Shaking her head, Anne walked across the plaza to Piazza Fontana, to her non-date.

“It’s not a date,” Vince muttered to himself as he straightened his tie in the men’s room mirror.

What the hell had he been thinking? Anne Navarre probably hadn’t even been born yet when he joined the Bureau. He had to be out of his mind. Maybe he should start taking the antipsychotic drugs, after all.

And asking her in the middle of what had been going on at the school—definitely a sign of brain damage.

It was the bullet’s fault. A hallmark of damage to the frontal lobe of the brain: impulsive behavior.

He was feeling edgy, that end-of-the-day out-of-gas nervousness that usually precipitated a big crash. He had managed a short rest after Mendez dropped him off, and he had dozed under the lights of the tanning machine in the salon, but it hadn’t been enough. He needed about seventeen hours of sleep. At least he had a healthy glow in his face now thanks to a gazillion watts of fluorescent light and his easy-to-tan Italian complexion.

“Maybe you’re just old, Vince,” he muttered.

Then again, he should have been dead. So what the hell? Why shouldn’t he have dinner with a lovely, intelligent twentysomething lady?

He spotted her entering the restaurant as he stepped out of the men’s room. She looked very . . . determined, he decided, determined to be serious, determined to be taken seriously. She also looked a lot less like an elementary schoolteacher in her body-skimming sweater and stylish skirt. Nice.

“Miss Navarre,” he said with his most charming smile. “You look lovely.”

“Detective—”

“Vince, please. It’s been a long day for both of us. Let’s shelve the formalities, shall we?”

The maitre d’ led them through the restaurant’s interior to a quiet booth in a corner. Miss Navarre raised an eyebrow.

“We don’t want eavesdroppers,” Vince explained. “This isn’t a conversation for public consumption, all things considered.”

He ordered a bottle of pinot grigio and two glasses—not that he would be able to drink it considering the drugs he was on, but he could pretend to while the lovely Anne loosened up a bit. She looked just this side of suspicious.

“Are you allowed to drink on the job?”

Vince grinned. “Darling, life is too short not to drink wine.”

“Okay. Well, I can certainly use it.”

“You’re not used to having your school overrun with detectives?”

“Not before this week.”

“How long have you been a teacher?”

“Five years.” It seemed like that was all she was going to say, but then she hastened to add, “But I had a double major in college, which took an extra year, and then a year of grad school.”