"So are you asking me how many I've done, or how many I can prove?"

"Both."

Taylor shrugged. "I lost count after forty-eight. Once I had one in every state, it became less about quantity and more about quality."

"You're lying," Donaldson said. "You're too young for that many."

"One in every state in the lower forty-eight, old man."

"Can you prove it?"

"I kept driver's licenses, those that had them. Probably don't have more than twenty, though. Not many whores carry ID."

"No pictures? Trophies? Souvenirs?"

Taylor wasn't going to share something that personal with a stranger. He pretended to sneer. "Taking a trophy is like asking to get caught. I don't plan on getting caught."

"True. But it is nice to relive the moment. Traveling is lonely, and memories unfortunately fade. If it wasn't so dangerous, I'd love to videotape a few."

That would be nice, Taylor thought, finishing the last bit of meatloaf. But my trophy box will have to suffice.

"So how many are you up to, Grandpa?"

"A hundred twenty-seven."

Taylor snorted. "Bullshit."

"I agree with you about the danger of keeping souvenirs, but I have Polaroids from a lot of my early ones."

"Dangerous to carry those around with you."

"I've got them well hidden." Donaldson stared at him, his eyes twinkling. "Would you be interested in seeing them?"

"What do you mean? One of those I'll show you mine if you show me yours deals?"

"No. Well, not exactly. I'm not interested in seeing your driver's license collection. But I would be interested in paying a little visit to your current guest."

Taylor frowned. "I'm not big on sharing. Or sloppy seconds."

Donaldson slowly spread out his hands. "I understand. It's just that… you know how it is, when you get all worked up, and then they quit on you."

Taylor nodded. Having a victim die too soon felt like having something precious stolen from him.

"You don't seem like the shy type," Donaldson continued. "I thought, perhaps, you wouldn't mind doing your thing when someone else was there to watch."

Taylor smiled. "Aren't you the dirty old man."

Donaldson smiled back. "A dirty old man who doesn't have the same distaste of sloppy seconds as you apparently have. I see no problem in going second. As long as there's something left for me to enjoy myself with."

"I leave all the major parts intact."

"Then perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement."

"Perhaps we can."

Donaldson's smile suddenly slipped off his face. He'd noticed the same thing Taylor had.

A cop had walked into the restaurant.

Woman, forties, well built, a gold star clipped to her hip. But even without the badge, she had that swagger, had that look, that Taylor had spent a lifetime learning to spot.

"Here comes trouble," Donaldson said.

And, as luck would have it, trouble sat down right next to them.

– 4-

After filling my gas tank and emptying my bladder, I went in search of food.

The diner was surprisingly full this late at night. Truckers mostly. And though I hadn't worked Vice in well over a decade, I was pretty sure the only women in the place were earning their living illegally.

Not that I judged, or even cared. One of the reasons I switched from Vice to Homicide was because I had no problems with what consenting adults did to themselves or each other. I'd done a few drugs in my day, and as a woman I felt I should be able to do whatever I wanted with my body. So the scene in the diner was nothing more to me than local color. I just wanted some coffee and a hot meal, which I believed would wake me up enough to get me through the rest of my road trip and into the very patient arms of my fiancee.

I expected at least one or two catcalls or wolf whistles when I entered, but didn't hear any. Sort of disappointing. I was wearing what I wore to court, a brown Ann Klein pantsuit, clingy in all the right places, and a pair of three inch Kate Spade strappy sandals. The shoes were perhaps a bit frivolous, but the jury couldn't see my feet when I took the stand. I left for Wisconsin directly from court, and wore the shoes because Latham loved them. I had even painted my toenails to celebrate our vacation.

Maybe the current diners were too preoccupied with the hired help to know another woman had entered the place. Or maybe it was me. Latham said I gave off a "cop vibe" that people could sense, but he assured me I was still sexy. Still, a Wisconsin truck stop at two in the morning filled with lonely, single men, and I didn't even get a lecherous glance. Maybe I needed to work-out more.

Then I realized I still had my badge clipped to my belt. Duh.

I quickly scoped out the joint, finding the emergency exit, counting the number of patrons and employees, identifying potential trouble. An absurdly dressed man in expensive boots and a diamond studded John Deere cap stared hard at me. He gave me a look that said he hated cops, and I gave him a look that said I hated his kind even more. While I tolerated prostitutes, I loathed pimps. Someone taking the money you earned just because they were bigger than you wasn't fair.

But I didn't come here to start trouble. I just wanted some food and caffeine.

I walked the room slowly, feeling the cold stares, and found counter space next to a portly man. I eased myself onto the stool.

"Coffee, officer?"

I nodded at the waitress. She overturned my mug and filled it up. I glanced at the menu, wondering if they had cheese curds-those little fried nuggets of cheddar exclusive to Wisconsin.

"The meatloaf is good."

I glanced at the man on my left. Big and tall, maybe fifteen years older than I was. He had a kind-looking face, but his smile appeared forced.

"Thanks," I replied.

I sipped some coffee. Nice and strong. If I got two cups and a burger in me, I'd be good to go. The waitress returned, I ordered a cheeseburger with bacon, and a side of cheese curds.

"Never seen you here before."

The voice, reeking of alpha male, came from behind me. I could guess who it belonged to.

"Passing through," I said, not bothering to turn around.

"Well, maybe you can hurry it along, little lady. Your kind isn't good for business."

I carefully set down my mug of coffee, then slowly swiveled around on my stool.

The pimp was sticking his chest out like he was being fitted for a bra, a few stray curly hairs peeking through his collar. One of his women, strung out on something, clung unenthusiastically to his side. Her concealer didn't quite cover up her black eye.

"I'm off duty, and just stopped in for coffee and some cheese curds, which I can't get in Illinois. I suggest you mind your own business. This isn't my jurisdiction, but I'm guessing the local authorities wouldn't mind if I fed you some of your teeth."

The older fat guy next to me snorted. The pimp wasn't so amused.

"The local authorities, " he said it in a falsetto, obviously trying to mimic me, "and I have an arrangement. That arrangement means no cops." He gave me a rough shove in the shoulder. "And I'm sure they wouldn't mind if I fed you-"

I drove the salt shaker into his upper jaw with my palm, breaking both the glass and the teeth I'd promised. Besides being hard and having weight, the shards and the salt did a number on the pimp's gums. Must have hurt like crazy.

He dropped to his knees, clutching his face and howling, and three of his women dragged him out of there. I did a slow pan across the room, looking for other challengers, seeing none. Then I brushed my hand on my pants, wiping off the excess salt, and went back to my coffee, trying to control the adrenalin shakes. I hated violence of any kind, but once he touched me, I didn't have any other recourse. I didn't want to play footsie with the local cops he was paying off, trying to get an assault charge to stick. Or worse, wind up in the hospital because some asshole pimp thought he could treat me the same way he treated the women who worked for him.