Awe-Struck Preview

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-Stolen Time-

Sleep would not come easily, and a silent curse filled her head as Callie flung the thin sheet aside and crawled out of bed. The air in her hotel room felt muggy, like it had on the flight that evening from Vancouver. The air conditioner hummed with a dull roar, and added nothing to an atmosphere of tranquillity.

From the window, Miami looked asleep. Streetlights glared but buildings were dark, everyone enjoying quiet slumber except for her. Callie's colleagues, who had traveled with her from Canada, were down the hall and she was certain they were not plagued with insomnia. She now wished she had accepted the sleeping pill Anne had offered before turning in, but she had felt tired at the time and confident she'd have no trouble sleeping. If she had, she too would be rested for the seminar tomorrow morning.

It had taken some effort to free her schedule in order to attend the two-week training course on Deaf Education, and it was vital to her career as a teacher that she retains the lectures. The last two nights of fitful sleep she'd experienced did not help matters. Tonight would make it three.

Callie remembered passing a gift shop in the lobby. Surely they'd deliver such an item but would it be open this late? A quick look at the nightstand told her five minutes had passed since her last glance; it was now three fifteen. A simple phone call would tell her but instead of a human voice, she got a recording.

"The Carlton Hotel is in the process of upgrading the hotel's telephone system so we can better serve customers in our newly constructed rooms. Between the hours of two a.m. and four a.m. calls made to destinations within the hotel will be restricted. Outside calls will not be affected. We apologize for any inconvenience . . ."

Forty-five minutes. She could go downstairs, buy a sleeping aid herself, and be fast asleep in the time it would take for the phones to be working again. Locating some baggy pants and a T-shirt from her suitcase, she put them on and slipped on a pair of sandals. Her long black hair was still in a braid down her back. With her wallet in hand, the weary woman headed for the lobby.

A sharp pain started in Callie's left shoulder, moving toward her collarbone as it left a searing sting in its path. She had her heavy briefcase to blame for the pain. All she needed was a bum shoulder during the pending seminar when the form of communication widely used would be sign language. With her thumb she gently kneaded her deltoid muscle as she left the elevator, and it brought some relief. Looking around, Callie searched for the front desk but she must have pushed the wrong button because she found herself on what appeared to be the convention floor.

Steered by fatigue made for simple errors. Since she was there she might as well find the room where the seminar would be held. Knowing the location would mean less time searching in the morning, and more time for sleeping.

Entering a foyer with a vaulted ceiling and skylights, Callie caught a glimpse of stars in a cloudless sky. A large display stand was set up against one of the outer walls, announcing the location of numerous events taking place at the hotel. Callie walked over to it. At the far end of the foyer was a corridor that lead to the conference rooms, and she spotted three men standing near an exit sign. They were engaged in a fervid conversation and did not notice her. The talk appeared too intense for interruption, and since they did not appear to be hotel employees, she didn't bother them.

What could possibly instigate such a heated exchange at three thirty in the morning? Her fatigue was replaced with curiosity. The large display stand stood a foot away from the wall, and Callie felt compelled to stand behind it, not wanting to appear overtly nosy. Its height reached the bridge of her nose, and as she peered over she could clearly see the men as the moonlight streamed through the skylight. Instincts told her something was not quite right.

Callie noted the extreme anger in the voice of one man who seemed to be recounting things using his fingers to make his point. He was probably a few inches shy of six feet, of sturdy build, his skin an olive hue and Callie guessed him to be close to fifty years old. His right hand glinted with gold under the florescent lights. When he removed his hat she noted dark hair pulled back tight and gathered at the nape of his neck. Exasperation read on his face as he rubbed his brow, and she could see the rage brewing.

Only bits of phrases drifted into Callie's hearing range as the man emphasized his points. Not possible Thompson . . . shipment is on schedule . . . no changes.

The second of the three men was black, his hair close-cropped, and a menacing expression held his features. His size was very intimidating, and steely eyes darted back and forth between his two companions.

Perspiration glistened on the forehead of the gentleman facing this verbal attack. Repeatedly he brushed backed a thin strand of hair, in a feeble attempt to disguise an obvious bald spot. He tried to voice his argument several times, but was not given the chance. Instead he shuffled his leather briefcase from one hand to the other.

