I clicked the TV off. Footfalls clicked softly on the tile foyer and became muted as they trod onto the carpet. The brisk steps were those of a woman. The footfalls stopped at my door.

My sixth sense perked up.

Someone knocked.

My fingertips tingled. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stood on end.

Another knock.

Who was it? What did they want? Why didn’t they announce themselves?

I got up from my chair and levitated so that my feet moved soundlessly over the carpet. I stood to the right side of the door. A common trick of assassins was to call upon the target and, when he answered, shoot through the door.

Well, I was not a victim. I took out my contacts. My talons and fangs grew to combat length. At the first shot, I’d spring to the ceiling and counterattack from above.

One more knock.

The faint rustle of clothing.

Silence.

I primed my muscles to jump to one side. “Who is it?”

“Felix, quit screwing around and open the goddamn door.”

Carmen?

Was it a trick?

She pounded the door. “You owe me five hours of sex and if you don’t open this fucking door right now, it’ll be ten.”

It was Carmen.

My fangs and talons retracted. I freed the deadbolt, swung the door open, and winced in surprise.

Carmen had a blond helmet of hair that spilled around her face and curled back up where it touched her shoulders. The artificial sheen made her skin seem dark as hot caramel. Her orange aura looked like a scoop taken from the sun.

A pair of large sunglasses with white rectangular frames was stuck into the wig. She wore a white sleeveless dress with wide yellow stripes. The skirt ballooned around her hips and the hemline orbited her knees. This was a very un-Carmen getup but there was no hiding that smile or those sparkling eyes.

“Well, aren’t you going to let me in?” Her lacquered red lips twisted into a devilish grin. “Partner.”

I stepped aside. “How’d you find me?”

“Your credit card.” She strutted past me on high-heeled pumps that matched the yellow stripes of her dress. An enormous leather tote bag hung from her right shoulder. “Better be careful. If I could find you this easy, what about Goodman?”

“I’m aware of him.”

Carmen dropped the bag on the floor by my bed and settled on the mattress. Her dress crinkled like crepe paper. She raised her heels out of her pumps and kicked the shoes into the air. One of the pumps landed between my feet, the other clattered against the wall.

“Don’t mind me,” I said. “Make yourself at home. Before we discuss the ‘partner’ thing, what’s with the outfit? The last time a woman dressed like you, Sputnik was orbiting the Earth.”

“Whatever happened to ‘Carmen, you look great, as usual’?” Carmen took the sunglasses from her hair. “This, since you asked, is a getaway disguise.” She tossed the sunglasses on the bedspread. “I was visiting a chalice in Washington, DC, and for the sake of brevity let’s say that we were almost caught in the Smithsonian museum.”

“Caught doing what?”

Carmen removed the plastic bangles from her wrist and let them rattle in a heap on the sunglasses. “Doing field research for my Kama Sutra book.”

“And this outfit belongs to the Smithsonian?”

“Not anymore.” Carmen propped back on her arms. “I would have preferred to exit au naturel but in this post-9/11 world, walking around naked in the nation’s capital could be construed as an act of terrorism. Wouldn’t be worth the hassle.”

Carmen stretched her stockinged legs and circled her feet. “Which brings the story to you.” She pointed her toes at me. The nails alternated yellow and white. “Partner.”

“Let’s get this straight. I have no partner.”

Carmen yanked the wig from her head. She threw the wig at me. “Yes you do. Now shut up for a minute and listen to me.”

I caught the wig. In my hand, it looked like the pelt of a golden retriever and smelled of Chanel and Aquanet.

Carmen’s natural hair had been plastered into a glossy black skullcap. “I have news.”

I set the wig on the dresser. “What kind of news?”

Carmen gave a teasing smirk. “The kind of news I’d only share with a partner.”

“It better be good.”

“First, say the P-word.”

The request confused me. “You mean, ‘please’?”

“No, I mean ‘partner.’”

“Let’s hear the info first.”

“Nope.” Carmen cupped a hand behind an ear. A diamond stud earring caught the light. “I’m ready.”

No point in arguing with her; I’d be better off arm-wrestling a squid. “Okay. Partner.”

Carmen smiled victoriously. “I have the lowdown on Dan Goodman.” She let the smile linger.

“You were going to keep this a secret?”

“Not from a partner. Are you ready? Our mysterious Dan Goodman was an assassin for the U.S. government.”

I had a problem believing that anyone could rise to the rank of bird colonel because he was handy with a nine iron. But to hear that Goodman was Uncle Sam’s hired killer defied comprehension. “Are we talking about the retired colonel Dan Goodman? The golf pro at the Sapphire Grand Atlantic?”

Carmen nodded. “None other. Here’s his public résumé. West Point graduate. Spent his career in the army’s Morale, Welfare, and Recreation Command.”

Carmen tugged at one of her bangs and stared at it cross-eyed. “His golfing was simply cover. Most of his time he was getting ‘sheep-dipped.’ That meant being discharged from the army and doing something dirty for the CIA. Afterward, he’d go back into the army. Technically then, the army never had an assassin on their payroll and the CIA could say, ‘Dan Goodman who?’”

Instead of clarifying matters, this information only stirred up the muck. “How did you find out about this?”

“One of my chalices works for the Directorate of Operations in the CIA. If anyone in the government would know about an army colonel doing funny business, it would be that chalice. He’s one of those spooks with a silly top-secret clearance. As if he wouldn’t tell me anything I wanted to know.”

“And you went to see him about my investigation?”

“That and to have him and his wife contribute to my book. That’s how we ended up naked in the museum.”

“Spare me those details. Right now, tell me more about Goodman.”

“Years ago my chalice gave the then-major Dan Goodman a target folder of one Olivia Martinez-Cisneros.”

“Target folder?”

“It’s a dossier the government keeps on people it wants to get rid of.”

“I’ve never heard of this Martinez-Cisneros. Why keep a target folder on her?”

Carmen folded her right leg and massaged her foot. “Olivia was a lawyer helping peasants in Ecuador fight the oil companies trying to take their land. At the time she was small potatoes but had a lot of potential. So Olivia had to go before she became a threat.”

I tried to imagine the cold stare in Goodman’s eyes as he snuffed out her life.

“Olivia was shot during a robbery, and on the way to the hospital,” Carmen said, “a medic administered the wrong medicine and she died. A medic, incidentally, that no one had seen before or since.”

“Goodman?”

“You connect the dots. Either he killed her or planned the hit.”

“If Goodman is that expert an assassin, why didn’t the government sic him on Osama bin Laden or Kim Song Il?”

Carmen stretched panther-like on the bedcovers. “Using an assassin is a lot like our vampire powers. You have to be careful when you use them. Attacking a high-profile target might be too much of a risk. Even if you succeed, your target could end up becoming a martyr and even more dangerous as a symbol.”

“Perhaps your scholarly pursuits can provide an insight into this.” I told Carmen about Vanessa and Janice, the two missing airline passengers, and what happened in Kansas City, including the murder of Karen Beck. When I got to the part about dunking myself into the Missouri River and escaping through the sewers, Carmen was quiet for a moment. Then her calm expression broke apart and she laughed.