My stomach growled. I reached across the dashboard, and unwrapped a fat-free cupcake. As I bit into it, I tried to pretend it was the food being delivered to Michael's table. After two disgusting bites of the cupcake, I had to give up. I tossed the sorry excuse for a pastry into the backseat, wrapping and all. Frustrated and wholly unsatisfied, I glared at Michael.

I rubbed the dust on the window with my sleeve, squinting at Michael through the smeared glass. I sat up sharply. Someone approached his table. Michael gestured at the empty seat. This guy didn't look much like a cop, although he was certainly wide and tall enough. I might've guessed him to be a soldier, but his coppery red hair was shoulder-length and unruly. Despite the warm weather, he wore a long brown trench coat, the kind under which a person could conceal almost any type of weapon. Beneath the coat, a smooth silk shirt peeked out. The whole ensemble would've made the Klein Fashion Empire green with envy. It was quite trendy-looking, although a bit upscale for a cop's friend.

It was times like this when I seriously missed the LINK. I might have been able to snag the stranger's retina, even at this distance. Then, I'd have a solid lead. Looking around the deserted car park, I sighed. This gig sucked. My stomach growled again and reminded me that there was, at least, decent food inside ait Margie's.

"Screw subtlety," I muttered to myself, and reached for the door handle. "If he asks, I'll tell him I followed him."

Elbowing through the crowded walkway, I made my way to Margie's pink neon sign. With a grunt, I pushed the glass door open. The smell of potatoes and onions deep-frying in black-market animal fat filled the air. I love greasy spoons. It'd been over a year since I wandered into this particular joint, however. A few eyes checked me out. Over in the corner, Sergeant Dorshak gave me a hard glare, like I had no business in here.

I lifted my hand as if to tip a hat to him. Dorshak dodged my greeting by suddenly noticing the cooling food on his plate. With an unkind little laugh, I muttered, "Coward." In Dorshak's honor, however, I might order that oh-so-interesting blue-plate special myself while I interrogated Michael and his friend. After all, there was nothing like mixing a little pleasure with business.

"Hey, Mike." I clapped a hand on his broad shoulder. Sliding into the empty spot next to him in the booth before he could protest, I asked, "Who's your friend here?"

"Deidre." Michael looked surprised, but without missing a beat, he gestured across the table to the redhead. "This is ... ah, Morningstar..." Michael struggled for an appropriate description. "He's 'an old friend.' "

"How literary, 'Mike.' But, I believe you mean 'Arnold Friend.' " Morningstar chuckled.

Morningstar? I thought, with a surprised raise of my eyebrow. Going by the name of a fallen angel was a new twist on the whole naming phenomenon – very risque. What kind of guy was this friend of Michael's, I wondered.

"Charmed, I'm sure," Morningstar nodded only briefly in my direction, his attention focused on Michael. "Love to stay and chat with your little friend here, but I was on my way out. Oh, and Captain? When you see the big guy next, tell him he's got no business messing in my territory. Got it?"

Morningstar smoothed down the left side of his silk shirt with his right hand. It was the kind of gesture I'd seen gangsters use to imply they had the firepower to back up their threats. Even though it wasn't my fight, I casually slid my hand into the pocket of my suit coat and wrapped my hand around the butt of my Magnum. I edged away from Michael slowly.

Tension hung in the air, but Michael was cool. He smiled slightly, as if amused by Morningstar's display of bravado. In an even voice, Michael said, "This is hardly your territory."

The gangster sneered. Though he'd said he was leaving, he leaned back in his seat, considering it. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever." Morningstar sounded unconvinced. "It's not like the family's done much for the neighborhood lately, you know what I'm saying? If They won't do anything, it's up to me to take care of things, isn't it? I think of it as a kind of natural inheritance, kind of a survival of the fittest."

"What are you talking about? Fittest? You know which one of us is the favored son." Michael laughed unkindly. Something about his manner made it sound as though the implication was that Michael expected this "inheritance," whatever that was.

I looked at Morningstar with renewed interest. There was a bit of family resemblance in the face when I looked for it. Morningstar's features were thinner, but he and Michael shared a similar intensity. It was like they were cut from cloths of different colors, but of the same tone.

"Hmph." Something tugged at the muscles in Morningstar's jaw, as if trying to break through his facade of confidence. "Don't you forget that I'm older than you. I was first once."

"Not anymore," Michael said smugly.

"Look at you," Morningstar said. "Such arrogance."

"You would know all about that, wouldn't you?" Michael said.

The gangster laughed. "You're so fucking black-and-white all the time, brother. You have no idea what really motivates me, do you?"

"Of course I do, it's written all over your face," Michael said.

"Oh, and what's that, wise guy?" Morningstar asked. Pretending disinterest, he played with the saltshaker.

Love, I thought as I watched Morningstar.

"Jealousy," Michael said. "You want what I have. You always did."

Morningstar laughed, but it was a constricted sound. "Hardly. Look at you, you're a spoiled brat. You wouldn't last a moment without the family."

"I don't have to."

A sound, like the growl of a wildcat, emanated from Morningstar's throat. With no other warning, he lifted his edge of the table. The table separated from the floor with a loud rending sound, and the bulk of it bore down on me. I tumbled onto the floor as the plates slid off the plastic tablecloth and shattered.

Michael came down over the top of the still-moving table. I squinted, as my eyes registered only a blur of motion. An enormous blast of air pushed against me. The sound of a strong wind through trees filled my ears, followed by a deafening crash. My hair blew in front of my face and the plate shards on the floor rattled around. When I could see again, Michael had Morningstar by the scruff of his collar. The table was pushed against the seats Michael and I had been occupying. Wood splinters were spattered all over the floor.

Every head in the place swung around to see what was going on. Sliding the Magnum back into its hiding place, I picked myself off the floor and dusted off my regulation-length skirt. The gesture was purely for show since mustard dripped into my shoes. I picked my way around the splintered table and tried not to notice that it had once been bolted to the floor, though I could clearly see the holes in the floorboards.

"Take it outside, guys. Move it," I ordered in my best ex-cop voice. I sounded tough, but the truth was, their sudden violence scared me.

"No," Michael said in a commanding voice, still holding Morningstar's collar. "This ends here."

Morningstar loosened himself from Michael's grip with some effort. "Oh yeah, tough guy. You think you can take me on alone?"

"I will and I can," Michael insisted.

"But is it what the family wants?" Morningstar said, and Michael's resolve seemed to waiver. After making a grand production of shaking out his expensive suit, he squared his shoulders. "It makes you nervous doesn't it? Not knowing the plan. Let me give you a clue – you'll never know what They have in store for you until it's over. You're their puppet – body and soul ... but wait, that's not right, is it? 'Body and soul'?"

With a quick glance around the room, I caught at least three cops with that faraway look that meant they were on the LINK. No doubt, they'd transmitted all the gory details to precinct headquarters by now. I was curious about this family squabble, but not enough to get arrested over it. I whispered to Michael, "I've got to get out of here, a squad's probably on its way."