I glanced at my white-faced watch before looking up at Niska Redman. It was 8:17. Nearly an hour had passed since I commandeered her office chair.

Niska wore a one-piece shamrock-green dress that didn’t quite cover her handsome knees. I liked the freckles around her nose and the smile that said she was honestly happy to see me. Hanging from her left shoulder was a rather large buff-colored canvas sack.

“Hey, N. How you doin’?”

“Fine. I made brown-rice pudding last night.” She swung the shoulder bag out onto the desk and opened it wide. Therein I saw her polka-dot blue-and-white purse, a few books, an exercise mat, a fine-toothed comb and an Afro pick, two brushes, a makeup bag, and a quart-size Tupperware tub. This last item she brought out and set before me.

“Want some?” she asked.

“Maybe later.” I stood up from her chair and she moved to stand next to it.

“Were you looking for something in my desk?”

“No. Just getting a different perspective is all. Where’s Tinsford? I don’t think I’ve ever gotten in before him unless he was on a case.”

“Uh-huh, excuse me, but I have to go to the restroom.”

She went down the hall of offices to the door just beyond Whisper’s. I pulled a guest chair from the far wall and set it before her workstation, still feeling the tremors from my mortal battle with demons of the past.

The phone rang once and I reached over to answer.

“WRENS-L Detective Agency.”

“Easy?”

“Hey, Saul. Where you callin’ from?”

“Niska didn’t tell you?”

“She just got in.”

“I’m up north. At the Oakland shipyards.”

“Oakland?”

“The IC called last Wednesday,” he said. “They’ve been underwriting a policy for Seahawk Shipping Lines. Too much cargo’s gone missing over the past eighteen months and they want us to look into it.”

The IC was actually the IIC, the International Insurance Corporation, an indemnity provider owned by Jean-Paul Villard, president and CEO of P9, one of the largest insurance consortiums in the world. JP’s number two was Jackson Blue, a good friend of mine. The IIC had us on commission and so whenever they called, one of us answered.

“You ever hear of a group called the Invisible Panthers?” Saul asked.

“No.”

A toilet flushed in the back offices.

“Who are they?” I asked.

“They say they’re some kind of left-wing political group that don’t want to be known.”

Niska came out from the hallway and pointed at her ear with a query on her face.

“It’s Saul,” I said to her, and then I asked him, “It’s a whole political organization?”

“I really don’t know. Maybe paramilitary. Is Niska there with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell her hello for me.”

“Those radical groups up there are dangerous. Maybe you should have somebody with you. I could ask Fearless.”