She grumbled. "You don't even know that the call came from the same people."

"What's that you detectives get? Hunches. Yeah… one of those. Who else would be watching that courtroom to make sure Abrams blew it up?"

"Sunny, you don't get it—"

"No, Luna, I do." I got into her personal space, because I knew it irritated her. "You hate the idea that I can do something you can't, because you need to be the one on top. But I want to do this and I think I'm going to."

"Fine. Fine!" Luna snarled, and then threw up her hands. "Go to it. But when it all goes horribly wrong, don't come crying to me." She started to walk back to her desk. "And watch out for Nielsen. She smells off."

"Helpful," I commented. "I'm so glad we had this little talk."

My cousin flipped me the bird and walked away. I wish I could say that's unusual for our family, but I'd be a liar.

Five hours later, I sat sweating miserably in one of Luna's vintage cocktail dresses (both too long and too loose for me, who'd gotten the petite end of the gene pool; Luna got the Wonder Woman end) inside an unmarked squad car while Troy and Luna both threw advice at me from the front seat.

"Don't act nervous."

"Don't touch your wire."

"Don't go wandering around."

"Don't act suspicious of anything they might do or say."

I held up my hands to stop the duet. "I get it. Keep the wire on and don't be a spaz, right?"

"Pretty much," said Luna. She handed me a pin. "Camera in there. Your earpiece is your transmitter. Don't lose either of them—department budget is bad enough as it is."

I pinned on the camera and Luna fiddled with it to activate the lens and transmitter. Troy raised his radio.

"Tech van, this is McAllister. You receiving?"

"Ten-four, LT. You sure do look pretty."

Troy looked me up and down. "Nice work, Luna. She looks innocent."

"That's because she is," Luna said. "And if anything happens in there to change that, it's your ass, Mac."

"Hey," he said. "This was all Nielsen's idea. Go cry to her."

"I'm leaving the car now," I informed them. "Enjoy your banter."

"Sun." Luna caught me by the wrist. "Be careful."

I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. One that did not telegraph the eels currently warring with the butterflies in my stomach, or the fact that my heart was throbbing like I was in the middle of a cardiac incident.

Then I turned, and walked across Old Nocturne Way toward number 89.

It was a brick foursquare, circular drive filled with shiny cars with names like Boxer and Stinger and other aggressive nouns. I climbed the tall set of stone steps and rang the bell.

A goon answered. I can only describe him as such, because he looked like he'd arrived via a Mafioso convention. Shaved head, shoulders wide enough to plug an industrial pipe, mean little eyes and hands that reached out to stop me from stepping over the threshold.

"Name?" He had a clipboard.

"Uh… Sunny Swann. Rhoda."

"Which is it, sweet cheeks?"

Fantastic, Sunny, this is off to a smashing start what with him thinking you're a gate-crasher. Luna's voice erupted in my ear, and I jumped a mile.

"Get it together, Sunflower."

The goon cocked his head. "Something wrong?"

"Uh…" Think, dammit. What would Luna say? Go piss up a rope, cueball. Okay, that's not helpful at all. Get someone else in your head…

"Just the fact that you can't seem to find my name on that list," I snapped, drawing my spine straight as if my grandmother were there.

Cueball rolled his eyes, obviously disgusted with the vagaries of the rich. "Swann, you said?" He ran a blunt finger down the lines of type. "Here you are. Sorry for the confusion, miss."

"Yes, well." I flounced by him and into the entryway, my borrowed heels clacking on the parquet floor. A chandelier swooped above me. Walls covered in mural scenes of Greek myths surrounded, dryads and satyrs cavorting along the plaster.

"It's a bit much, isn't it?"

I spun around and almost fell off my heels.

The woman laughed. She was tall and golden—skin, hair, jewelry and even the silk pantsuit she wore. "It was my father's house. Never got around to taking a wrecking ball to the old pile, but it suits for parties like this."

"You must be Rhoda. Come into the salon—everyone's here."

"I… thanks. Are you the one who called me?"

She laughed again, and damn if it didn't sound like honey pouring. "No, that would be Bentley, my second. He handles all of my administrative affairs."

We stepped into a salon, glass looking down the slope toward Siren Bay, a view many climbers in Nocturne City would die for. Goldie waved a hand. "Oh, Bentley? Come here, dear. There's someone I'm dying to introduce you to."

"Bright lady," said Luna in my ear, "what is this? Dallas?"

"Shut. Up," I hissed, trying not to move my lips. "You're gonna blow my cover."

Bentley scurried across the room, dodging penguin-suited waiters carrying trays of champagne and nibbles. "Yes, Mrs. Hanover?"

"Dear boy, this is Rhoda Swann. You remember—from the courthouse? That was a terrible upset, wasn't it?" She didn't sound like she thought it was terrible. More like it was terrible Abrams hadn't managed to blow something up.

Bentley shook my hand and left sweat behind. I couldn't even wipe it on the dress—Luna would kill me. "Hello."

"Hi. Yeah, I just did what anyone would do. That guy was… well… crazy."

"Not what anyone would do," Mrs. Hanover corrected me. "But what a brilliant witch would do. You know, my dear, you rather remind me of myself."

Ew. I was so not this old bat thirty years ago—or maybe forty, judging by how tight her face was.

"Get her talking about Trotter," Troy murmured in my ear.

I smiled at Mrs. Hanover. "When did you start practicing?"

"More years ago than I admit in mixed company," she hooted. Bentley was still standing by us like Gollum in Armani. "Go refresh my drink," she admonished, waving a highball glass at him. "And get one for Miss Swann while you're at it."

Bentley bobbed his head and hurried off.

"He's a gem," Mrs. Hanover sighed. "Gayer than a treeful of Mardi Gras monkeys, but oh! — so efficient, and trustworthy."

I craned my neck for any escape excuse—fire, apocalypse, the sudden appearance of Brad Pitt—but no one looked at me. I was trapped with Hanover. Swell.

She made conversation about her charity work with the city for another five minutes before someone stepped in. "Martha, shame on you. You're keeping this gorgeous woman all to yourself. That's not considerate to your guests, not at all."

I blinked at the prosecutor from the courtroom. He smiled back at me. His tuxedo fit much better than his suit.

"Oh. Hello."

"Hello yourself," he said, reaching out a hand weighed down by a gold watch.

"Where the hell did he get that?" Luna muttered.

"The same place you got that knockoff bag," Troy said. They started to argue. I reached up and palmed the earpiece, dropping it into my purse. They'd get sound back when they could behave.

"Matthew David Procter," said the prosecutor, gripping my hand. His palm was warm. "I never got a chance to thank you."

He was blond, tall, blue eyes, and a strong jaw. Throw a star-spangled headpiece on him, and he could be Captain America. I swallowed. "For what?"

"For saving us all from being a courtroom-sized extra-crispy meal," he said. "You dropped Abrams like you'd done that before."

"No," I stammered. "Never. Just lucky." Men talking to me, other than to ask "You want fries with that?" doesn't happen a whole lot. Luna had guys buzzing around like bees on a flower. I was more like a plastic bouquet.

Matthew laughed. "Could have fooled me."

"I'll leave you two alone," Martha cooed, swooping across the room to ensnare more hapless victims into conversations about polo and tea luncheons. Poor bastards.