Callie looked around her and saw that the display stand stretched almost the full length of the ten-foot wall. A pillar, constructed as part of the foyer, met the end of the display stand to enclose the area.

When she returned to the conversation between the three men, it seemed less heated. Then came silence, serene after what had been such a turbulent exchange. Callie watched closely as a change seemed to occur in the features and stance of the first man. He purposely stood taller, straightening his back in defiance and tilting his head a few inches higher. The muscles in his lower jawbone contracted then receded, as calmness appeared to come over him.

No doubt his hands are fists in those pockets, Callie thought to herself, referring to his light overcoat.

But he proved her wrong.

His right hand emerged very quickly, but Callie had no time to dwell on his agility as the blade of a knife caught the lights above, flickering with the same blinding glare as his gold ring. His rage guided the blade to meet the chest of the balding man.

At this point, actions seemed to slow down. Callie watched, her eyes catching every detail . . . a fast jab; then a twisting motion of the wrist; ending with an exit marked by brilliant red. The smaller man doubled over, gasping for air. Then slowly he rose, grabbing at his chest. Startled eyes were wide and, as the pain visibly registered, Callie saw the terror take hold.

Riveted to the scene unravelling before her, her body became rigid in horror, and she struggled to stifle the scream waiting to explode in her throat. As she fought to control her reaction, her wallet slid from her hand and coins landed with a clatter on the floor.

At that moment, time resumed its regular pace, and instincts found her crouching down. Automatically she grabbed her wallet lying open at her feet.

Now what? Bounced around in her head. She could only hope they hadn't seen her.

Mere seconds elapsed before a gun was produced and someone proceeded to riddle the display stand with bullets. Callie was quick on her feet. With gunfire dangerously close behind her, she scurried to the other end of the display board, by the pillar, and crouched in the corner. Frantically she tried to press her body close against the outer wall; eyes gripped shut as her only source of anonymity was destroyed. Huddled tightly in a ball, she tried to shield herself. Both hands moved to cover her ears against the deafening racket of discharged bullets.

As quickly as it started, the gunfire ceased.

Her heart thundered within her chest and her ears rang mercilessly. Slowly she pried one eye open, then the other, but there was only darkness and she blinked at the small particles of dust that floated in front of her face. Callie became aware of the weight of debris on her and extended her hand to push it away. She hesitated, fearing that the men had not fled but were waiting for her to emerge. She cleared away an area that enabled her to peek through.

They were gone!

There was no sign of anyone, not even the man they had stabbed.

Run! Run! It was the first thought that entered her mind.

She pulled herself from what remained of the display stand. It had been completely destroyed but somehow a larger piece had fallen to shelter her.

Callie fled toward the elevator, not waiting to see who showed up to investigate what had just occurred, knowing only that she had to get away from the foyer. Frantically she pushed the buttons - up, down-it did not matter. Her finger left behind a smudge of white dust, and without thinking twice, Callie wiped it off with the corner of her shirt. Within seconds the doors opened, she raced inside and pushed her floor number, careful this time not to leave a trail behind her. Then she tried to catch her breath as the elevator made a painfully slow ascent.

With the door to her room securely locked behind her, Callie tried to control the panic that had taken hold. Her thoughts were scattered and her heart pounded against the confinement of her rib cage. She made her way to the bathroom, closing the door, feeling as if the more doors between her and what she had just seen would make a difference. Seeing her reflection in the vanity startled her. Pieces of plaster clung to her braid, and she was coated in a fine white powder. Her green eyes appeared twice their usual size and she blinked a few times, wishing they would return to their normal shape.

What alarmed her most was the fear she saw in her face. The same degree of fear she had glimpsed in the man's face. A deep breath, her eyelids lightly shut, brought some calm to her ragged nerves but in those mere seconds of darkness, she saw someone else's eyes. Eyes filled with terror. Astonishment. Disbelief. Then came his pain, extreme, and agonizing pain.

This vision was etched in her mind, and all the wishing in the world would not make it go away.

What am I going to do?

A few more deep breaths helped to compose her thoughts and her face lost a bit of its look of bewilderment.

