Chance shrugged and, pulling a chair from the table and placing it against the wall, sat down.

The agent’s voice hadn’t improved since he’d begun. It still had the annoying, buzzing timbre of the fly trapped in the upper corner of the office window. The hum of the insect seemed infinitely more interesting as the man elaborated on procedures any first-year cop would know. And it had been a long time since Chance Buckner had been a first-year cop.

He glanced at Quisto, who rolled his eyes. Restraining a grin, Chance sat back in the chair, fiddling with the rubber band he’d found on the floor. He wound it around his fingers, snapped it a couple of times, and was just wondering how close he could get to that fly when another, much more tempting target presented itself.

Eaton had walked between Chance and the table, inadvertently exposing his considerable backside to attack. Chance drew back the elastic band until it refused to go any further, and zeroed in on the broad expanse of gray.

Quisto suddenly tapped the table in an odd rhythm. Chance glanced up to see his partner’s gaze fastened on Lieutenant Morgan, who was looking at Chance pointedly. With a sheepish grin, Chance eased off the tension on the tiny weapon, and with exaggerated conspicuousness dropped it to the floor. Only then did he catch Eaton’s last words.

“—expect an improved attitude from your detectives, Lieutenant.”

“I’m sure we can handle this investigation in a spirit of mutual cooperation.”

Lieutenant Morgan rose, closing the file folder. Seeing the signal they’d been waiting for, both Chance and Quisto got rapidly to their feet and headed for the door.

“Detective Buckner.” The lieutenant’s words forced Chance to turn back. “My office.”

Chance smothered a sigh, then nodded. He heard an odd sound, and turned to see Eaton’s face wearing a satisfied smirk. He throttled the urge to deck the man with a well-placed fist, and with an elaborate bow, held the door open.

“So what did he say?” Quisto asked.

“I’m fired.”

“Gimme a break, Buckner. The jerk had it coming. What did he want you for?”

“A startling revelation. Eaton doesn’t like me.”

“Well, that’s understandable.”

“Thanks a lot.” Chance took a swipe at his partner, who dodged agilely away. Quisto grinned.

“Hey, if I looked like him, instead of my classic macho, Latin self, I wouldn’t like you, either.”

“If his ego was as secure as yours, he wouldn’t care,” Chance said dryly.

“And who else but someone with a secure ego could work with you? I mean, it gets kind of old, my man, watching all those ladies throwing themselves at you all the time.”

“They don’t throw themselves at me,” Chance muttered, although he supposed there was something in what the young Cuban said. He would never understand what there was in the arrangement of his features, in the aligning of the parts that made up Chance Buckner, that made women look twice. He only knew that, to his embarrassment, they did. And often came back for a third look.

“It’s those piercing blue eyes,” Quisto said dramatically, “and all that sun-bleached California hair.”

“My hair’s from Iowa, just like the rest of me.”

His answer was automatic. They’d been through this teasing routine many times. So was the gesture of his hand as he ran it through the tangled mass of the gold-streaked brown hair. He would be grateful for that if nothing else when he left this assignment to narcotics, he thought. He hadn’t had his hair off the back of his neck in four years.

“Besides what are you complaining about? I send ’em all to you anyway.”

“Ah, yes, and I teach them that every wonderful thing they’ve always heard about Latin lovers is true. But you, my friend, don’t you think you’re carrying this solitude bit a little far?”

“You worried about my social life, Quisto?”

“I’m worried,” the younger man said frankly, abandoning the formal tones, “about your libido. You haven’t even had a date since Sarah died, let alone anything more…strenuous.”

Chance’s face closed up in silent warning, but the wiry young man kept on.

“You walk around looking like the poster boy for the wrong side of the tracks, women drool on themselves trying to get to you, and you ignore them all.”

“Quisto.” His tone was the equivalent of the look that had shuttered his face.

“And you’re going to volunteer for all the night shifts on the stakeout, aren’t you? Just like last time. Damn it, Chance, when are you going to—”

“Not now.”

Chance had stopped dead, turning to fix his partner with a steady, forbidding gaze. Quisto shrugged and gave it up.

