Lady, what long legs you've got.

Those mile-long gams were a subject of much discussion around the office. On the day of her hire, he had seen in her the makings of a Vegas showgirl spliced with a carnival freak. Over the past four months, he had become comfortable with her looks, her face in particular; it was saved from being ordinary by big brown eyes, warm and velvety, that held a man's attention. Oh, and her mouth – some might call it too wide, too large; he called it generous. Oddly enough, of all the employees, she was the easiest to look at. And he would not be a complete man if he did not occasionally speculate about the legs beneath the blue jeans. They strolled, graceful and naked, through his fantasy life at least once a day.

Jo looked so tired as she crossed the lot, bent forward, eyes to the ground.

He could have made her workdays easier by giving her the lightest jobs, but he never deferred to her handicap. That would have ruined his new mythology of himself: it was said that he was so mean only silver bullets could kill him; conventional lead had failed every time. And legend had it that, during his seven hours of surgery, the doctors had removed what passed for his heart, a hard little knot of a thing mistaken for a wayward prune pit. It was also rumored that he had once kicked Jo's cat clear across a room, and he would have kicked the poor animal through a window but his aim was off that day.

Riker had started these rumors himself, and none had taken hold. The employees insisted upon believing him to be a decent, likeable sort, a peg higher than a cat killer. In truth, he had only extended one hand to Jo's cat to stroke it. He had taken no revenge for the savage mauling of claws that had followed this friendly overture. And Riker was a man of such sweet nature that he never failed to ask after the health of Jo's pet whenever the lady walked in the door, as she did now.

He yelled, "Is that fleabag, shit-for-brains cat of yours dead yet?" "Not yet!" Jo called out from the reception room as she set off the buzzer beneath the floor mat. A moment later, she stood on the threshold of his private office, saying, "Mugs is just fine."

He shook his head to convey regret, then settled into the chair behind his desk and hunted through the pile of papers. "I got a note here – a name and a phone number. Some guy dropped by today – a real flake."

And, with only that description, she said, "Marvin Argus? I don't need the number." She tossed a set of keys on the desk. "The van needs a new tire." Of course, this was sarcasm. They both knew that the van needed a whole new van. She signed her name in the logbook, then checked her watch before adding the time, five-thirty, and handed him two checks totaling an even thousand dollars.

"Not bad, Jo – for less than half a day. You can put in more time if you want."

"Don't start." Her eyes were fixed on a clipboard as she made note of all the supplies she had used and the containers of hazardous waste to be disposed of. Bent over her paperwork this way, she seemed almost normal, and he half expected her to straighten up at any moment. "Hey, Jo, just try it out for a week or so. What's the harm?" She met his eyes and wordlessly told him, I'm tired of discussing this, okay? Aloud she said, "I don't need more hours."

The lady only worked on murder scenes. She had no interest in cleaning up the debris of landlords whose tenants had died of natural causes, leaving a stinking mess beyond the sensibilities of ordinary cleaning services. Early on, he had wondered about this woman's penchant for murder. Forays into her mind-set had always proven fruitless, and he could not shake the idea that Jo had racked up many hours in interviews with other cops. He also wondered why she paid extravagant rates to live in a hotel instead of finding some cheaper, more permanent address. It would have been an hour's work to run a background check, but where was the fun in that?

"Stay awhile." He smiled and gestured toward the chair beside his desk.

Whenever Jo sat down with him at the end of a day, he always had the sense of some ritual examination taking place. He could swear that her brown eyes were looking deep inside of him, visually probing his innards, body and brain – just checking to see that everything was where it ought to be and working well. And now came her brief smile that pronounced him A-okay. He felt so safe in Jo's eyes. When she was not scheduled to work, the structure of his day collapsed.

She leaned forward in the chair, arms braced on her thighs. In this posture, she seemed not at all deformed, merely tired. Jo's head tilted to one side, suddenly wary of Riker as he reached into a drawer and brought out the good stuff – a bottle of cheap bourbon instead of the usual beer cans. She also seemed suspicious of the clean coffee cups, a rarity so late in the day, for Miss Byrd, the receptionist and dishwasher, only worked mornings. Oh, and now the piece de resistance – goat cheese. Outside of work, all they had in common was this weird cheese addiction inherited from Nordic mothers. And, with these offerings, he telegraphed a bribe in the making.

"Given any more thought to that radio show?" He handed her a cup and waited out the silence.

Many times she had declined the offer to plug his brother's business on the hottest radio program in America. Riker had actually given up on this gift-from-God advertising, but the request from the star of shock radio had raised some interesting questions. "I know this guy Zachary's got a real smart mouth. Now I could probably never hold my own in an interview with him." He widened his smile. "But you're smarter than me."

Was she buying this flattery?

No, she merely took this as an obvious statement of fact – and it was.

He poured a shot of liquor into her cup. "All you gotta do is mention the name of the company three times, then hit the road. What could be easier?" He opened the package of cheese and pushed it across the desk – all for her. Was there a more generous boss in the entire -

No." Johanna sliced off a hunk of cheese with the letter opener that passed for a paring knife after hours. "Get someone else to do it."

"I tried. I told the producer I got five guys with more experience. Then Ian Zachary phones me himself. Says he only wants you. I call that odd." It could not be the novelty of a hunchback that so enticed the talk-show host; this was radio, not television. "The guy wants a woman crime-scene cleaner, but he hasn't tried any competitors yet, and they've got more broads than we do. Me, I never heard the guy's act. You ever tune into his show?"

"Every night," she said.

It surprised him that she would admit to being a shock-radio listener, but then, he had always suspected her of being dead honest at core – even though he was ninety-nine percent sure that she had lied on her job application. But this only enhanced the ongoing mystery of Jo. It was a little taste of police work, The Job, the only one that had ever mattered.

A chill breeze of outside air ruffled the papers on the desk. Every muscle in Riker's body tensed, and his hand went to that place where he had once carried a shoulder holster. The feeling of cold panic was not unreasonable, not this time, for the intruder in the next room had nearly stepped over the doormat, avoiding the concealed buzzer that loudly announced each exit and entry.

Paranoia was a contagious thing. Jo was also staring at the office door.

Kathy Mallory appeared on the threshold. The young detective wore a long, black duster in the best tradition of the Old West – a gunslinger with a subscription to Vogue Magazine.

You spooky kid.

Riker smiled, always glad to see his partner on these rare occasions when she stopped by to discover that they had nothing to say to one another anymore. He had missed her so much – and he wished that she would never come back again.