LITMIR.BIZ

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granite and the tenacity of her boyfriend’s bull terrier.”

      Shannon crossed to the desk, planted her palms on it and met the woman’s stare. “Flattery won’t work, Carmela. I’d look ridiculous as a brunette, and I’ve done my homework. Frankie Maco’s not a killer.”

      “That you know of.”

      “He’s also not overly powerful beyond the city limits.”

      “That you know of.”

      “What I know is that he has a totally screwed-up family and a handful of street connections.”

      “Lots of screwed-up family and many street connections.”

      “He also has enemies and rivals and an arthritic mother he’s taken care of for the past fifteen years.”

      “People around him have been known to disappear.”

      “And more than one of them has turned up again.”

      “Doesn’t account for the dozen who haven’t.” Smoldering, Holden hit a key on her computer, swiveled the monitor. “I’ve got a new name for you, as well as a revamped portfolio and an altered family history. No more army brat. You’ll be Darcy Nolan, only child of Boston real estate agents Ann and Jerry Nolan. Your parents retired five years ago, died within eight months of each other. You’ve got an Irish-Swedish background, so go red with the hair and wear green contacts. I can have a job lined up for you in a day. Anywhere but here.”

      Shannon continued to stare, but there was no malice in it. How could she dislike a woman who had her safety at heart? “Your daughter’s going to rebel, Holden.”

      “I’ll deal with that if and when.”

      “I don’t want to—”

      “Think about it.” The captain pinned her hand before she could draw away. “Really think about who and what Frankie Maco is. How he operates.”

      Shannon regarded her trapped fingers, then narrowed her eyes on the woman’s face. “All right, I’ll think. I’ll even research his extended family. But I won’t,” she said with the barest trace of humor, “dye my hair. I’m a blonde and I’m staying that way.”

      “Best I could have hoped for.” Releasing her, the captain shut off her monitor. “Watch your back, Hunt.”

      SHE WISHED HOLDEN hadn’t said that because she’d been feeling twitchy ever since the trial ended. No, before that, actually. Facts were facts, however, and no one in or out of his organization had ever accused Frankie Maco of murder.

      Of course, there was always that first time. And what Maco couldn’t do from behind bars, his son, siblings or grandchildren might.

      Shannon glanced in the rearview mirror. There was no one behind her on the exit ramp, no one trailing her along the dark street, and no one lying in wait when she reached her Tujunga Canyon home. She was letting Holden’s fears get to her. And wouldn’t her army-for-life parents just love to know that?

      On the porch, a gust of hot, dry wind blew across her arms. Even her tank 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,

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