Should I return to the foyer and speak with security?

The men could be watching, waiting for her. The thought scared the hell out of her. Glancing in the mirror, she found support in the presence of another living person, although it was only her reflection.

Now what?

Going to the police with what she had seen was an option but one look at her trembling hands told her she was not ready for that. Gripping the counter, Callie tried to get herself together. Leaving the bathroom, she turned off all the lights so that only the lights of Miami lit her room as they filtered through the window. She began to shiver uncontrollably. The air conditioner sounded like a train barreling through her room, adding to the horrible ringing in her eyes. She turned it off in disgust. Grabbing the comforter from the foot of the bed, she wrapped it around her, wanting more than anything for the icy chill to go away.

Her hotel room faced the street so she pushed a chair up against the outer wall. With her head pressed to the window she tried to peer down to the street below, wondering what would happen next.

It was almost an hour before she heard the police sirens.

"Tony had joined me for a coffee in the office behind the front desk when we heard gunfire from upstairs." The Night Manager looked at his co-worker for support.

Detective Frank Lisko was writing in a small notepad, his handwriting barely a scribble to be deciphered later. "Then what?"

"Well, first we just looked at each other, neither of us in a hurry to investigate for fear we'd get shot at."

"Yeah, but it was over before we knew it."

"And when we got to the Convention Center no one was around." His nametag read Brian Quennell and the officer jotted it down on the paper. His partner came out from the stairwell, removing his rubber gloves, and gave Frank a look that meant he had found something.

"The display board we use to show the locations of the various conferences taking place was completely destroyed," added Tony.

"Then we called you guys and waited."

"Okay. Thanks for your help." Detective Lisko closed his notepad and fished for a business card in his breast pocket. "If you think of anything else, give me a call." Leaving the two men, he joined his partner as he sifted through the debris of plaster.

"What did you find Todd?"

Detective Greggor stopped what he was doing and took out a sample bag from his jacket. "I found some fresh blood in the stairwell that leads to the service door. There's a bit more out back by the dumpster but there's no body inside. Then there's a trail for another ten feet before it ends."

"No sense fingerprinting the exit door. There could be hundreds of prints on it."

"You're right. I'll take this sample to the lab and see what they come up with."

"Okay. Anything else you think we've missed." Frank wanted to finish today without a pile of paperwork waiting for him on his next shift.

"Other than looking through this debris," Todd pointed at what used to be a display stand, "I think we've got it covered."

With his foot, Frank pushed aside a piece of plaster. The light overhead caught a shiny object and he bent down. A cluster of coins lay scattered on the floor.

The alarm sounded at eight o'clock, waking Callie with a start. She was surprised to find herself curled up in a chair with her head resting against the window, and a comforter wrapped tightly around her. Staring at the empty bed beside her brought with it the scenario she had witnessed during the night.

As the entire scene played over again in her head, she fought to remain calm.

Can I forget about what I saw?

No. Fine, selective memory was out.

Can I simply walk away?

Well, actually she had run as fast as her legs would carry her.

But can I live with myself if I chose not to report what I saw?

She didn't have an answer for that one.

Virtuous parents, people who had instilled in her the value of righteous conduct, had raised Callie. So far she was pretty proud of her track record. She grew up in an upper middle class suburb of Vancouver where the occasional house burglary was the extent of crime. She, for the most part, was removed from street crime. True, one is never truly immune to the vast affect that crime has on all of us. Until now, she had never been associated with the violence she had witnessed last night.

Callie often took people at face value, possibly making more assumptions about them than she probably should, but it was impossible to question the motivation of everyone you met. Nor would she care to, because to constantly fear what internally propelled people would only make you a very fearful person. That made Callie a trusting individual, like most of us tend to be, unless suspicion was aroused.

She had seen more adversity during her lifetime than she had actually experienced firsthand, and she felt that, at twenty-eight, there was a maturity many her age did not possess. There was a sincerity about her that made her approachable. A mostly even-tempered person, Callie was easy to get along with unless she smelt incompetence, then she was quick to anger. Not much of a chatterbox, she was sometimes nosy and might gossip a bit, but she took little comfort in the sorrow of others. Unless of course, they involved the woes of her former fiancé. All in all, Callie felt the world should laugh more, vent some of its frustrations. She also knew she was wasting time, letting herself listen to idle chatter.

