Rousseau picked up the bracelet, stretched it between two fingers, then reached into a drawer and pulled out a loupe. He didn’t offer victory right off. He studied the even rows of glitter at close range. Impatient, I looked away, at the shapely metal inside the weapons case and the half-dozen police flashlights in their heavy-duty chargers—objects of envy in the den for their really bright light and potential as hand weapons.

“So, what do you think?” Embarrassing if it turned out to be glass.

He sucked his cheek, peered a little longer till I was fairly dancing in place. His broad mouth toyed with a grin and I finally got he was playing me. “Nice find, I’d say.”

“You mean it’s real?”

He nodded. “Not the best-quality stones, but they rarely are with pieces like this where you’re using a lot of them.” He set the loupe down on a little tray and put the bracelet beside it. “This’ll raise your credit a good bit.”

I let myself feel the thrill. “Will it buy me a few nights off?”

“More than a few, if that’s what you want.” He rocked back in his chair and looked up at me again. He wasn’t smiling now. “I thought it might be something else.”

“How’s that?”

He swiveled the chair and rose. Rousseau standing up was always an event, as he morphed from a benign god behind a desk to a tower of well-padded muscle dominating the room. He turned into the shadows behind him to grab a stack of clothing, clean jeans and patterned T-shirts. He dropped it onto the desk in the pool of lamplight.

I shook off a chill. “Looks like my last night’s take . . .”

“Straight from the tellers.” He reached behind to add another layer to the pile.

Double or nothing. Just brave it out. “My new pack! Awesome! Where’d you find it?”

“You’d lost it?”

“Betcha! I claimed it legit, and right off, someone swiped it from my bunk.”

“So far, so good.” One more backward reach, and Rousseau tossed the baggie of blister packs down on top of the stack.

Shit.

My mind blanked, unable to conceive how much trouble I was in.

“Uhhhh . . .”

He waited, his dark face impassive.

I was that bit of storm trash again, lost, mute, hauled from the wreckage.

Finally, he said, more sad than angry, “You turned in the other stuff. Why not these?”

“Um. I . . .” I fluttered my hands like that might get the words flowing again. “I thought . . . uh . . .”

“Thought they might be a good high? What the hell, give ’em a try?”

“What? Me? No! I don’t do . . . !”