Mario told me to stop being a weak sister and to get back to work.

The second incident did not strike me as personally, but scared me just the same. I caught some kids in one of the back rooms using Ecstacy. We’ve never patrolled those back caverns very carefully. We figure some of the new hitches step in there to try a few sample smoochies before they commit to going home with each other. All well and good. But they weren’t supposed to be party rooms-especially not for anything illegal. Turned out these were high school kids passing for college students. I don’t know where they got the drugs; I just hope to God it wasn’t in the bar. I confiscated what I could and told them to get the hell out and never come back. They gave me a little grief, but eventually they left.

I told Mario about it, and he responded with his typical indifference. What did he care what a bunch of punks did? If they want to ruin their lives with drugs, let ’em. After all, we serve alcohol, and that’s a drug. It was no use. I don’t think he gets it. If we develop a reputation for being a local rave house, our paying customers will be supplanted by crackheads and undercover cops. They’ll look for an excuse to shut us down and eventually they’ll succeed. I’ve put too much into this place to let that happen.

I told Shelly about it, but she didn’t take it much more seriously than Mario had. She says being gay has made me paranoid, made me afraid of authority figures, afraid of everything. I know she loves me, and she probably can see some things about me I don’t see myself. She thinks it was a fluke. She says our customers are way too smart and Ecstacy will never catch on here. And she’s probably right. Maybe I’m just a worrywart.

Which is a hell of a lot better than being a weak sister.

Maybe I’m crazy, but I do think of this place as my home. I created it, in a very real sense. I think of Mario as my grumpy dad, Shelly as my spunky little sister, our customers as my friends. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to this little joint.

It’s the one place in the world where I feel safe.

51

Mike met Baxter at Gate C-37 at O’Hare for their flight back to Tulsa, bearing a gift in a Starbucks cup.

“Heads up, Baxter.”

“This is for me? What brings this on?”

“Just wanted to show you that I don’t subscribe to any sexist old-world stereotypical notions. This time, I fetched the coffee.”

She removed the lid and brought it close to her face, drawing in the rich aroma. “You mean there’s coffee in there somewhere, beneath the whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles?”

Mike grinned. “That’s the rumor.”

She took a sip. “Any luck tracking down the source of Manny Nowosky’s fifty grand?”

“Alas, no.”

“And it didn’t come from the kidnapping?”

“Not directly. We’ve checked the serial numbers. Common sense tells me the ransom money is the only big cash Manny ever came near. But how did he swap out the numbers?”

“What about the Ecstacy-pushing?”

“I don’t think that would yield this kind of… of…”

Baxter leaned in. “Yes? Is something wrong?”

“Damn.” Mike’s eyes turned toward the sky, his brain racing. “Yes, something is very wrong. Damn!” He pushed out of his chair. “Call headquarters and tell them to cash in our tickets. We’re taking a later flight.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

Mike was already halfway across the terminal and accelerating with each step. “To correct a tragic error. Before it’s too late.”

The place wasn’t open yet, but that didn’t stop Mike. She was there, and that was all he cared about.

“Shelly!”

The petite barmaid was dusting the back shelves, around and between the bottles of exotic liqueurs. She jumped when she heard his voice. “Wh-what?”

With one hand on the countertop, Mike vaulted over the bar and landed just before her. “Show me your arm.”

Deep lines creased her face. “What? But it hasn’t healed.”

He reached forward and jerked her arm out of the sling.

“Ow!” Shelly cried.

On the other side of the bar, Baxter was gaping in amazement. “Mike, what the hell do you think-”

He wasn’t listening. He grabbed the bandage on her wrist by one end.

“Ahhh!” Shelly cried out. “Please stop!”

Mike ripped off the bandage with one jerk.

And revealed… nothing. No wound, no scar.

Shelly fell silent. Her eyes scoured the bar, finally returning to the man standing just before her. “Look, I can ex-”

“Can it,” Mike barked, pushing her toward a bar stool. “No more of your bull. You’re going to sit down now and tell me what really happened. All of it.”

“But I don’t-”

“Quit the crap!” he bellowed. “You’re already in so deep you may be irredeemable. Perjury on top of everything else. Your only hope whatsoever at this point is to tell me the truth. And that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

On a day like today no one should have to be inside, Mike groused as he rode the elevator to the fifth floor. This was a day for outdoor activity, rappelling and canoeing and playing touch football with the neighborhood children. And he wished that was what he was doing. Actually, he wished he was doing anything other than what he was doing.

FBI headquarters, of course, was open 24/7, and he’d kept his ID card, happily, and by luck he managed to catch her still in her office.

“Mike!” Special Agent Swift said, when she saw him coming her way. She was wearing another one of those turtleneck sweaters, and God but she looked good in it. “You decided to take me up on my offer.” She put a mildly lascivious look on her face. “Which offer?”

“I’d like to talk to you for a moment.”

“Sounds good to me, sugah.”

“I don’t mean the usual foreplay byplay. I mean really talk.”

She frowned. “You’re awfully serious today, tiger. What’s up?”

He took a deep breath. “Shelly spilled. I mean everything. The truth.” He gazed with a deep and penetrating expression into her eyes. “I know.”

Her head craned back. “Know what?”

Mike stared at her, and as he did, that damned Billy Joel song, “The Stranger,” started rattling through his head again. “Swift,” he said quietly, “I know.”

She seemed confused, trying to calculate what next to say, what next to do.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d play straight with me and not try anything stupid. I haven’t called for backup. Yet. And I’ve asked Baxter to remain outside.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any point in trying to convince you that Shelly is lying.”

Mike slowly shook his head.

“Stupid woman. It was a mistake to ever involve her.” She fidgeted with her hands, her long red nails clicking together. “What tipped you off?”

“Tony Barovick,” Mike replied succinctly. “I’ve read his journal. I’ve talked to his friends. Maybe it’s just ego, but I came to feel as if… as if I knew the man. Even though I didn’t. Felt like I knew what kind of person he was. He had flaws and problems and insecurities, just like the rest of us. But I think he was basically a good person. A decent person. That’s why I had a hard time believing he was involved in some two-bit drug-running operation. And I had a particularly hard time believing he had any part in the abduction of a little boy, even when all the evidence pointed in that direction. I just couldn’t believe he would ever want or need money that much.”

“People aren’t rational,” Swift said. “Not all the time. They do strange and unpredictable things. You can never really know another person.”

“Yeah,” Mike continued. “I knew that fifty grand we found on Manny had to be the proceeds from the kidnapping, but the serial numbers didn’t match. In other words, the loot had been laundered. But how? Manny didn’t have any means or connections for laundering money. Charlie the Chicken certainly didn’t. That would require someone with a legitimate business. Mario Roma.”