“Okay, amigo. I was just worried about you.” He grinned suddenly, a brilliant flash of white teeth against perfect olive skin. “Hey, maybe that’s the secret. Ignore ’em, and they flock to you. I’ll have to try it.”

“You, ignore women?” Chance accepted the unspoken apology easily. “That’ll be the day.”

Chance thought of Quisto’s words again that evening as he sat in the surveillance van outside the building Mendez had leased. He had been wary of the effusive young Cuban at first, especially after the quiet, laid-back man who had been his partner for his first three years in the division.

But Marty Thompson was gone now, the unruffled exterior having hidden the ravages of burnout that had surfaced abruptly and finally one day beneath the brilliant California sun. That funeral had frightened him as no other, filling him with the eerie sensation that he was looking at himself, and he wondered if someday, somewhere down the hard, sometimes dirty road, he too would walk out onto the golden sand of this paradise and blow his brains out. It was a question he’d always been able to say no to, until Marty. And Sarah.

“All set, Chance?”

He glanced at Jeff Webster, the detective who was monitoring the equipment. The redhead nodded, and Chance looked up at the man who had turned around in the driver’s seat of the van.

“Yeah, Todd. Go ahead.”

With a nod, the other man turned, slid out of the van and shut the door, locking it from the outside. He would, Chance knew, walk casually toward an expensive shopping area two blocks down, linger there long enough to be sure he hadn’t been followed, then pick up the car that was parked in the lot and return to the station. In about four hours he would be back to do it all in reverse, while a few miles away, the driver of a nondescript panel truck that was parked near Mendez’s house would be doing the same. The two vehicles would trade places, and then it would begin again.

The system would work until someone realized that the same vehicles always showed up in the area, and perhaps even after, if the drivers could pass themselves off as locals with legitimate business in the area. And when the federal vehicle arrived, that would give them one more to play with, he thought, leaning forward to adjust the recording level on one of the machines.

That was one good thing about working with the feds, he thought wryly. They had a lot more leeway when it came to permits for wiretapping and any other kind of surveillance. And the bugs that Quisto, doing his near-perfect migrant-worker imitation, had planted, were working beautifully.

“You stand out too much,” Quisto explained with a superior air. “Me, I just blend, like a chameleon.”

“Okay, Mr. Lizard, get on with it,” Chance had said, smothering a laugh.

Yes, Quisto had gradually worn down that wall of wariness, mostly, Chance admitted, through sheer persistence and a stubborn refusal to be ignored. He had—

The sharp rapping on the back doors of the van cut through his thoughts. Damn, what the hell? He glanced at Jeff, who shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment. The rapping came again, louder, and Chance scrambled to the back of the van and peered through the mirrored, one-way glass.

“That stupid son of a bitch!”

Jeff jumped, both at the sudden exclamation and at the suppressed fury in Chance’s voice. “What…?”

“Eaton,” Chance spat out as the pounding came again. “He pulled up in a damned government car, complete with labeled plates.”

Jeff gaped at him. “What is he, some kind of a nut?”

“Worse. He’s stupid.”

The door handle rattled, and they heard a muffled voice. “Come on, Buckner! I know you’re in there!”

With a snarled curse, Chance braced himself against the roof of the van and reached for the door. With a swift movement he threw it open, reached through with one leanly muscled arm and yanked the startled Eaton into the van. Despite his bulk, the man flew through the opening as if catapulted, and Jeff Webster stared in awe.

“What do you think you’re—”

“Why the hell don’t you just hang out a sign?” Chance snapped, cutting off Eaton’s protest.

“Get off it, hotshot! Mendez left here an hour ago.”

“And just where do you suppose his right-hand man is right now?” Chance bit out. “He’s inside and, unless we’re luckier than you deserve, calling Mendez to tell him there’s a government car sitting in front of his new business. Which means he’ll be looking for one at home. Congratulations, Eaton, you may have burned two stakeouts at once.”

He opened the door again and practically threw the agent from the van. Chance followed him and shoved the man into the plain gray car that stood out like a sore thumb. “Now get the hell out of here!”