Until she decided what to do, she had a seminar to attend.

"I thought Callie was going to join us for breakfast?" Anne asked Karen as she dusted the crumbs off her slacks.

"I was." Callie said as she strolled up to their table. "Sorry girls, but I overslept."

"Then why the bags under your eyes?" Karen asked as Callie sat down beside her.

"I didn't say I slept well, just that I overslept." Still feeling a bit of a chill, Callie was glad she had worn a blazer over her dress. The halter-style back would have been far too cool for the air conditioning. The bodice fit snug, the skirt full and pleated, and her dark hair she left unbound, curls falling over her shoulders.

"Thanks to that little white pill, I am fresh as a flower this morning." Anne hummed over her coffee cup.

"That is one area I have no problem with - sleep," voiced Karen. "After getting up in the middle of the night for the last five years with my kids, my body cherishes every moment of sleep it gets."

"Do I have time for a cup of coffee?"

"Better make it 'to go'. The first session starts in five minutes."

Callie made a request with the waitress as they headed for the door. There was no time to tell her friends what she had seen during the night. It would have to wait.

When they reached the Convention Center, located on the second floor, Callie stopped short as the housekeeping staff cleaned up the debris of the display stand. Someone stepping on her heel at her sudden stop ushered her along quickly, and she followed her friends into the conference room.

The morning flew by and Callie felt like a zombie going through the motions of listening when actually she had barely heard a word the lecturer said. When they stopped for lunch, her thought process was no better. Instead of the three eating lunch together, they were joined by a group of participants and Callie wasn't given the opportunity to share her experience.

Since the three colleagues were an odd number, a toss of a coin on the flight last night had Anne and Karen sharing accommodations. Callie's good fortune made her fair game for teasing. It was only fair. Callie was known to dish it out, now it was her turn to be ribbed.

Karen McCall was being her nosy, yet well-intended old self when she asked Callie how her love life was lately. The married mother of two loved to stir things up and then let their friend, Anne Harris, take it from there. The colorful blonde didn't miss her cue either.

"Details? We want details!" Anne demanded. Her bobbing head caused the glittering purple beads at her ears to shake, as well as those dangling from the matching barrette that held her shoulder-length hair in a ponytail. She was a Sign Language Interpreter and part of the job required one to remove all distractions, including jewellery, and Anne compensated by wearing very contemporary accessories whenever she wasn't working. She was known for her collection of outrageous jewellery, which blended well with her quirky personality. At twenty-nine she was single, like Callie, but presently committed to a gentleman she referred to as 'wise beyond his years' and 'much older, of course'. Well . . . as committed as Anne got, so long as it did not interfere with her wandering eye.

"No dates worth mentioning, if that's what you're after." A bewitching smile came easily to Callie's lips, and her green eyes laughed.

She was a newer member to the rollercoaster that was single life, having been thrust upon it a little over a year ago with the break up of a serious relationship. Known more for its rough ride of peaks and valleys, the throttle set for speed, single life brought emotional bruises and scars-a knapsack the wounded carried on their backs. Callie was growing accustomed to its weight.

"I'm beginning to wonder if I've lost a look of satisfaction I once wore on my face or is there an 'X' somewhere on my forehead?" Either would explain at least some of the unusual attention that men had been giving her lately.

"Definitely the 'X'," teased Karen. "There it is again . . . wait," she brushed her carrot-red hair off her face, the ends skimming her shoulders. With one eye squinted she aligned her friend, both hands placed on Callie's shoulders. "A bit to the right . . . whoa . . . stop . . . perfect!"

Callie smiled again, then frowned, and her actions reflected her whimsical nature. "I don't mean to be a male basher but I don't know which planet rejected my recent dates." They all laughed and Callie added, "everyone and their dog has someone they think I should meet. I hate to offend these people, I know they're well-intended at heart, but if I go on one more blind date . . . that's it! You'll have to drag me away in a straight jacket 'cause I'll be howlin' at the moon."

