Funny how, if one waited, months eventually turned into years. Six to be exact.

Quantico still called from back East, with an occasional consultant question. Yet they did so less frequently. Kelly assumed they had found another expert to replace her.

Now, it was hard to believe, she was thirty-four years old. Her face was pretty but intelligent. She honestly tried her best to put her mind before her looks. Since the day she had graduated from Quantico, she had made a decision to limit her flirting. People often saw her blue-eyed stare as intimidating, which she thought was amazing because she was naturally shy. She only got chatty when she tried to hide the fact.

She wore her blond hair long, with bangs. Her mouth might have been her best feature. It was not large or sensual but she knew how to use it; and let’s not be modest, in more ways than one.

Charlie, her first and only partner, said she was a catch. He liked tall, sexy women. A grizzled fifty-six-year-old street-smart veteran, he didn’t bother to hide his crush on her. But she never felt uncomfortable around him. He was black as oil but more precious than diamonds.

Charlie’s cheeks were rough from adolescent acne, his smile sad from having seen what the real world could dish out. Yet he had learned what was probably the main lesson anyone in life could grasp. He always came back to caring for others when it would have been easy to turn bitter. It was true he had lost the love of his life to drugs several years ago—and had not dated another woman since—and yet, every day, he had a smile for practically everyone.

Thin but wiry, Charlie still played plenty of one-on-one basketball in the toughest neighborhoods. At six-three, he had once bet her a hundred bucks he could still dunk a basketball. And although she’d had to help him with his crutches and a sprained ankle the following month, she’d admired the effort. If she had to sit in a sweaty Camry for days on end, he was the one man she wanted by her side.

They were both having fun. Certainly, she was not bored anymore.

Someone approached the trash can.

“Charlie!” she gasped.

Charlie had his own binoculars and was already on the radio to Vicki. He gave a description: thirty-year-old white male, short brown hair, dirty mustache, denim shirt and pants. Oh, and the motherfucker has opened the garbage can and grabbed the cash. Kelly watched as their suspect strolled to the front of the 7-Eleven and climbed in a red Corolla—not exactly a getaway car. Not even pausing to look around, the guy pulled out of the parking lot onto Sunset Boulevard and headed east. Vicki spoke sharply over the radio.