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  “You’re saying he was already dead, too? That’s impossible.” He glanced back through the glass into the funeral home. The reflection wouldn’t let him see far inside. “Dead people don’t walk around.”

  “See why we weren’t anxious to tell you? Or anyone? They must not have been dead. Da—Lieutenant Maloney’s been keeping this under wraps, personally trying to run the traps, consulting the feds. We’re not even letting the info out among the department. We think somebody may have slipped them something, some kind of toxin that made them seem dead.”

  “But you found nothing in their blood,” Hatcher said, guessing.

  Wright shook her head. “No, we didn’t. We’re still having them look. Maybe it’s some kind of rare agent, a hal lucinogen that works in small doses. No one knows.”

  Hatcher doubted that. “What about Sherman?”

  “What about him?”

  “He was in that room. You saw him.”

  “Hatcher, I saw some bald guy on the floor holding his head, and I can barely remember even that. It could have been him, but Lieutenant Maloney says he doesn’t think so. He personally reviewed the security tapes. There was nothing showing anyone who could be Sherman coming or going.”

  “I’m the one who put him in the fetal position. It was Sherman. Maloney was too busy trying to trip me up to listen. He needs to lose his hard-on for me and find the creep. That’s where you’ll get some answers.”

  “You’re wrong about Maloney, Hatcher. He was the one who insisted you be released. He said he believed you, and once Deborah St. James corroborated what you told him, he decided to let you go. But she said she didn’t remember seeing anyone else in the room, either. We’re hoping to talk to Sherman, but we don’t have enough to issue a warrant.”

  A passing cloud blocked the sun. Hatcher watched its shadow fall over her. He popped the ejected round back into the clip and tossed it to her.

  “There’s more I want to know, but that’ll do for now,” he said.

  The sound of the magazine slamming home and a round being chambered caused him to stop as he turned toward the door.

  “Don’t you ever do anything like that again,” she said.

  He looked over his shoulder, smiling. “Don’t worry. Next time I’ll do something totally different.”

  She stomped past him, pulling open the door and forcing him to take a step back. She paused as she started to go through. “Would you have really beaten me up to get my keys? Really have given this gun to some bangers? Are you that kind of guy?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think about you,” she said. She studied him for a long moment before stepping inside.

  When she was about ten paces in, he called her name. Still in the doorway, he reached into his pocket and tossed something at her. She leaned forward and caught it. A ring of keys. They jangled in her hand as she stared at them.

  “And if I’m going to protect Deborah while you use her as bait,” he said, “I expect you to buy me lunch first.”

  CHAPTER 10

  STARING OUT THE WINDOW OF DEBORAH’S APARTMENT, Hatcher scratched at the stubble on his chin as he watched the street below. Wright’s car passed from sight after a few dozen yards, the view eventually blocked by trees along the sidewalk. It was an upscale part of town. He’d never spent much time in the city growing up, but affluence was easy to spot.

  He scanned the avenue, taking in the parked cars. Compact types mostly, small and new, with a few hybrids thrown in. One black SUV parked a few stoops up. Back the opposite way on the other side of the street, a drywall van with a spattered aluminum ladder hanging on the side of it was wedged between a Camry and an Acura. A guy in a hat listening to an iPod was walking his dog toward it. A jogger passed him, probably heading to Central Park. No street people that Hatcher could see. One of the signs of money was the absence of people who had none.

  Deborah’s place was impeccably furnished, with a white oriental sofa and black tables. Four bright white walls surrounded a plush square of white carpeting. The several end tables and wall tables were like art stands, displaying one item each. A white phone on one, a white vase with a red rose on another. A white lamp on a third. Some kind of soft black lounge chair, S-shaped, like a tilted lightning bolt in the manner of an SS insignia sat alone at an angle on the far side of the main room, with a white throw pillow tossed on it. The woman chose to live in a world of black and white. He figured he wasn’t in a position to knock it. Hatcher didn’t know much about Manhattan real estate, but the apartment was large and he figured that meant pricey. All that white made it seem even larger. All that black even pricier.

  The burial had not taken long. The cemetery was located little more than a mile from the funeral home, so the three-car procession only lasted a few minutes. It probably would have taken even less time to get there without the motorcycle cop running interference. A priest said some words about healing and God’s children and being taken to His bosom, then they lowered the casket into the ground. Hatcher had found the scene a bit odd, since his mother wasn’t Catholic. At least, he didn’t think she was. He left the cemetery wondering if the funeral home arranged everything without much guidance on the religious end, or if his mother may have converted. Twelve years was a long time. He’d thought about how much can change during that kind of a stretch when he said good-bye to her, as she hugged him and sobbed against his chest, Carl eventually pulling her away and gently leading her toward their car. Hatcher’d had a number of new questions he wanted to ask her about Garrett, but some things would have to wait. Other questions were more pressing now, and they weren’t the type his mother could answer.