Eaton was furious, but something in Chance’s eyes made him stamp down on the accelerator. Staring in disgust as the car sped away, Chance called lowly to Jeff through the door of the van.

“I’m going to see if I can tell if they made us.”

The tap from the inside told him Jeff had heard him. He turned on his heel and strode off, still fuming. He’d go to the building next door, he thought. It was a large office building, and they’d discovered a spot on its roof that gave a bird’s-eye view of what was apparently being converted into an office.

Damn, he thought, I should have grabbed the binoculars from the van. But I was so damned mad, I didn’t even think of it. God, I hate working with the feds. The troops are good, but the generals are just—

“Ouch!”

Chance barely kept himself from going down; he didn’t know how the person he’d just crashed into had stayed upright. He flushed as, muttering an apology, he knelt to pick up the book that had bitten the dust—or the concrete sidewalk, in this case.

Poetry, he noted as he lifted the thick volume. He dusted it off and began to straighten up to give it back. And stopped dead before he’d moved an inch.

There before him were the most beautiful legs he’d ever seen. Small feet were encased in short, bright red socks and pristine white tennis shoes, the ankles were slender and delicate, the calves bare, smooth and shapely. Even the knees were lovely, and the thighs…

He gulped, aware that he seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. Where the reality of that long stretch of golden leg ended at the edge of a short white skirt, his imagination had kept right on going.

After a long moment he managed to make his reluctant muscles respond and bring him upright by telling them that it was safe; the rest couldn’t possibly match those legs.

He was wrong. He knew it the moment his eyes slipped over the white skirt to the fluffy, bright red sweater that topped it. The soft plushness did little to disguise the full, feminine curves beneath the cheerful color, and Chance found himself gulping again. He didn’t want to look any further, but he wasn’t sure if it was because he was afraid the rest wouldn’t be as incredible, or afraid that it would.

He looked anyway. It was.

He didn’t realize it at first. Her face was shadowed by the brim of the cheerful red-and-white cap she wore, covering what appeared to be dark silky hair. Then she tilted her head and took his breath away again.

Her mouth was a little wide by classic standards, but her lower lip was so full and soft he barely noticed. Her nose was small and pert, her skin creamy and smooth, but once he saw her eyes he forgot everything else. They were huge, framed by thick dark lashes, and deep, smoky gray. And at the moment, those eyes were looking at him with a mixture of wariness and amusement.

“Uh, sorry,” he mumbled again, still staring.

“I hope you’re coming from and not going to.”

He blinked. “Huh?” Oh, brilliant, Buckner. But damn, what a voice. Husky. Silky. Sexy.

“Whatever turned you into the original raging bull.”

He flushed again, then wondered what the hell was wrong with him. “Whoever,” he said hastily.

“A whoever I don’t envy.”

Amusement was winning in the gray eyes, and Chance felt himself responding with a speed that startled him.

“I promised myself I’d wait until tomorrow to kill him. If he’s lucky, I won’t want to by then.”

She looked him up and down consideringly. Contrary to Quisto’s earlier comments, he wasn’t at all sure the total she came up with was favorable. What he was even less sure of was why he cared.

“Why am I not sure you’re kidding?”

His mouth twisted wryly. “Maybe because I’m not sure.”

She smiled suddenly, and took his breath away for the third time. The wide, full mouth started a pulse beating somewhere deep inside him, and the sparkle that had turned her eyes to a glittering silver made it begin to race.

“I’ll have to remember not to read a paper tomorrow,” she said in the silky voice that was a feather up his spine, “in case he’s not lucky.”

“Maybe I’m not so mad at him after all,” Chance said slowly, fascinated by the silver gleam that had lit the gray eyes when she smiled. What would those eyes look like when she laughed? What would they look like hot with passion?

He jerked himself upright and backed up a step hastily. What the hell was he doing?

“Uh, here’s your book.”

He held it out with an uncharacteristically choppy motion. She reached for it, her hand narrow and graceful, her fingers long and slender. Her nails were gleaming red, but a neat, attractive length and shape instead of the daggers he saw so often in this expensive town—nails that made him think of the old mandarins who had thought long nails a status symbol, an indication that they were wealthy enough not to have to do menial work with their hands.

