It was eleven o’clock, too late for mid-morning coffee breaks, too early for people making a java run at lunch. He’d had ten minutes since the last customer and caught up on everything that needed doing up front. He could head into his office, a small corner of the backroom, and do some paperwork, but the idea didn’t move him from his spot leaning against the counter.

There was always time for paperwork, and always paperwork to be done.

He hated to admit it, but he’d thought Liz would come by this morning. Even during the busiest moments of their a.m. rush, when Esther liked to complain that they met themselves coming and going, his gaze had kept sliding to the door and the streets outside, expecting to catch a glimpse of black curls and amazing legs.

All morning he’d waited, and she hadn’t come.

Scowling, he pushed away from the counter and took four steps toward the storeroom. Just as he reached it the sound of the doorbell made him pivot and return to the counter.

Not Liz. Just a stranger, tall, with a hard set to his features and even harder eyes. His gray suit was well-made but stark, the shirt a shade lighter, the tie a shade darker. He rocked back on his heels at the counter and studied the menu board posted on the wall above, skimming over the usual whipped, blended and frozen drinks. “Medium chai tea,” he ordered in a voice as tough as his face.

“For here or to go?” Joe asked, suppressing a grin. Sure, chai tea was popular with his customers-his female customers. Pregnancy made Ellie crave it at least twice a day. But from a guy who looked as if he should be ordering coffee beans-Don’t need no cup. I’ll just grind ’em in my mouth with a little hot water-it was a surprise.

“Here.”

Joe rang it up, made change for a twenty, then started the tea. Instead of taking a seat, the man stayed where he was, unmoving but giving the impression of loose energy, barely controlled.

“Nice town.”

Breathing in steam fragrant with nutmeg and cloves, Joe glanced over his shoulder at the guy, and the hair on his nape automatically prickled. There was no reason for it, he told himself. So the guy wasn’t a local, or even a good ol’ Georgia boy. Not with that accent- New York, maybe New Jersey, blunted by years elsewhere. He waited on strangers all the time with all kinds of accents. It didn’t mean anything.

“We like it,” he said, sliding the porcelain mug across the counter.

“Nice change from the city.”

Another prickle of unease slid down Joe’s spine, but he kept his tone as steady as his hands. “Depends on the city.” He had liked Chicago. Like his parents, he’d intended to spend the rest of his life there. He’d just needed a different place for a while.

“ Chicago,” the man replied with a humorless smile. “My name’s Tom Smith, and Chicago’s my kind of town.”

Joe’s hands weren’t steady any longer. Where was a cop when you wanted him? Maricci, Decker, Petrovski…hell, he would have settled for a meter maid. Or a pregnant Ellie, or Esther breezing in because she’d forgotten something.

He was overreacting. A lot of people liked Chicago. It didn’t mean Tom Smith was from there. It damn well didn’t mean he knew the Mulroney brothers. He was just passing through, looking for decent chai tea, not an easy to thing to find in Copper Lake. So what if he looked like he might grace some most-wanted list, or dressed like a guy who might work for the Mulroneys? The best-dressed thugs in the world, Josh used to say. The one who’d shot him had been wearing Armani. Joe had recognized it because the same designer label had filled his own closet.

Joe shifted his gaze outside. It was an odd moment when he could look out the window and not see a single friend, but the people he saw now were only vague acquaintances or, in the case of Louise Wetherby, striding past with an armload of shopping bags, even less preferable than the man watching him.

“Do you miss it?” Smith asked.

“Miss what?”

“Your old hometown.”

Joe straightened his shoulders and folded his arms across his chest. It was the middle of the day in downtown Copper Lake. Huge plate glass windows offered clear views into the shop. He had steaming pots of coffee within reach. Failing all that, the storeroom, with a decent lock, was only a few steps behind him, and a few steps past that was the outside door. And all that bike riding had given him leg muscles a track star would envy.

Run, he thought, and of course, he immediately thought of Josh, too. That was what he had always done. Run and let someone else deal with the fallout.

Pretending nonchalance, Joe shook his head. “I wouldn’t mind going up for a game.”

“Or a proper pizza.”

“I’m partial to hot dogs myself. But this is a sweet place. It’s got everything I want. If I feel the need for traffic and crowds, I can always go to Atlanta.”

“Except your folks. They’re not here.”

Despite the heat radiating from the coffee pots, ice swept through Joe. So it was no coincidence Smith was here. No more pretence. “Leave my parents out of this.”

Smith took a long, spice-flavored sniff of his tea and murmured appreciatively. “I’m not interested in your parents. I just want to find your brother.”

“Why?”

“The same reason as everyone else.” He drank the tea, then blotted his mouth with a napkin. “That was a tough thing-the mistaken identity bit. The Mulroneys didn’t even know Josh had a brother, much less a twin. And there you were, walking out of his apartment, getting into his car.” He shook his head sympathetically.

Can I borrow your car, Joe? We’ve got a hot date tonight. We’re going someplace special for my birthday.

Joe’s mind had fired in a dozen different directions. A serious date? In the weeks since Josh had introduced him to Liz, they hadn’t had one real date, mostly just takeout at home. And someplace special? And Josh wanted to use Joe’s Infiniti, wanted to return it to him smelling of her perfume, her shampoo, her everything.

Your birthday’s not for two more months, he’d said sullenly.

Yeah, but she don’t know that. Wink, wink, grin.

Joe had wanted to smash his fist into that grin. Instead, he’d traded car keys and walked out. Sixty seconds later, as he’d clicked the remote to unlock the door to Josh’s truck, a man in a black overcoat had approached and shot him twice in the chest.

Maybe this man? Joe looked closer at Tom Smith. He couldn’t say. The bastard had almost killed him, and he hadn’t seen a thing besides the coat. Height, weight, hair color, eye color, skin tone-he hadn’t had a clue. But he’d noticed the coat was Armani.

“It was a tough thing,” Joe agreed. “You can probably understand when I say that because of it, Josh isn’t particularly welcome around here. I’m all out of help to give him.”

“If he shows up, you want to make a call, you could make some money.”

“A reward for turning my brother in to people who want him dead?”

Smith gave him a long look, then reached slowly into his breast pocket and removed a silver card case. “The Mulroneys’ reward is bigger than ours,” he said as he slid a card out, then laid it on the counter between them. “But we, at least, can guarantee that we’re not going to kill him.”

Joe stared at the card but didn’t pick it up. Engraved on the left side was the Department of Justice seal and on the other was contact information: Thomas P. Smith, U.S. Attorney’s Office, Chicago, Illinois.

“We’re pretty well-dressed thugs, too, Mr. Saldana,” Smith said with a thin smile. “Or so your brother said.”

Heat warmed Joe’s cheeks-from standing too close to the coffee machines, of course. He turned away, fixed himself a cup of ice water and took a long drink before facing Smith again. “I haven’t had any contact with him since the shooting. He doesn’t even know where I am.”

“We need him at the trial, Mr. Saldana. The government has put a lot into this case and we don’t want to lose it because of him. We want to find him before the Mulroneys do.”