  Deborah emerged from the rear of the apartment. She had freshened up—which was the way she put it—and was wearing a change of clothes. Hatcher wasn’t exactly sure what women did when they freshened up, but whatever she had decided to do worked. Good as she looked before, now she looked even better. The white cotton dress she wore clung to her curves loosely, like it was threatening to fall off at any moment. And those curves of hers just wouldn’t quit. He was having trouble controlling the placement of his gaze. He tore his eyes away with great effort, thinking, there ought to be a law. He scratched that thought. He’d been plenty of places that had those laws. They weren’t pleasant.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Water would be nice.”

  Deborah disappeared between a pair of swinging doors into the kitchen. Hatcher followed the tight movement of her rear as she went. When her ass disappeared his eyes wandered the room, settling on a framed black-and-white photo of the New York skyline hanging over her couch, taken from a rooftop. Along the bottom white border was an address and a date.

  She came out a moment later with a tall glass and a bottle of Evian.

  “From the tap would have been fine,” he said. He gestured vaguely toward her leg. “What happened to the cane?”

  She smiled, handed him the glass and bottle. “I can walk without it. It just hurts like a bastard, especially if I make it a point not to limp. But if you don’t deal with pain, don’t master it, a cane can become a crutch, don’t you think?”

  Hatcher nodded, unsure how she could be looking so healthy already. So healthy, and so damn delicious. They were standing close, facing each other, her eyes shining up into his. Every breath he took was inhaling her essence. He felt the swelling of an erection press against his trousers. He turned his attention to the wall.

  “Did you take this?”

  She shook her head. “It was a gift.”

  “You say that as if you don’t like it.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, shrugging. “I keep it up for the man who gave it to me. Wouldn’t want him to get suicidal.”

  Something like a silent laugh seemed to shape her expression for a fraction of a second, like she was enjoying an inside joke. It was gone before Hatcher could tell whether it had really been there, or was just something he imagin
ed. A lot of her expressions seemed that way.

  “I’m not sure what’s supposed to happen now,” she said. “Do we just sit around?”

  It wasn’t a bad question. Hatcher weighed how much of his take on things he should share. He decided not too much. There was something uncommon about this woman, more than her uncommonly good looks, more than her uncommonly attractive body, more than her uncommonly sensuous manner. Something he didn’t understand. So he needed to be careful. No matter how aroused he became.

  “I hope I’m not giving away some big surprise if I tell you this is all a trap,” he said.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “There’s a van parked across the street, but I don’t see any windows open in any buildings, don’t see workers coming or going. Not that big a deal, but there’s also an Expedition parked a few doors down, and it’s the only vehicle among several that doesn’t have bird crap on it. That would indicate it wasn’t parked there overnight, like the others. But it’s not shiny, so it hasn’t been washed recently. I’m also guessing you’re going to see a number of people walking dogs during the day, taking their time going up and down the street. Different people. But I’ll bet if you look carefully, you’ll see the same dog more than once.”

  “Sounds like the police. But didn’t they say they couldn’t spare the manpower? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? That’s why I hired you. Which reminds me . . .”

  She slid two fingers between her dress and a breast, removed a folded bill. She handed it to him.

  “This is for you. A small advance. Since you said you were broke.”

  It was a Benjamin. Hatcher didn’t want to take it, but knew he’d need it. He tucked it into his pocket. “Thank you.”

  He poured some of his water into the glass. “How much of this was your idea? Me playing bodyguard?”

  “All of it. Or most of it, at least. Are you suggesting they manipulated me? Planted the thought in my head?”

  The water tasted good. He’d been thirstier than he realized. “That, or something you said made a lightbulb go off and they ran with it.”

  “Interesting.” She took a seat on the sofa, leaning sideways against the back of it, crossing one long leg over the other. She was wearing a pair of open-toed strapless shoes with wooden soles. She flicked them off with a wiggle of her foot and patted the cushion next to her. “What does your theory offer as to why?”

  “They’re trying to flush out whoever wants to kill you,” he said, setting himself down next to her.

  “That doesn’t sound consistent with letting you guard me.”

  Hatcher shrugged. “It does if you look at it from their point of view. I’m expendable.”

  “Even if that were true, wouldn’t you being here deter whoever is wanting to kill me?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe they think it would look more suspicious if you were left naked . . . so to speak. They said they thought they might have a leak at the department.”

  She inclined her head, resting it on her hand, her elbow propped on the back of the sofa. “I don’t understand.”

  Hatcher took another sip, then set the glass and bottle down on the slick black gloss of the coffee table. “If you’re by yourself, whoever is out there may get leery and wait. Too easy. If you’re with a cop, the person feeding them information may insist that the cop not be hurt. He—or she—might be afraid the resulting investigation would be more thorough. But if it’s just some muscle you hired, that might be different. They may be counting on word getting out that that’s the situation.”

  “Is that how you see yourself? Muscle?”

  “It has nothing to do with how I see myself. That’s just what I’m supposed to be at the moment.”

  “So why did you agree to this, if you’re certain you’re being sacrificed?”

  Hatcher bent forward, resting his forearms across his legs and clasping his hands. He had to do it to avoid staring at her breasts. “Because I don’t like being lied to. If I’m not going to get the straight story from them about what happened to Garrett, then I’ll find out myself.”

  “You’re a regular man of action, huh?”

