"When I was a kid, we called it dry humping."

She flashed a broad smile. "Yeah, only now they call it safe sex. Some of the girls throw in a hand job now and then, but that's it. Anyway, I can't do this forever. I went for the implants," she said, flicking a hand across her breasts. "That's part of the deal. And I work out like a bandit. But, sooner or later, you get too old. I've been saving my money, living small, you understand? Another couple of years, I'm going to open a little place of my own."

"A bar?"

"God forbid. No, a pastry shop. I'm really good at it. Taught

myself. Here, wait a minute…"

She got up, walked over to the refrigerator, a large side–by–

side, gleaming white. She reached inside, took out a small tray of

tiny tarts, placed it on the table.

"Try the lemon, they're good, even cold."

Cross took the indicated pastry, chewed it thoughtfully. "It is good."

"Don't act so surprised. I love to cook fancy little things. I know I can make a living at it. Anna's going to help me get an SBA loan, and I already know the neighborhood I want to open up in."

"You want an investor, let me know," Cross told her, polishing off the tart and reaching for another.

Reba smiled again. Then her generous mouth turned down. "Everything was fine. Until…he showed up."

"He?"

"Wieskoft. Robert James Wieskoft. R.J., his friends call him. He's a gymnastics coach. Really top–rated. He coached three Olympians himself. I checked his references before I let him work with Angel. All the organizations said he was great."

"So?"

"He started out fine. He was really devoted to Angel. Worked overtime without asking for more money. Videotaped her so he could analyze her moves in slow motion. She really liked him too. But then he started getting strange…."

"What?"

"Oh, sending her presents. First, it would be a special pair of gym tights. Or ankle weights. But then it was flowers. Candy. Like you'd send to a date. And he wrote her letters too. About how they'd always be together. How she had to obey him if she really wanted to be the best. When he told me she should drop out of school and work with him full–time…he'd get her a tutor and all…that's when I fired him."

"Then he threatened you?"

"Threatened? No, he didn't do that. He fought against it. Said he was going to call Child Protective Services, say I was abusing Angel. That's when I told him if he did that, I'd kill him."

"And he did do it?"

"No. What he does, he stalks her. Every day, he's outside, watching. Carrying that damn video camera of his, like he's capturing her on tape or something. He calls all the time, sends notes to Angel. Then he…" The brunette put her face in her hands, crying.

Cross watched, not moving. Waiting. Finally, she stopped. When she lifted her face, it was streaked with tears, but her eyes were hard.

"He filed a petition in Family Court. Said I was abusing Angel. That I beat her, can you imagine? And he made an application to be her foster parent! The court, they told me that I shouldn't worry about it…he's just a lunatic. He can't make his own application to be a foster parent. I asked them to come and investigate me. Come right over to the house, talk to my daughter alone, speak to her pediatrician, her teachers…anything. But they said they wouldn't do that because once he tried to be Angel's foster parent, they could understand what his game was. He wants to own my child, Cross. And he's not going to stop."

"You tell the cops?"

"Sure. A fat lot of good that did. Oh, the detective was nice enough. When he stopped staring at my chest long enough to talk, he said R.J. hadn't broken any laws. It isn't against the law to go the places he goes…especially the gym…he has a right to be there. It's a free country. Once the detective found out where I worked, he said maybe he could go talk to him…but I could see what he wanted in exchange and I told him to go play with himself."

"Good move."

"I don't care. I'm not a piece of meat. I was really angry and I made a complaint about the detective. They told me to speak to this other cop, McNamara. He was really sweet. Explained the whole thing to me. He wasn't putting on the moves either…I could see it bothered him, but there was nothing he could do."

"So it wasn't Lucinda who gave you my name, was it?"

"No," she replied, eyes downcast.

"And you don't really want to buy a gun–it's a gunman you're looking for?"

"I can pay–"

"I don't do hits," Cross said. "McNamara would have told you that."

"He said…maybe you could…fix things."

"Some things. I work for money."

"I know. Me too, right? I want–"

"For this Wieskoft to go away. You don't care where he goes, that's not part of the deal."

"Do you guarantee–?"

"Guarantees cost more."

"Don't you care about what he's doing to my Angel…even a little bit?"

"If I made this guy go away…if he glommed onto another little girl and left yours alone, would you care?" Cross asked.

The brunette took a deep breath, lightly scratched one cheek with a bright red fingernail. "Tell me how much it costs," she said.

8

The two men in white coveralls with the logo of a cable TV company emblazoned across their backs were working dangerously close to the roofs edge, apparently stringing wire. Physically, they had only their uniforms in common–to a distant observer, one was remarkably small in stature, otherwise featureless, while the other looked fat, wearing a set of eyeglasses so heavy they might have been mini–binoculars. Both men worked with practiced grace, thoroughly professional to any watchers.

"You got him, Rhino?" the small man asked.

The other man grunted an acknowledgment. His huge, formless body weighed in at over 350 pounds. Nominally covered by the voluminous white coveralls, he dwarfed Cross's normal–sized frame. He pointed one gigantic hand in the general direction of a tall, slender man standing across the street from Reba's apartment building–the tip of his right index finger was missing, the scarless stub as smooth as an aluminum cigar tube, and about the same size.

Cross pulled the cellular phone from his pocket, punched a single digit. "Some of us will be around when you stop by gym class," he said. "Something may happen. It's got nothing to do with you–just go about your business."

Cross hit the END button on the phone, punched in another number, waited a few seconds, then handed the instrument to Rhino. The double–wide truck of a man took it delicately, spoke in a high–pitched, squeaky voice:

"Tall. Six foot two, maybe three. Skinny, maybe a hundred and forty, fifty pounds. Dark, wiry hair, combed straight back. Triple–black on the vine, right down to his shoes. Gold watch on his left wrist, carrying a videocam. Driving a dark blue Lincoln Town Car, license 4–Alpha–7–oh–9–X–Ray. Got it?"

The huge man listened for a minute, said, "Yeah, yeah: over and out," and handed the phone back to Cross. "Princess is still doing his Lone Wolf number," the big man laughed.

Cross punched another number, waited for the pickup, then said, "Ready to roll. ETA like we expected. Sit on him tight, all right, brother?"