top felt like too much clothing in this ninety-five-degree weather. It made people cranky.
It made vice cops worry.
A bush rustled to her left. She caught a footstep, followed by a whiff of cologne, and managed a tight curse a split second before a large hand yanked her around and caught her throat in a choking, viselike grip.
Her head hit the condo door; her breath stalled in her lungs. A pair of black eyes bored into hers.
“You made a big mistake, lady,” the man holding her growled. “I got a message for you.”
She held herself dead still, returned his stare. “Let go of me, Vince. You know very well Captain Holden has a pair of officers watching my place.”
“Got here ahead of them, sugar. They’re eating cold pizza, ogling your bedroom window and having dirty fantasies as we speak.”
His grip tightened, and pinpricks of light began to appear before her eyes.
With her spine still pressed to the door, Shannon’s hand traveled to the pocket of her jeans. Hooking the ring on the black box inside, she pulled it free.
A high-pitched shriek filled the air so that Vince clapped both palms to his ears.
“You won’t know,” he shouted above the deafening racket. “You won’t see or hear. You won’t expect. Cab-driver, store clerk, guy stuffing money in a parking meter. Someone, someday. Anyone, any day. Me being the most likely anyone of all. One clear shot, sugar. That’s all I need. That’s all I want.”
Feet thudded on the stone walkway. Above her, a handful of windows flew open. Vince let a crooked grin steal across his lips before he ducked sideways out of the barely-there light.
The officers arrived, panting. One took off in pursuit, the other drew her aside.
He asked questions. Shannon responded. But it was purely reflex. Only two things registered. His partner wouldn’t catch Frankie’s slippery son.
And Shannon Hunt was going to die.
Chapter One
New York City, 2009
The air was stinking hot. A stale breeze carried the muffled noise of human and street traffic. Bad music thumped above; a dog barked below. It was one of those New York nights when no one in the city slept.
There had been two brownouts in two days, and the forecast called for even higher temperatures tomorrow. The police chief was asking for the public’s cooperation. Would he get it? Damon Marlowe had no idea, and he didn’t care. Hadn’t since leaving the force two years ago.
Somewhere in the shadows of his Soho studio, a tap dripped. The pipe that fed it rattled, and the walls groaned. If he listened hard enough, he might hear the 1970s wallpaper peeling.
Stretched out on his sofa, with a cold beer dangling between his fingers, he watched a cockroach crawl along a thin ceiling crack. He counted five, ten tops, a night—a decent average for the neighborhood. There’d been twice as many in his ex’s Los Angeles apartment.
The memory brought a twinge, then suddenly, there it was—the smothering crush of grief, dulled by time but still a force to be reckoned with. Or locked away when he chose not to deal with it.
He opted for the lock and a deep pull on the bottle.
Behind him, his cell phone erupted into classic Eric Clapton. He listened for a moment, swirled his beer, then gave in and reached back.
“Marlowe,” he said.
“Would that be Damon Marlowe of DM and Associates?”
He almost smiled at the man’s polite tone. Slight European accent, perfect diction. Caller ID revealed a Southern California area code.
“Hours are nine to nine,” he replied and raised the bottle to his lips. “It’s three minutes to midnight here.”
“I’ll take that as a confirmation and say that I was referred to you by a former colleague, one who currently practices criminal law in Manhattan.”
“Peter Duggan.”
The caller seemed impressed. “So your reputation isn’t exaggerated after all. Peter and I worked together in Los Angeles. My name is Umer Lugo. May I ask if you’re engaged at the moment?”
Marlowe’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I’ve got clients.”
“Hardly unexpected. However, I’ve been authorized to offer you twice your usual rate, triple if you can finish what needs doing in under five days. I must warn you, though, I have little information about the party to be located.”
Marlowe’s humor, seldom stirred these days, kicked in. “This offer has a cloak-and-dagger ring to it, Mr. Lugo. As a former homicide cop, I prefer to drop the mystery and cut to the bottom line. Who do you want me to locate and why?”
“Three years ago, her name was Shannon Hunt. I have no clue what she calls herself today.”
“Is there an outstanding warrant involved?”
“Nothing so dramatic, I’m afraid. The family simply wants her located and returned to the fold.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine on Thanksgiving Day of this year. I can send you a photo, but it’s possible she’s altered her appearance.”
Marlowe rolled the beaded bottle across his forehead. “Why?”
The lawyer sighed. “Are my reasons important?”
“If you want me to take the case, yeah.”
“It’s a matter of some delicacy. Shannon had a falling-out with a grandparent who recently lost his only other grandchild in a vehicular accident. When you’re ninety-two, Mr. Marlowe, and your health is failing, you want to tie things up wherever possible and make amends. I’m sorry, but that’s all the history I can give you. My practice is small but entirely reputable. Check me out if you wish. However, I would ask that you do so quickly. I’ll need an answer by 6:00 a.m. your time.”
Across the room, Marlowe’s TV showed a carousel in motion. He saw a child’s face fill with excitement as she clutched the golden pole.
Swinging his legs to the floor, he sat up, ran a hand through his hair. “Ninety-two, huh?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t see ninety-three in the cards. Will you accept the job?”
Something in the man’s tone set off a warning bell. Should he listen or not? Marlowe glanced at the TV screen, rocked his head from side to side. “Send me what you have. You check out, I’m on it.”
“You’re a good man, Mr. Marlowe.”
A flicker of humor rose, dark and ominous. “Not good,” he corrected. “Just a man.”
Tossing