  “More like a guy who’s let himself get jerked around one too many times.”

  “In that case, what do you propose we do?”

  Hatcher realized she had just batted her eyes. He wasn’t sure he had ever actually seen a woman do that before, but there it was. She pulled her leg up a bit, the smooth, glistening flesh of her thigh glowing in the afternoon light. Given her body language, the question she had asked was almost too much to bear. Was she inviting him to say something suggestive? Was she giving him a signal? He couldn’t tell. Her face was too hard to read, her expressions too controlled. In some ways, she was obviously giving him signs. In others, it seemed there was no way to be sure, which made the obvious ones suspect.

  “I need to figure out what’s going on. I assume the police asked you a lot of questions about people who may have a motive to hurt you.”

  “Yes. Too many to think about.”

  “But you didn’t tell them everything, did you?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because another motivation for them doing it this way is that they don’t trust you.”

  She regarded him, allowing the silence to draw out. Magnetic eyes, tugging at him. “You’re right. There are some things I didn’t tell them. Things I couldn’t.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m not sure I should say anything more. Not yet.”

  A hint of a smile played across her lips, but her brow was set with a serious aspect. The woman’s expressions were a series of contradictions that Hatcher was finding impossible to get a handle on.

  “And why is that?” he asked.

  “For the same reasons I couldn’t tell them. They wouldn’t have believed me. And neither will you.”

  Hatcher rubbed his wrist. “I’ll believe just about anything right now. As long as it’s the truth.”

  Her fragrance was becoming intolerably overpowering. As if she sensed its effect, she pushed herself up and leaned toward him, almost close enough to brush his nose with hers. She ran her eyes over his face. He sensed his self-control was being tested. A pretty good test, he had to admit. Failure was looking like a rather attractive option.

  “There is a group of women out there,” she said, pulling back. “They are very beautiful and very dangerous. They want me dead.”

  “Why?”

  She took a breath, hesitated. “Because of a man named Demetrius Valentine.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m not comfortable saying anything more right now. It wouldn’t be fair. The more I tell you, the more danger I put you in.”

  “I think it’s pretty safe to say I’m in the line of fire now, considering I’m the guy pegged to take a bullet for you.”

  “There’s more than that kind of danger in the world. Let me think about it for a while. I’m not sure how much I want you to know. Or how much you should.”

  Hatcher pondered that. Normally, he’d draw a line right then, tell her he wasn’t going to let himself be played that way. But instead, he just took another sip of water and said, “Dangerous women, huh?”

  “Yes. And beautiful, too.”

  “Most beautiful women are. Dangerous, that is.”

  “You seem rather dangerous yourself.”

  Hatcher let out an abbreviated chuckle, guzzled the rest of his glass. “Me? I’m harmless. Nothing but a kitten, really.”

  “A very dangerous kitten, then.” She pulled her knee up, sliding one leg along the other as she reached casually down to rub her foot.

  Spec Ops guys, crude men they were, often compared the pent-up thrill of an anticipated firefight to sex. The way it got the blood pumping, the adrenaline surging. They thought the two things so linked, they had a custom of relieving the tension of one by achieving release through the other. A combat jack, it was called. Masturbating while in a firefigh
t, when there was any kind of lull in the action. In some cases, when there wasn’t much of a lull at all. Hatcher wasn’t sure why he was thinking of that right now, but he was. Probably because he was going to need to do something similar, soon.

  “These women, you called them a group. You didn’t happen to have been part of this group at some time, would you?”

  “All these questions. I told you I’d think about it. Show a little patience.” She stretched her arms over her head, arching her back. Her breasts crested toward the ceiling. “I think I need to lie down. Don’t you?”

  Okay, Hatcher thought, that was definitely the green light. It took every ounce of willpower he had not to leap on top of her. But he knew that would be unwise. Self-control was the key to survival.

  “Relax then, and get some sleep. Don’t open the door for anyone but me. You’ll be safe here. There are probably three cops watching the place. For the reasons I told you, you’ll be safer without me.”

  “And what are you going to do?”

  Hatcher stood, his fingers gravitating over to his wrist, still able to feel the dead grip of Garrett around the bones. “I’m going to find out why there was no one else at my brother’s funeral.”

  “Stay away from beautiful women, Hatcher. The more beautiful, the farther you should stay away.”

  “Way ahead of you,” he said. His eyes slid over her body. He tried to stop them, but self-control had its limits. “Way, way ahead of you.”

  FINDING GARRETT’S OFFICE WAS SURPRISINGLY EASY.

  During one of Hatcher’s initial operational briefings in Afghanistan, a spook advised that the first rule in gathering intelligence was to never underestimate the open source of information. Hatcher hadn’t ever put much stock in that, his experience being that unless you got confirmation from a source in the know, you had no way of knowing what was true and what wasn’t, but at the moment that rule had the attractive benefit of convenience. He had no car, only a hundred bucks and change in his pocket, and no local area knowledge. But he also knew you didn’t get anywhere without starting somewhere. The second business he approached was a dry cleaner that let him use their Yellow Pages. That was about as open a source as there was.