He realized suddenly that he hadn’t released the book and that she was looking at him rather oddly. He let go hastily, pulling his hand back as if the embossed leather cover had burned him.

“Thank you.”

He nodded, wondering what had gone wrong with his coordination that made every move he made seem awkward. He decided the answer was not to move at all, and he didn’t as she replaced the thick volume in the crook of her arm.

“You…like poetry?”

“You get an ‘A’ for deductive reasoning,” she said. Chance suddenly felt as if he’d blushed more in the past five minutes than he had in his entire thirty years. Yet there hadn’t been any real sarcasm in the husky voice, merely the sound of an amusement, matching that in her eyes.

Quisto wouldn’t believe this, he thought ruefully. He’d figure the real reason I ignore all those woman is because if I try to talk, I’ll make a fool out of myself. Hell, maybe he’d be right. “He always is,” he muttered.

“What?” She was looking at him quizzically.

He grimaced. “Just trying to remember back to when I could carry on a conversation.”

“Maybe you knocked something loose here.”

Again there was no sarcasm in her voice, just a touch of the amusement that had been there since he’d first met her eyes. I wish it was only that, he thought, suddenly afraid something had shriveled and died inside him for good.

“Probably permanently,” he said wryly.

“Somehow I doubt that.”

She glanced at the elegant gold watch that banded her slim wrist, her eyes widening when she saw what time it said. He read her look and moved out of her way. She took a step in the direction she’d been going when he had careened into her, then looked back at him.

“About tomorrow…whoever he is, he’s not worth it.”

He let out a breath, then chuckled as he nodded. “Go ahead and read the paper tomorrow.”

The smile came again, even wider this time. He stared after her as she walked away, appreciating the subtle feminine motion of her hips in the short white skirt. He watched her until he realized people were watching him, then he turned around to head toward the other building.

He’d gone only a few steps when he realized he’d never asked her name. It seemed suddenly important, very important, and he turned back to see if he could catch up with her. She was nowhere in sight.

His eyes flicked over every person on the sidewalk in disbelief. She couldn’t have disappeared so fast, she had to be there. But she wasn’t. Damn, Buckner, maybe you hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe she didn’t exist at all.

By the time he gave up and headed once more for the office building that they had scouted out earlier, he was half convinced he had dreamed her. He must have, he thought. No real woman had affected him like that in years. Forget it, he told himself. Get moving.

Chance slipped in the side door of the office building. He passed the elevator and headed for the stairway. He took the four flights at a run, thinking that with working on this case, neither he nor Quisto would have the time for the cutthroat games of racquetball that kept them both in shape.

He was breathing deeply but not, he noted with satisfaction, puffing when he pulled the door open at the top of the stairwell and stepped on to the flat roof of the building. He found a spot quickly and crouched down behind the low parapet.

The first thing he realized was that this vantage point wasn’t going to be useful to them for much longer; he could see a stack of window blinds sitting on a table just inside the now bare window. But more important, he could see, sitting at the desk, Pedro Escobar, Mendez’s lieutenant. Or I guess I should say Pete, he thought wryly. Paul de Cortez seemed to have made some sweeping changes in the names of his employees, as well as his own. I wonder if the Mendezes back in Colombia mind.

The man appeared cool and calm as he worked on something at the desk. Chance’s mind was racing. If he’d made them, he would have already had time to call Mendez, but it was unlikely he’d be sitting there so calmly. From what he knew of the man, Escobar had a tendency to go off half-cocked. Maybe, just maybe they might have lucked out.

No thanks to Eaton, he thought as he kept an eye on the figure at the desk. His report hadn’t even mentioned Escobar; Chance had called a friend in the Miami office for what information he had. Eaton was a prime example of incompetence rising to the top, he thought, wondering cynically how many good men he’d gotten killed along the way.

Eaton. The whoever that had sent him crashing into that vision in red and white. Unless, of course, she really had been a phantom. He ran a hand through his hair, thinking that it was entirely possible. His mind had been doing some funny things lately. Quisto kept telling him he needed a vacation. Actually, what Quisto kept telling him was he needed a vacation and a woman, and not in that order. Maybe he was right.