"Oh, Callie. Didn't I tell you? " Karen tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, taking the shadow off her chiselled Scottish features and her ski-jump nose. "My cousin's cousin is dying to meet you!"

"Ah . . ." Callie wailed as she threw up her arms in defeat, her fair skin flushed.

Callie Master's strong features were undeniably of German descent . . . cheekbones . . .brow . . . nose . . . but upon creation God had softened the edges some, bringing an urbane quality to her appearance. Very untraditional were her green eyes. One might expect a clear ocean blue or a hazel mixture perhaps, but a pure green like hers was unusual to her ancestry. Dark, arched brows; creamy complexion that took to the sun well; long black hair that naturally curled at the ends-these could be attributed to her ancestry. Her sleek build within a five foot seven inch frame was the result of an aggressively physical lifestyle.

Anne continued to roar with laughter, making no attempt to restrain her mirth, and at the same time begged them to stop. "Please, cut it out or I'll pee myself right here and now!" But they only laughed harder at her complaint. When Anne calmed down a bit, she spoke to Karen as if their friend were not standing there. "If Callie weren't so sincerely humble, women would hate her," she stated, "I know I would anyway!" Her ponytail swayed as she lifted her chin high, falsely stand-offish, before smiling a wide grin at Callie.

When they were finished with lunch, Anne stopped to tip their waiter. He was in his mid-twenties, handsome, tall-just Anne's style-and her appreciative stare took in every favourable feature. Anne hung back to flirt mercilessly with the crimson faced man who now looked not a day over sixteen and Callie wondered what body part Anne had complimented him on.

She was still smiling when she turned the corner outside the restaurant. It quickly disappeared the moment she bumped into the menacing black man from the foyer.

She was at a loss for words when it came to describing the enormous relief she felt not being recognised by the stranger. He simply apologised and moved aside, giving her an opportunity to continue on her way. She concluded that he had only seen the top of her head before riddling the display stand with bullets. Still her mind worked overtime, giving her no peace.

The afternoon session was worse than the morning. It was useless trying to focus, and a half-hour into it, she slipped out the side door. Staring at the spot where the display stand used to be, Callie knew what she must do. It was time she admitted to the fact that her conscience would never let her out of this one. It dictated she go to the police and tell them what she'd seen.

That decision made, she left the hotel and hailed a cab.

It didn't take long to reach the nearest police precinct. Before she knew it, the cab had stopped and the driver was requesting the fare. Callie fumbled in her purse, handed him some money, and got out. Before entering the building, Callie paused to compose herself. The butterflies in her stomach were having a heyday, and she whispered some reassuring words. "Calm down. Simply go inside and tell them exactly what you saw." A passer-by flashed her a funny look for talking to herself but she ignored him.

Once inside, Callie approached the reception area, greeted the officer behind the counter, and said, "I'm here to see someone from the Homicide Division." Wanting to speak to someone in charge, she feigned knowing whom she should see, "Lieutenant . . . Lieutenant," she stammered.

"Garson?"

"Yes, Garson."

"Clip on this visitor's tag." Callie took the plastic clip he gave her. "Go down to the end of the hall, take a right and someone there will assist you."

Callie thanked him and turned in the direction he instructed. The hallway was lined with benches. People reading the newspaper occupied a few, and a flurry of activity took place in almost every office she passed. The Homicide office was no different. Police officers were either bent over their desks filling reports, talking on the phone, or documenting public complaints. Moving chairs screeched across the floor and there was a continuous hum of conversation.

On the door directly across from where Callie stood in the entrance she read Lieutenant W.C. Garson. The blinds on the glass-encased room were drawn but the door was ajar. From what she could see, he had no visitors, if indeed he was there at all.

Everyone was busy doing something, including the reception person, so Callie proceeded to the Lieutenant's doorway but paused before knocking on the door. Looking inside she saw a man standing with his back to her. He was engrossed in an obvious search for something on the desk so Callie tapped the mahogany with her knuckles.

"Excuse me," she said and he looked up quickly, startled by the unexpected sound of her voice. A tall blonde man, in his late twenties or early thirties, turned to face her. He slowly retrieved the pen he had clasped between his teeth. Two piercing blue eyes regarded her curiously.

