LITMIR.BIZ

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and J.D. would know he planned to proceed as if his partnership with Everly had been long-since sealed.

      At six-thirty he got up and ate the beefsteak and eggs Miss Aimee prepared for him. Afterward he shaved closely in front of the tiny bathroom mirror, splashed on a rich, wickedly scented and expensive aftershave and changed clothes. He chose clothes befitting his upgrade from rogue cop to Kyle Everly’s partner. Dark designer jeans, a very light green silk shirt requiring cuff links and a pricey black cashmere sport coat tailored to accommodate both his shoulders and shoulder holster. He added the cuff links and watch, and then, turned away from Miss Aimee’s reluctantly curious eyes, he shoved the ammunition clip into place in the butt of his automatic pistol, holstered the piece and threw on a tie.

      He grabbed up his duffel bag and a leather suitcase, then flirted shamelessly a moment with the ancient, birdlike Miss Aimee while she played with the knot in his tie, and kissed her on her flowery-scented, powdered old cheek.

      “Mmm. White Linen?”

      “Go on,” she scolded. “You peeked.”

      He shook his head solemnly. “My grandma wore White Linen. She had to make a tiny little bottle last a couple of years, and by then—” He broke off, having sucker punched himself with the memory of Anna Disorbio. “Thank you.”

      She shooed him out. He went into the old toolshed, where he’d reorganized twenty-five or thirty years’ worth of newspapers and Harper’s Bazaar magazines in order to park the Ford Bronco out of sight. He reached I-25 from the country road and headed south to the Bar Naught. He got off the highway on the access road, drove another couple of miles. Beneath a gate that announced the ranch, he signaled his turn and waited for an oncoming vehicle to pass first.

      Instead, the Johnson County sheriff’s vehicle, Hanifen’s, turned off in front of him. Matt made the turn as well. Hanifen pulled over and got out, leaving Crider in the passenger seat, and approached the driver’s window of Matt’s Bronco. He held down the button to roll the window down.

      Hanifen tossed a butt on the ground. “You lost?”

      Matt shifted his weight forward on the seat and slouched, his arm resting in the open window. “Nope.” He directed his focus toward the ranch house, on the other side of a couple of acres of spruce and lodge pole pine, wondering how long it would take Hanifen to remember him. “How’s it going, Dex?”

      The sheriff frowned. “I know you?”

      “We’ve never met face-to-face. But I’m sure you remember me. Name’s Matt Guiliani. I’m the one who rescued the kid your buddies in the TruthSayers framed for firebombing his parents’ house last winter.”

      The sheriff’s expression turned stony. “That vigilante pack aren’t any friends of mine.”

      “No? But you do remember.”

      “Like I said—”

      “Yeah, Dex. You’re as innocent as a newborn lamb. But see, here’s the deal. I know better. But don’t worry. I switched sides recently. I had no idea what a market there is for defectors. Kyle made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” Matt watched a glint of fear give way to disbelief in the sheriff’s eyes. “In fact, Kyle was expecting me this morning.”

      “Was? What do you know—”

      “Save it, Dex. Kyle was murdered last night,” Matt stated flatly. “Or have I been misinformed?”

      The sheriff scowled. “Where did you come by that information?”

      “Sources. The important thing for you to know, Sheriff, is that with Everly dead, I’m the guy in charge.”

      “Whoa, wait—” Hanifen thumped the brim of his hat up. The barely visible, threadlike veins crisscrossing his nose seemed to sprout crimson. “Just you wait a gol-darned minute. You think I’m buyin’ into that shine, you’ve got another think coming—”

      Matt cut him off. “What do you say we drive on up to the house and sort this all out. I’m going to be wanting some answers, Sheriff.” He stepped on the gas, churning up dirt and chunks of gravel as he drove off down the road, missing Hanifen’s toes by no more than a couple of inches.

      GARRETT WEISZ WOKE at the first light of dawn. It had always been his habit, but it was easier these days. In Kirsten’s bedroom in the house on Queen Anne Hill, their home now, the first rays of sunlight shot across the ninety-three million miles to nestle on their bed.

      As it did every morning, gratitude filled his heart. Abed with the woman he loved, his very pregnant wife, he settled in closer to her and let his fingers stray close enough on the mattress that, as she slept, he could almost feel the weight of the babies in her belly without waking her.

      Twin girls.

      When they learned that, he and six-year-old Christo had made a secret pact. The boys would be outnumbered in the Weisz household when the babies were born, and the menfolk would have to stick together to keep their girls safe.

      Picking the babies’ names now preoccupied their older brother. He’d allowed as how Hannah might be one of them, but couldn’t decide between Madeleine and Irene for the other.

      Garrett smiled, deeply content, more comfortable in his skin and in his life than he had imagined he would ever have a right to be. Kirsten had been confined to bed for toxemia problems since last week. He’d joked that he finally had her where he wanted her, and the poignant part of it was that it was true. True in the sense that he pretty much had the care of Christo to himself.

      The timing wasn’t the greatest. The day her doctor ordered Kirsten to bed was the day it had been decided Matt would go to Wyoming within the week. Garrett’s hours were crammed with planning sessions for Matt’s undercover operation with J.D. and half a dozen other interagency cops, including their new Interpol liaison. He’d taken Christo along several times, so his son didn’t wind up at day care too long after his kindergarten let out.

      From Christo’s point of view, life was sweet. One swell adventure on top of another.

      Kirsten turned a bit in her sleep. Garrett feasted his eyes on her swollen breasts as he heard wee feet tiptoeing into their room.

      Christo was good, a chip off the old block, but the tiny squeak of a floorboard gave him away. Garrett knew exactly what Christo was after. The electronic pager-cell phone Garrett kept on the nightstand. Christo knew he could expect a message from his Uncle Matt, who was off in Wyoming doing his undercover agent thing.

      This was too cool for Christo to bear. He wanted to be the one who got the message, the one to tell his dad the secret communiqué had been received. Garrett lay utterly still and let Christo take the device off to his room. There was not one chance that his son would let a message from Matt go wanting.

      Stirring restlessly, Kirsten shifted the weight of her belly, brushing Garrett’s fingers. Her eyelids crept open, and she gave a soft smile tinged with her discomfort. “Copping a feel again, Daddy?”

      God. His heart just flooded. He loved her to the ends of the universe, smart mouth and all. “Shh. The babies aren’t old enough to hear that kind of talk.”

      “Naughty Mommy.” She slid her hand down over her belly toward Garrett and he knew what was coming. Knew she’d find him with his straining, telltale flesh. She stole his breath away and asked, “Have you heard from Matt?”

      Though the pleasure of her touch spread through him like molten gold, he kept his eyes open, playing her game. How long could he keep up a normal conversation under the onslaught of her caress? “Not yet.” He paused, let a wave of pleasure sidle through him. “Christo was just in.”

      Kirsten smiled. “Did he get away with your pager?”

      “He did.” He moved his leg to trap her fingers in a particular place.

      “Clever boy.”

      “Who, me?”

      “No. Christo.

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