He knew, of course, that that was the last thing he needed. Or wanted, anyway. Although for a pair of smoky gray eyes, he might think about it….

“Damn,” he muttered, a little stunned at himself. Had she really had that strong an impact on him, to make him think of things he’d sworn off for so long? Had she—

Escobar had moved, and Chance jerked his wandering mind back to the matter at hand. The man had risen from the desk and started to walk toward the door. Before he got there it swung open, and a man in a bright red hard hat stood there. About the red of her sweater—

Knock it off, Buckner, he ordered sharply. The man was smiling, and so was Escobar, nodding and shaking the man’s hand.

As Mendez’s right-hand man turned to walk back to the desk, Chance ducked quickly out of sight. They were safe. They had to be. Escobar didn’t have it in him to remain so calm if he knew they were here.

So, I won’t kill Eaton. At least not yet. Not in time for tomorrow’s paper, anyway, he thought, smothering a grin. Then he settled down to wait until the coast was clear for him to leave.

“Nothing,” Quisto said in disgust. “Absolutely nothing.”

Chance shrugged. “He wouldn’t have all these people after him if he was stupid.”

“I’m the one who’s starting to feel stupid. He hasn’t dealt with anything that even looks like china white, let alone the real stuff. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the guy was opening a legitimate business.”

“Maybe he is.”

“Sure, and politics is a clean business.”

Chance shrugged.

“Damn it,” Quisto said, “all he’s done for a week and a half is talk to decorators, food suppliers, and interview chefs.”

“Hey, now there’s a thought. You could sneak in as a chef. We could close him down in a night.”

Quisto scowled. “One little mistake at a home barbecue and they never let you forget it.”

“It’s your mother who can’t forget it.”

“It was only one fire engine, I don’t see—”

Chance cut off the words with a quick gesture as a silver Mercedes coupe pulled into the driveway behind them. He watched it in the rearview mirror until it pulled into a marked parking stall and Pedro Escobar got out.

“Alone,” he said, and settled back down in the driver’s seat of the black BMW he and Quisto were sitting in.

The car had been, along with a luxurious motor yacht that was moored down at the marina, the spoils of the biggest bust ever made by the Marina del Mar police, two years ago. Under the Federal Forfeiture Statute, they got a large chunk of the hapless drug dealer’s cash in addition to the boat and the car. Chance had been instrumental in that case, and it gave him no small pleasure to know that the man’s resources were being used to bring down others like him.

“Speaking of my mother,” Quisto said as the vigil began again, “she wants to know when you’re coming for dinner.”

“Sometime. When there’s less than twenty of you around,” Chance said dryly. He liked Quisto’s family, especially his energetic, vivacious mother, but sometimes they were daunting just in sheer number. For an only child who’d been a loner most of his life, the chaos of seven brothers and sisters, plus assorted spouses and children was a little overwhelming.

“She worries about you, you know.”

“She worries about everyone.”

“Yes, but when she worries about you, I’m the one who constantly hears about it.”

“Tell her I’m fine.”

“You know she won’t believe me.”

“I know.” Chance grinned at him. “Why is that, partner?”

Quisto grinned back. “Never mind. What you don’t know—”

“—I can’t tell your mother, right?”

The grin widened. “Right.”

They watched as a truck pulled into the driveway, then looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

“I don’t get it,” Quisto said. “If he’s not going to open for another week, like the ad said, why is he having food delivered now?”

“I don’t know. Something private, maybe.”

Chance’s eyes were fastened on the reflected truck. It was food, all right. And perishable stuff at that, lettuce, vegetables, fruit. He shifted his gaze to Quisto, then his eyes shot back to the small mirror, searching.

She wasn’t there. He could have sworn he’d seen her somewhere in the background of the tiny scene the mirror held, but she was gone now. If she’d ever been there at all, he thought wearily.

He rubbed his forehead with one hand, remembering all the times over the past ten days when he’d jerked to attention, thinking he’d seen her somewhere in the distance, or turning a corner, or going through a doorway just far enough away that he couldn’t tell where exactly she was.

