Agent James made the turn on to Oak Lawn. They cruised past the gray buildings in the Design District—squat concrete buildings that were almost aggressively ugly—passed under the freeway, and headed toward Highland Park.

“Hey, Agent James?”

“Yes?”

She twisted around in her seat to face him. He still looked like a college boy, but the eyes were different—cool, calm, distant. A guy with a purpose. She wasn’t sure if she liked him that way.

“Remember when you tried to shake me down for a blow job?”

He braked for a red light and kept staring straight ahead as he said, “Yes, I remember.”

“Did you mean that, or was that just, like, part of the investigation?”

He blushed pretty well, a Valentine-red flush that worked its way up from his collar and along his cheeks. His ears turned shell pink.

“I was wearing a wire, Velvet. I was just doing my job.”

“I’m good at it,” she said. “Blow jobs, I mean. I’m okay at the other stuff, but man, I’m a fucking artist at blow jobs. Want one?”

The ears turned the color of maraschino cherries.

“You’re not in my price range.”

“I’ll do it for free.”

“Why?”

She started to answer, stopped, and turned back to face the road.

Truth was, she didn’t know.

After the third traffic light, the stores took on a glossy look, like they’d been Tefloned. The houses had a heavy dignified self-satisfied look, like over-weight bankers. The street narrowed to discourage casual visitors.

“It’s up ahead,” she told him. “On the right.”

It was just the way she’d remembered it—standoffish, stuck-up, dark. Agent James eased the car into a narrow parking space and shut the engine off. She couldn’t tell if the place was closed or open, but he didn’t seem to have any doubts.

“You stay here, keep the doors locked, wait for me,” he said. She nodded. His eyes locked with hers, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “Thanks for the offer.”

“No charge.” She flinched when he slammed the door, dug her nails in her palms, and sat stiffly. The door opened for him, but, of course, it would, wouldn’t it? Through the dark-tinted window, she saw him go to the counter and talk to a model-perfect blonde that might or might not have been the same one from last time. The model went in the back. Agent James followed her.

The rest of the chocolate shake disappeared in one hissing slurp. She looked for someplace to put her trash and tossed it in the back floorboard. As she did, something sticking out from under the floormat caught her eye.

It was an ID card. In this one, Agent James was squinting at the camera, looking older than he was, and his name was David Van Housen. It said he was Miami police.