“I barely know what’s going on. Thank you for coming down, Russell. I hope it’s not too awkward a position for you.”

“No, it was a good choice. But if this kind of thing is going to happen a lot…” He shot her a smile, causing a gurgle of laughter in Margrit’s throat.

“God, I hope not. I’ve just got this-this guy. My own personal stalker.” She sighed, then dragged in a deep breath, trying to rid herself of the impulse to sigh again. “The guy the cops think is killing people in the park.”

Russell lowered his hand and turned to face her, arms folded across his chest. “The cops think.”

“Yeah.” Margrit stared down the street, then shook her head. “Can we walk?” She started off down the sidewalk without waiting for an answer. “The cops think. I don’t think I buy it. Tony…This guy, his name’s Alban, showed up on my balcony, and Tony saw him there. He was threatening to stick me with being a co-conspirator, which is just bullshit, and I don’t know where it came from, except, I don’t know, jealousy. Which is bullshit, too. Excuse my French.”

“If this Alban needs a lawyer, Margrit…”

“It’s more complicated than that.” She glanced at her boss, shoving her hands into her jeans pockets. “More complicated than I can explain.”

Delicately, Russell said, “Are you involved with him?”

She barked laughter. “No. No, not at all.” The memory of Alban’s gaze, quiet and hopeful, rose in her mind and lingered. Margrit closed her eyes, trying to push it away, and thought instead of ivory skin sliding into dark denim. “It’s more like he’s an illegal immigrant and can’t trust anybody in authority,” she said through gritted teeth, and forced her eyes open to cut off the visual memory. “It’s complicated,” she repeated. “Look, I should just go home. Tony’s not going to pick me up again. If he really thinks I’m involved in something with Alban, he let me go so he could tail me and find out what I do. I cannot believe he’d think I’d be-” she struggled for a word and only came up with the one Russell had just used “-involved. With something like this.”

“Then cover your ass, Margrit.” Russell’s voice became darkened, his eyebrows drawing down. “Don’t see this Alban again. Stay with your friends and coworkers, with people who can provide alibis. Don’t throw your career away over this. We’ll be lucky if the papers don’t pick it up.”

Margrit groaned and tilted her head back, looking at the few visible stars that forced their way through the city lights. “I know. And what great timing, right when I’m on top of my game. I’ll watch myself, Russell. And I swear-” she held up her fingers in an oath “-if anything hinky happens I’ll call you immediately. I won’t let this get any worse.”

“Hinky.” Russell allowed himself a grin. “Did you really just say hinky?”

“I’ve had a traumatizing night. Give me a break.” She lifted her arm to hail a taxi as he nodded. A yellow cab careened toward her, and she felt her stomach tighten, trying not to leap backward.

Russell noticed the flinch and frowned.

“You’ll be all right getting home?”

“Yeah.” Margrit flashed a quick smile. “Got to get back on the horse sometime, right? I’ll be fine. You need a ride?”

“I’ll take the subway. Take care of yourself, Margrit.”

“Yeah.” She climbed into the cab, Russell thumping the top as he closed the door behind her. She slid down in the seat, grateful for the relative comfort of the cushions and the warmth of the vehicle. “Who’s on first after sunset. Janx. Jesus Christ, everybody’s lost their freaking minds.”

“You got it, lady.” The cab pulled away from the curb.

Margrit opened her eyes, frowning. “Got what?”

“Huo’s On First.” The cab driver cut a glance at her in the rearview mirror. “Ain’t that whatcha said?”

“Who’s on-what? What?” Margrit sat up straighter, goose bumps rising on her arms.

The cabbie eyed her. “Huo’s On First. It’s a bookstore down on First.” It was clear he wanted to add, “You dumb broad,” but he held his tongue, watching her in the mirror. “You wanna go there or not?”

“Yeah.” Her weariness slipped away and she leaned forward, gazing out the window. “Yeah, I do.”

CHAPTER 13

THE DOORBELL JANGLED pleasantly when Margrit stopped inside the door, taking in a tiny, crowded store with towering shelves overloaded with books. The space had a sense of serenity that seemed impossible to dislodge, with the scent of old books mixing with the sweetness of tea. She turned back to look over her shoulder at the reversed letters on the door, proclaiming Huo’s On First: An Eclectic Bookshop, with hours that seemed extraordinarily late for a bookstore. A feeling of contentment settled over her, making her smile. The aura of bookstores, so calm and quiet, had the power to soothe her even after a day like the one that had passed. It was the same aura of sanctuary provided by churches, albeit with more reading material and considerably more comfortable chairs.

She ducked between stacks, hunching her shoulders to keep from brushing against shelves. A ladder leaned against a wall, its wide steps stacked precariously with paperbacks. Margrit picked one up, flipping through the pages as she tried not to elbow another stack of books to the floor. Used bookstores-at least the best of them-always seemed to be as crowded as this one was, as if walking around ran a distant second to the importance of the bound and printed pages.

“Insomniacs.” The voice came from above, making Margrit glance up, startled. A very small woman with black hair and blacker eyes peeped down from the top of a shelving unit. The set of her face was purposeful, fine lines carved around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Margrit took two steps back to better see her as she clambered over the top of the shelves and down the ladder, knocking off a stack of books as she passed them. Margrit snatched two out of the air, the other three raining to the floor with finality.

“Thank you.” The woman hopped down from the ladder, rescuing the fallen books and brushing dust off their covers with definitive motions. “You’re new here, aren’t you? Welcome to Huo’s On First. I’m Chelsea.” She offered her hand. “Chelsea Huo.” Her eyes crinkled with pleasure, and Margrit smiled as she shook it.

“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Huo. I’m Margrit Knight.”

“Chelsea.”

“Chelsea,” Margrit echoed obediently. Chelsea’s eyes crinkled again, her smile making wizened apple wrinkles in her round face. “Nice to meet you,” she repeated. “Insomniacs?”

“Are why the store is open so late. I get all sorts of sleepless customers, looking for the comfort of books, or sometimes for one dull enough to send them into slumber. They’re constants, aren’t they?” Chelsea asked cheerfully. “Books are. That’s why we like them so much. They seem immutable. They’re not, of course, not from the author’s first draft to the tenth printing, but they seem like it.” She leaned in confidentially. “And used bookstores like this one are always crowded because the books breed, you see.”

Margrit laughed, looking up at shelves tilting toward one another with the weight of volumes, and grinned. “I didn’t even know I’d said that out loud. It explains a lot, though.”

“Doesn’t it? Now, what can I do for you, Margrit? What are you looking for tonight?”

“I’m looking for-” Margrit cut the words off with a hard swallow. “I’m supposed to meet someone here. Tomorrow.”

Chelsea’s feather-fine eyebrows rose. “You’re a little early, then, aren’t you? Who are you meeting?”

“His name is Alban.” Margrit folded her arms around herself, glancing down an aisle between shelves. She felt, more than saw, stillness settle over Chelsea, and looked back at her curiously.

“Of course,” the tiny woman murmured. “You’re the runner in the park. The young lawyer. Peculiar that he should contact you, but-mmm. Well. How interesting.”