“I agree,” Sal said. “Women don’t make any sense.”

“Oh please. Like men are such a walk in the park.” Kimberly finished the comment more bitterly than she intended, then returned to her moody study of the passenger’s side window.

Sal drifted into silence. Guy seemed to only have two modes, eating and talking. At the moment, both were annoying the snot out of her.

She saw a girl exit the establishment, big blond hair, shockingly short skirt, sky-high heels. She had her arm hooked around the elbow of a man three times her age, with the requisite mustache and comb-over. Sonny Bono for the new millennium. The girl was giggling and cracking her gum as they sashayed away.

Guy like that you’d think could put out for a hotel room. Instead, he’d probably demand a blow job in the front seat of his Porsche, fulfilling many fantasies at once.

She’d once given Mac a hand job while they’d been driving down the interstate at night. He’d almost careened off the road and killed them-not quite how it played out in the Cosmo cover stories. Once they’d made it home, however, things had gone much better.

That had been in the early days, of course. When they’d both been young and flush with new love and not afraid to be reckless.

Did you ever get those days back? Or was this just it? They would hammer away at each other, finding fresh faults and old annoyances to govern their week to week. Until she gave up, or Mac gave up, and they joined the national statistics.

Her mother had never forgiven her father. Bethie had fallen in love with Quincy, married him, and borne his children. And still he hadn’t come home at night. She had never, ever gotten over the slight. And he had never, ever stopped feeling guilty.

How could death be more important than your family?

“What ya thinkin’?” Sal ventured.

Kimberly tore her glance away from the window.

“I’m thinking about fetal development,” she announced crisply. “I’m thinking that babies react to loud noises at eighteen weeks in the womb, but the inner, outer, and middle ears aren’t fully developed until twenty-six weeks. So at twenty-two weeks, just what level of hearing are we talking? The womb is a noisy place, heart beating, blood swishing, food digesting. Maybe the baby can’t hear at all. Or maybe she heard everything. Or maybe she just heard the loud parts, the really bad parts. Is that worse? I don’t know.”

“Your baby can hear us?” Sal was staring at her belly in fascination. “You mean, like right now, he, she, it is eavesdropping on everything we say?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Wow,” he said. “That is so cool.”

His words surprised her. “You mean it?”

“Sure. I mean, think about it. On a good day, I can maybe start my lawn mower. While you’re sitting over there growing life, an honest-to-goodness little person who’s gonna say Mama, Dada, and maybe grow up to one day, I don’t know, design a better lawn mower. Do you think, when it moves again, that I could touch it? Just once.”

She had to think about it. “Well, you did buy me pudding.”

“Amazing,” Sal said again, and seemed to mean it.

“You should get a dog, Sal.”

“Nah, I’m allergic.”

“What about a bonsai? There’s an agent in our office-”

But before she could continue, the landscape finally changed. Sal saw it, too.

“Target, three o’clock,” he announced.

“Showtime.” Then they were out of the car, homing in on Delilah Rose.

Moment Delilah caught sight of them, she tried to bolt. Sal caught her by the arm, spinning her back around. Kimberly blocked the girl’s path to the street. Realizing she was trapped, Delilah went on the defensive.

“I can’t be seen with you. For God’s sake, go away!”

“You seem a little edgy, Delilah. Come on, surely since the formation of the new Sandy Springs PD, it’s not unusual for a prostitute to be questioned by law enforcement.”

“Fuck the police. Fuck other girls’ opinions. It’s Dinchara I worry about. He thinks I’m squealing, I’ll be dead by morning.”

“All right then.” Sal gestured expansively to his unmarked sedan. “Step into my office. We’ll cruise around the block; no one will be the wiser.”

“Please. That thing screams narc.”

“Then we’ll take a walk.” Kimberly already had her arm looped snugly through Delilah’s. She pulled forward, forcing the stumbling girl to follow. “Gotta be a family-friendly establishment somewhere,” Kimberly said. “I doubt Mr. Dinchara spends a lot of time in those kinds of joints. It’ll be like hiding in plain sight, plus we can all enjoy a healthy dinner peppered with your witty repartee.”

“I hate you,” Delilah muttered darkly, but fell into step. “You’re ruining my life.”

“See, the free exchange of ideas has already begun. Can you really walk in those boots? Damn, you’re tall.”

Sal and Kimberly kept Delilah wedged between them, rapidly moving her down one block and over three. In the urban mix that marked this section of town, a brightly colored Italian restaurant was only a hop, skip, and a jump away. They dragged her inside, plopped her in a booth surrounded by families of four and passed out menus. Sal announced he was starved and picked out lasagna. Kimberly went with the bottomless soup and salad. Delilah cursed and grumbled, and then, when she finally realized someone else was paying, ordered fettuccini alfredo and the grilled chicken.

Sal and Kimberly let dinner come first. They heaped hot pasta and steaming soup on their starved informant, counting on comfort food to do their work for them. Any advantage helped.

“Do I get reimbursed for lost wages?” Delilah wanted to know, glancing at her watch halfway through the meal.

“No, but you can take home the doggie bag,” Kimberly assured her.

The hooker rolled her eyes. “What am I gonna do? Shove leftover chicken into my push-up bra while I work the rest of the night?”

“I bet some guys would pay extra for that,” Sal said seriously.

Delilah scowled at him. “You’re the creep who tried to talk to me the first time. I don’t like you.” She looked at Kimberly. “Make him go away.”

“Tried,” Kimberly said. “He’s got the personality of Velcro. Might as well get used to him.”

“Hey, I don’t have to get used to annoy-”

Kimberly interrupted the girl’s latest tirade by reaching over, grabbing the girl’s wrist, and slamming it down into her plate of fettuccini. “Shut up and listen. You wanted to deal information. Well, here we are. So stop wasting our fucking time and talk.”

Delilah regarded her more warily. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“My mother’s dead, thanks for asking.”

The girl’s gaze finally fell. Kimberly withdrew her hand. She watched steadily as Delilah picked up a napkin, dabbed at the splashed white sauce. Sal was doing his part by disappearing into the eggplant-colored booth. They might make it as a team yet.

“Why are you calling me, Delilah?”

The girl looked confused. “Call you? I haven’t called you. I haven’t even seen Spideyman since we last talked, and I don’t have anything new to report.”

“Who’d you tell about our meeting?”

“Tell? Are you fucking nuts? World I live in, snitches have a short life span. Not something to be bragging about.”

Kimberly appraised her, trying to decide if the girl was telling the truth. Delilah was wearing her dirty-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. It emphasized the dark blue tattoo of a spider creeping above her shoulders, legs clutching her neck, fangs reaching for the curve of her left ear.

“Did he suggest the tattoo, Delilah? Maybe pay you to do it? Couple of hundred dollars, a thousand? What does it cost to scar a girl’s neck?”

Delilah’s gaze skittered away, letting Kimberly know she was onto something.

“How long have you known him?”