Big surprise.

Esme Alden, Private Investigator-she was smarter with strangers. She expected more. But her dad-hell, she definitely had issues with her dad. Someday she was going to grow up and stop trying to make him into something he was not, like responsible, smart enough to take care of his family, and strong enough not to court financial ruin on every damn toss of the dice, and every dog race, or every horse, or the damn Denver Broncos.

Today was obviously not that day.

She scrolled down her address list to his name and pressed the call button. After seven interminable rings, she got her folks’ answering machine.

“Hi. You’ve reached the Aldens, Burt, Beth, and Esme,” her mother’s sweet voice said. “Leave us a message, and we’ll call you back.”

Esme figured when and if she ever got married, her mother would finally take her name off the family answering machine.

“Dad,” she said. “If you’re there, pick up. If you’re not, you should be, and either way, call me as soon as you get this message. The clock is running here, Dad.”

She hung up, and hit Dax’s number.

“Go,” he answered halfway through the first ring.

“I’m on my way to Isaac Nachman’s with the Meinhard.” And she was… sort of, in a roundabout way.

“Good going, bad girl, congratulations.” She could almost see him smile. “But you should have been at Nachman’s fifteen minutes ago.”

“I got hung up.”

“At the Oxford?”

“No. Back at the office.”

That slowed him down for a second.

“Your dad’s car didn’t start, right?”

He’d warned her against using her dad’s car, all but insisted she get a rental, but no, she’d had to use the old man’s minivan, so he could feel like he was contributing to the team.

The old man was going to get her killed.

She could see that coming now. His incompetence had always been contagious. It was why she’d worked so hard in school, and so hard keeping her ducks in a row, keeping her clothes tidy and her shoes clean and her homework done and her braids tight, and her pants on, just to have some goddamn control over something besides the missing grocery money, or the hocked television, or the men who sometimes had come to the house-men very much like Franklin Bleak and Kevin Harrell. It was why she’d moved to Seattle to work with Dax-to get away from the rolling inevitability of her dad’s disasters.

She’d begged her mom to come with her, but her mom had said no, she couldn’t leave Esme’s father-and if that was love, Esme didn’t want a damn thing to do with it.

“No. The minivan was starting for me all day. I didn’t have any problems with it until the cops booted it on Wynkoop.”

“Cripes,” he swore under his breath. “So where are you? In a cab?”

“Actually, I’m in Baby Duce’s backyard, sitting in a Cyclone.”

“Baby Duce? The Locos Baby Duce?” he asked after a moment, not exactly an innocuous question under the best of circumstances, and these weren’t anywhere close to the best, and she could tell by the tone of his voice that he’d figured that much out in a heartbeat, and that his mood had taken a sudden, understandably steep dive.

“Yes.”

“In a Cyclone?”

“Yes.”

There was another slight pause.

“A ’68?” he asked.

She’d known he wouldn’t be able to resist that one.

“Probably. It’s fast, got a lot of engine in it, but it’s really beat-up.”

“A sleeper,” he said.

Sure, she thought, a sleeper, the kind of car no one would suspect of having more power than Godzilla.

“You’re sitting in a sleeper in Baby Duce’s backyard.” It wasn’t a question. “Who’s holding the pink slip on the Cyclone?” That was a question, and she was going to get around to answering it pretty damn quickly, right after she assured him she was still doing her job.

“I’m only here for another couple of minutes, then I’m heading straight for Isaac Nachman’s.” One way or another, with or without Johnny Ramos.

“Answer the question, Easy, and then tell me you got the name of Bleak’s kid from your dad.”

What did she have to offer him, really, except a damning silence. Fortunately, with Dax, a damning silence was about all it took.

She heard him sigh.

“You know what this sounds like, Easy,” he said, his voice slipping down another notch into the “very unhappy” category.

“A royal screwup.”

“Like it’s time to close up shop and figure out another plan.”

“No. We’re still a go here.”

“Your dad-”

“I know.”

She heard the Dax Killian version of an angry outburst, which sounded a lot like a softly muttered “for the love of God and Patsy Cline.” Burt Alden was the family curse. The fact had been highly documented over the thirty-year course of her parents’ marriage.

“What aren’t you telling me, Easy? Start at the top, and don’t forget the Cyclone.”

It was situation report time-sit-rep-or confession time, depending on a person’s point of view and level of guilt, and he wasn’t going to like this part any more than she did.

“I was recognized at the Oxford by a guy I went to high school with, John Ramos. He followed me to the office. We talked for a couple of minutes and walked out. When I saw the van was booted, I crossed Wynkoop to get a cab, and the next thing I know, he’s hauling me up Sixteenth, because Dovey Smollett, Kevin Harrell, and this other guy look like they’re out to snatch me off the street. So we do the O’Shaunessy’s-Cuppa Joe double dog dare, lose them, and end up here in one of Baby Duce’s alleys in Ramos’s Cyclone.”

It was quite a story, even in the retelling, a royal screwup, just like she’d said, but all Dax said to her was, “Kevin Harrell.”

“I know.” Kevin Harrell had been hovering near the top of Dax’s “Guy’s Who Don’t Want to Meet

Me in a Dark Alley” list for years.

“Is Dovey Smollett Greg Smollett’s little brother?”

“Yes.”

“And why in the world would a Smollett be after you? What-did you break his heart in junior high or something?”

She wished it were that simple. She really did.

“He works for Franklin Bleak.”

Dax took Patsy Cline’s name in vain again under his breath. Three times on the Patsy business, and Esme knew the shit would hit the fan.

“I want you out of there now. Go back to the office, and-no, on second thought, skip the office. They’ve got that covered. Go to Mama Guadalupe’s. I’ll meet you in the bar.”

“I’m not meeting you anywhere, until I see Nachman and get the cash. We stick to the plan, Dax. Nothing has happened here, except for a half-hour delay.” More like an hour, actually, by the time she made it to Isaac Nachman’s mountain mansion, but the Denver industrialist was her next call. She’d smooth everything over, make the delivery, get the money, and meet Dax back at the Faber Building as planned.

“A half an hour and Bleak pooching the deal, bad girl. You know what this means. Bleak is looking to put the squeeze on your dad. And who is John Ramos?” Dax said. “What’s his angle? How do you know he’s not working for Bleak, too? What was he doing? Staking out the office, and then he follows you over to-oh, wait a minute here…ah, hell, Easy, don’t tell me John Ramos is Dom Ramos’s little brother.”

Okay, Dax. Her lips were sealed.

“He’s Dom Ramos’s little brother, isn’t he?”

“Well, Dax, I’m sitting here staring at five Locos in an alley off north Delgany. I’m not at a warehouse in Commerce City staring at a few hundred cases of toilet paper and fiesta napkins.”

“What are you doing on Delgany?” Dax’s voice took on an added edge. “I thought Baby Duce worked out of the Aztec Club.”

“The Aztec burned down a few years ago. To the ground. You really need to keep up.”

While she watched, one of the Locos pushed off the fence and started for the car, and all she could think was-Oh, baby, don’t go there. Nothing good could come from backing her into a corner, absolutely nothing good.