“Chance? You all right?”

He turned to find his partner’s bright dark eyes fastened on him curiously. He let out a long breath.

“Yeah.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Maybe I do need that vacation you’re always on me about.”

Quisto’s gaze sharpened, the curiosity changing to concern. “Chance—”

“Forget it, will you? I’m fine.”

Just a minor delusion. Just a strange tendency to jump out of my skin anytime I see a dark-haired woman wearing red. Seeing one woman in particular every time I turn around. Oh, yeah, I’m just fine.

After a moment’s hesitation, Quisto accepted it, at least for now.

“Guess I’ll go see what I can find out, then.”

Although Chance had seen the transformation many times, it never ceased to amaze him. Off came the stylish jacket, and the cotton sweater beneath. Quisto reached behind the seat and tugged out a worn plaid shirt that he slid on over the plain white T-shirt he’d had on under the sweater. His hands went to his hair, pulling it down over his forehead, out of its usual smooth style.

His normally straight, proud carriage changed, slumped. His very features seemed to change, flatten somehow, and he was no longer the aristocratic young Cuban with the flashing dark eyes. He was every brown-skinned Latino day worker seen on the streets of California, the kind that the wealthy people in town looked arrogantly past as if they weren’t there.

“Pick me up around the corner,” Quisto said, and slipped out of the car. He leaned over to look in the window. “Hasta luego, amigo.”

“Yeah, later.”

With an amazed shake of his head, Chance started the car and pulled it away from the curb. Around the corner, as Quisto had indicated, and out of sight of Mendez’s building, he parked again. He picked up the portable radio from the seat, letting Jeff, who was still in the van back in front of the building, know what was going on, then settled down to wait.

It was an unseasonably warm January day, even for sunny-year-round California, and Chance found he had to work to keep his eyes open. He hadn’t been sleeping well lately, and it was starting to catch up with him. That it was because those gray eyes and that full, soft mouth had come too often to haunt his dreams was something he didn’t care to admit.

You’ve been a fool before, he told himself severely, but that doesn’t mean you have to spend so much time mooning over a woman you saw once, for all of three minutes, and will never see again. And it’s not like you to be mooning over a woman at all, he thought wryly now. You’re out of that market for good, remember?

He shifted in the driver’s seat, leaning his head back against the headrest. A mistake, he thought immediately, and tried to lift it. At least he thought he did. When he came awake with a start, he realized he hadn’t made it. Still leaning on the headrest, he let his head roll to the side, to check the rearview mirror for any sign of Quisto. Seeing none, he let his eyes drift closed again.

Like a video replaying in his head, he saw the scene in the mirror. The construction crews packing up, the food truck driving back the way it had come, the girl with the great legs walking past the driveway—

He jerked upright, his head snapping around. The narrow street was empty. His eyes flicked over both sidewalks— nothing. A long, compressed breath escaped him, and he let his head loll back on his shoulders, his eyes closed.

Of course, he told himself sourly, she’s a phantom, a hallucination, remember? Lord knows, it had happened before.

“Bang, you’re dead.”

Chance’s eyes snapped open, but he managed to keep himself from a startled jump as Quisto slid back into the car.

“Hey, man, you all right?”

Chance shrugged. “Sure.”

“You seem a little…distracted lately.”

“I’m fine,” Chance said firmly. “What’d you find out?”

“You were right. Private party. Big wheels only.” Quisto eyed his friend and partner for a moment. “You gonna tell me what’s bugging you?”

“Nothing.”

“Sarah?” Quisto’s voice was quiet, suddenly devoid of any of its usual glib slickness.

“No.”

For once he could say it and mean it. At least, he thought he could. Maybe this apparition that kept haunting him was no more real than that image had been. It had been nearly two years before Sarah had at last let him rest.

Two years of nightmares, of twisting pain, of reaching for her only to grasp emptiness. Two years of tortured nights spent staring into the dark, staving off sleep, and wondering if the dreams would ever stop. And at last, exhausted, sleeping, only to wake to the ever-present knowledge that he had killed her as certainly as if he had planted the bomb himself.