“Not very likely,” Paulette pointed out, “seeing as how I am half-Italian and half-Armenian and one hundred percent peasant stock, and damn happy to live here in the U.S. of A., where even peasants are middle class and get to be paralegals and managers. But yeah, I think I see where you’re coming from.” Paulette looked at her grimly. “You got problems,” she said. “I’d worry about the bunch who want you out of the way before worrying about the risk of being married off to Prince Charming, though. At least they’ve got money.” She pulled a face. “If I found I had a long-lost family, knowing my luck, the first thing they’d do is ask to borrow a hundred bucks until payday. Then they’d start with the death threats.”

“Well, you might want to think back to what you said about smuggling,” Miriam pointed out. “I don’t want to be involved in that shit. And I’m worried as hell about the string we were pulling on the other week. Have you had any other incidents?”

“‘Incidents’?” Paulie looked angry. “I don’t know if you’d call it that. Somebody burgled my apartment the day before yesterday.”

“Oh shit.” Miriam stopped dead. “I’m so sorry. Was it bad?”

“It could have been,” Paulette said tightly. “I was out at the time. The sergeant said it looked very professional. They cut the phone line and drilled the lock out on the landing, then went in and turned the whole place over. Took my computer and every disk they could find. Ransacked the bookcases, went through my underwear—and left my spare credit card and emergency bankroll alone. They weren’t after money, Miriam. What do you think?”

“What do I think?” Miriam stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Paulette waited for her. “Well, you’re still alive,” she said slowly.

“Alive—” Paulette stared at her.

“Paulie, these guys play hardball. They leave booby traps. You go into a place they’ve black-bagged and you open the door and it blows up in your face—or there’s a guy waiting for you with a gun and he can leave the scene just by looking at a wrist tattoo. I figure either I’m wrong and the shit Joe Dixon’s involved in isn’t to do with the Clan or they don’t rate you as a threat—just sent some hired muscle to frighten you, rather than the real thing.”

“I am so relieved. Not.”

“Do be. I mean that seriously. If you’re still alive, it means they don’t think you’re a threat. They didn’t find the disk, so that’s probably an end of it. If you want to get the hell out of this now, just say. I’ll find the CD and burn it and you’re out of the frame.”