But tonight, when she'd driven him to his door, he'd taken a good look at her. She was perfect, of course-her hair, her dress, her smile, perfect in every way. And yet he felt no interest whatsoever in taking her to bed. He'd looked at her, and all he could see was M. J. Novak, her face as bruised as a prizefighter's, grinning at him by the light of that Bellemeade streetlamp.

Wonderful , he thought. After all these years I finally admit to the possibility of romance, and look who inspires it. A woman who almost gets me killed over some beat-up Subaru.

Not at all a promising match.

He should give it time, perspective. In a week, a month, he'd forget what the woman even looked like.

No, who was he kidding? He could give it all the time and perspective in the world, but he had the disturbing suspicion that, if anyone was unforgettable, it was M. J. Novak.

M. J. woke up with every muscle in her body aching. It took a massive infusion of willpower just to roll out of bed. She went into the bathroom and saw, in the mirror, the evidence of last night's brawl: three neat stitches on her neck and the bruises and scrapes on her face. So it hadn't been a nightmare after all.

She managed to wash around that painful minefield of facial cuts and sweep her hair back in a ponytail. Forget the makeup; she'd wear her bruises to work instead.

Downstairs, fueled by a cup of extra-strength Yuban, she started in on the tasks at hand: canceling her credit cards and her bank card, replacing her driver's license. When the punks had grabbed her purse, they'd made off with most of her financial identity. At least she still had her checkbook-that she'd left safely at home last night. She made one last call, begging a locksmith to come change her locks ASAP. Then she got up and poured herself another cup of coffee.The caffeine was having its blessed effect-she was feeling human again. And ornery. Getting beaten up and robbed wasn't good for her disposition.

So when she heard the footsteps on her front porch, she was expecting the worst. Were the punks there already to try out her house keys?

She scurried into the living room, grabbed the baseball bat out of the front closet, and stood poised by the front door. When she heard the clink of keys, she raised the bat, expecting the door to swing open any second.

Instead, the mail slot squealed open, and a set of car keys slid through and clattered to the wood floor. M. J. stared at them. What the hell?

Whoever had dropped them off was now walking away. She yanked open the door and saw Adam Quantrell's butler climb into a car driven by another man.

"Hey!" M. J. yelled, waving the keys. "What's this?"

The butler waved back and called,"Compliments of Mr. Quantrell!"

Bewildered, M. J. watched them drive off. Then her gaze shifted to her driveway.

A lemon yellow Mercedes was parked there.

She looked down at the keys she was holding. Then she went to the driveway and slowly circled the car. It was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Regis Luxury Rentals, said the license plate frame. She peered in the window- leather seats. Clean. She opened the door, climbed in behind the wheel, and just sat there for a moment. There was a note taped to the dashboard, addressed to Dr. Novak. She unfolded the slip of paper and read it.

Hope this will do. A.Q.

She sat back. "Well, I just don't know, Mr. Quantrell," she said aloud. "Lemon yellow isn't quite my color. But I suppose it will have to do." Then she threw her head back and laughed.

At work, she stopped laughing.

Davis Wheelock told her the mayor had canned the idea of any press conference.

"You can't be serious," said M. J.

Wheelock looked genuinely apologetic. "I explained the situation to the mayor and his staff. I told them we'd had two deaths-"

"Three, Davis. Nicos Biagi died. I've had it classified an ME case."

"All right, three. I told them the trend was not good. But they felt a press conference was premature."

"At what point does this crisis become mature?"

Wheelock shook his head. "It's not in my power to go around them. The line of authority's clear. When it comes to press releases, the mayor has final say."

"Maybe you weren't persuasive enough."

"Maybe we should ride this out a bit. See what develops."

"I can tell you what'll develop. And it won't be good press." She leaned across Wheelock's desk. "Davis, we're going to come out of this looking incompetent. When all hell breaks loose, do you think the mayor's going to take the rap? Hell, no. We will. You will."

Wheelock was looking more and more unhappy.

"Let me talk to them," said M. J. "I'll bring in Dr. Dietz from Hancock General as my authority. This news has to get out, and soon. Before South Lexington turns into a graveyard."

For a moment, Wheelock said nothing. Then he nodded. "All right. You take care of it. But don't be surprised if they slap you down."

"Thanks, Davis."

Back in her office, the first call she made was to the mayor's secretary. She learned that His Honor had a hole in his appointment book at one o'clock and she might be able to slip in then, but there were no guarantees.

The second call she made was to Hancock General. Unfortunately, Dr. Michael Dietz was not on duty in the ER.

"Is there any way I can reach him?" asked M. J. "This is urgent. I've booked us into the mayor's office at one o'clock."

"I'm afraid that's impossible," said the ER clerk.

"Why?"

"Dr. Dietz has left town. He resigned from the staff. Effective yesterday evening."

During his three and a half years in office, Mayor Sampson had presided over the worst economic slide in Albion's history. To be fair, it wasn't entirely his fault-across the country, cities were reeling from the recession. But with three major plant closings, a host of business bankruptcies, and an inner city rotting at its core, Albion had suffered worse than most. So it struck M. J. as more than a little ironic that the bicentennial poster displayed behind the receptionist's desk showed a slick couple in evening dress, dancing before a view of the night skyline.

Albion -a city for all reasons.

Nolan Sampson, Mayor.

It was, of course, just your typical election year hype. How convenient for His Honor that the city bicentennial just happened to coincide with the kickoff for his reelection campaign.

She approached the receptionist. "I'm Dr. Novak, ME's office. Is there a chance I could get in to see Mayor Sampson?"

"I'll check." The receptionist pressed the intercom. "Mayor Sampson? There's a doctor here from the ME's office. Are you free?"

"Uh, yeah. We just finished lunch. Send him in," M. J. heard from the speaker.

Him? He must think I'm Wheelock , she thought. She opened the door and masculine laughter spilled out. Just inside the office, she halted.

The mayor was behind his desk, puffing on a cigar. In a nearby chair sat the acting district attorney-M. J.'s ex-husband.

"Hello, Ed," said M. J. stiffly. "Mayor Sampson."

Both men looked surprised. "It's you," Ed said, for want of anything else to say. She noticed he'd spiffed up his wardrobe since their divorce. He had a new suit, Italian shoes, a shirt that looked like a hundred percent linen. Just think of all those wrinkles. I wonder who he's got ironing his shirts these days.

"Is this… official business?" asked the mayor, looking bewildered.

"Yes," said M. J. "Davis Wheelock spoke to you yesterday. About that press conference."

"What? Oh." Sampson waved his hand in dismissal. "You mean the junkies. Yeah, we talked about it."