“Hey, Sharps,” I said. “Maybe you could help me.”

“Anything I can manage.” A purple-hued, skinny arm reached up to pick a grain of mortar from the underside of the bridge.

I glanced at Trent, seeing he was making motions to head my way. “Has anyone been around your bridge this morning? Maybe leaving a spell or charm behind?”

The puddle of oily water drifted to the opposite side of the bridge and into a patch of dappled shade where I lost sight of him. “Six kids kicked rocks off the bridge, one dog took a leak at the footing, three adult humans, two strollers, a Were, and five witches. Before dawn, there were two vamps. Someone got bit. I smelled the blood that hit the southwest corner.”

I looked over, seeing nothing. “No one left anything, though?”

“Just the blood,” he whispered, sounding like bubbles against rocks.

Trent had stood and was brushing his pants off. My pulse quickened and I pulled the strap to my shirt straight under my jacket. “Thanks, Sharps. I’ll watch your bridge if you want to take a swim.”

“Really?” His voice took on a hopeful, incredulous sound. “You’d do that for me, Officer Morgan? You’re a damn fine woman.” The smear of purple water hesitated. “You won’t let anyone take my bridge?”

“No. I may have to leave quick, but I’ll stay as long as I can.”

“Damn fine woman,” he said again. I leaned to watch a surprisingly long ribbon of purple slip out from under the bridge and flow around the rocks to the deeper pool of water in the lower basin. Trent and I would have a good measure of privacy, but a troll’s territorial drive was so strong, I knew Sharps would keep an eye on me. I felt unjustifiably secure with Glenn on one side in the men’s bathroom and Sharps in the water on the other.

Putting my back to the sun and Glenn’s eyes, I leaned against the railing of the bridge to watch Trent stride over the grass to me. Behind him on the blanket he left an artfully arranged set of two wineglasses, a bottle packed in ice, and a bowl of out-of-season strawberries looking as if it were June, not September. His pace was measured and sure on the surface, but I could see it was fraught with nervousness beneath, giving away how young he really was.

He had covered his fair hair with a lightweight sun hat to shadow his face. It was the first time I had seen him in anything other than a business suit, and it would be easy to forget he was a murderer and a drug lord. The confidence of the boardroom was still there, but his trim waist, wide shoulders, and smooth face made him look more like an especially fit soccer dad.

His casual attire accentuated his youth instead of hiding it, as his Armani suits did. A wisp of blond hair peeked from behind the cuffs of his tasteful, button-down shirt, and I spared a thought that it was probably as soft and light as the pale hair drifting about his ears. His green eyes were pinched as he approached, squinting from the reflected sun or from worry. I was betting the latter since his hands were behind his back so I wouldn’t shake with him.