“We need Barbara Miller’s signature.” He stopped walking to search his pockets for the document.

“Hey! Wise guy. Yeah, you. Hold up.”

There was that voice again. A bit strident this time. It was the woman from the protest group, the one he had heard on the radio. He would have known that voice anywhere. And he knew that she was talking to him. At that moment Ted did not want to talk to her or anyone else. He began walking again.

“You know that girl?” Lester asked.

“I want to talk to you,” she called.

Ted looked over his shoulder. The red hair streamed out around a face flushed with indignation.

“She’s one of the protestors,” he said, lengthening his stride. The light at the corner was changing. Either they made a crazy dash for it through midday traffic, or they subjected themselves to a speech on good citizenship. Even if the message was to be delivered in a voice guaranteed to raise hormone levels in a male corpse, Ted still leaned toward running.

“Maybe we should split up,” Lester said. The woman had broken into a trot and was covering ground.

“She’s only after me,” Ted said.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Lester said.

The absurdity of two grown men in suits being pursued by a single unarmed—and very attractive—young woman, steps from the courthouse, hit Ted. “You go,” he said to Lester, handing over the typed agreement. “Get to Seaside and get Miller’s signature. Find me at Gallagher’s when you’re done.”

Lester made a gesture like tipping his cap and hustled away down the street. Ted waited for the woman.

“Don’t run,” he called. “Please. I’m here.”

She planted herself in front of him, hands on hips. “Why are you ducking me?”

“We haven’t been formally introduced,” Ted said, giving her a blast of his most charming smile, a holdover from better days. He was prepared to endure her lecture, but he wanted it to be on his terms.

She opened her mouth and closed it again. Perhaps he had overwhelmed her.

“Ted Molloy.” He held out a hand. She ignored it. She had yet to smile.

She found her voice again. “I want to know why you were talking to those two Russian mobsters. You do know they’re mobsters, right?”

Then again, maybe he had read the situation all wrong. He retrieved the flagging hand and used it to point to her feet. “Your socks are cute.” She was wearing a button-down blouse and khakis with a pair of backless Merrells. Her socks were mismatched. “Port and starboard?” One red, one green.