"Yes?"

Callie's nerves were taunt and her usual deep voice cracked, revealing her distress. "I waited . . . outside, but no one . . .."

"That's fine. Come in and have a seat, Miss . . .."

"Masters. Callie Masters," she offered as she lowered herself into a chair.

He took a seat on the corner of the desk and crossed his arms over his wide chest. A handgun shifted in the shoulder harness strapped over his short sleeved shirt and the sight of it made Callie shudder.

"How can I help you?"

Her fidgety fingers played with the purse strap on her lap. Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm herself, hoping her heart rate would even out. She thought she'd succeeded until she opened her mouth and the words tumbled out far too quickly.

"I saw a man murdered last night, or at least I think he was dead. I never actually got a chance to find out, for sure, because they started shooting at me . . .."

"Whoa, slow down, Miss Masters," he interrupted. "Take your time and start at the beginning. Where were you when this happened?"

"I was at my hotel," she answered. His words put things into perspective. There was no need to be so anxious. She'd dealt with the police on the odd occasion at work but this seemed much more personal. Choosing her words carefully, Callie proceeded to recount the incident she had seen. She had definitely captured his interest for he remained silent, up to the point where she finished describing the three men.

When he rose from his perch on the desk, Callie paused. He headed toward the door saying, "Can you stop there for a moment," and without waiting for a response, stuck his head out the office door and called, "Charlie, I need you, pronto."

A stocky man with salt and pepper hair appeared, and followed the Lieutenant into the office.

"This young lady is Callie Masters," the Lieutenant said, overlooking to mention the full name of the older man who had joined them as he took a seat on the couch across from her. The leather creaked and strained under his portly frame. He was a sharp contrast to the Lieutenant's lean muscular stature.

"She's been telling me something I know you'll find interesting. Miss Masters, would you be so kind as to start over for us?" He asked with a smile.

No one interrupted her this time.

She finished with her last encounter with one of the men, and when her voice ceased the room was silent. Callie watched as the Lieutenant's face displayed irrepressible excitement, almost joy. Charlie's reaction was more subdued his voice slow and calming to the uneasy gnawing in the pit of her stomach.

"We're happy you brought this incident to our attention. I'm sorry that your visit to Miami started off so unpleasantly."

"So am I."

"Of course, we will have to verify some of the information you just gave us," added the Lieutenant.

She nodded. Then Charlie asked if she would excuse them for a brief moment. Both left the room and Callie overheard a portion of the younger man's question. "Could it really be... " were all the words she could decipher from the fading murmur of their voices.

Moments later, only the Lieutenant returned. Handing her a notepad, he asked her to write out a brief description of what she'd seen. When she finished, he requested she sign and date the paper. After obtaining details like her address, flight information, and the name of her hotel, he concluded their meeting.

"Well, that should wrap things up for now," he said rising to his feet. "I can have an officer drop you off at your hotel if you like?"

"No, that's fine. I'm sure their efforts could be put to better use." Callie smiled, trying to make light of the situation.

"True," he smiled too, his square jaw relaxing a little.

Definitely a native from these parts, Callie thought, regarding his rugged good looks. He looked like a surfer with his blonde, sun-streaked hair and tanned, weathered skin. Even the hairs on his arms and the back of his hands were bleached from the sun. She barely reached his shoulder so it wasn't surprising that her small hand completely disappeared in his when they shook hands.

"We'll be in touch as soon as we have any further developments in the case. Until then, enjoy your seminar."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Callie hurried out the door, feeling a lot better with her decision to go to the police. Checking her watch, she was surprised that it hadn't taken long at all. In fact, a fair portion of the afternoon session still lay ahead, and she did plan to enjoy it.

"Mighty fine. Yes, mighty fine, indeed," Detective Jake Fowler said under his breath as he watched Callie leave the room, not missing the lovely pair of legs that went with her.

Lieutenant . . . Lieutenant Fowler. He liked the sound of it, but no thanks. He'd stick to Detective any time. Less hassle, not to mention fewer headaches. He sure wouldn't want to be responsible for the sorry lot of guys in the squad room.

So the lady thought he was the Lieutenant. Charlie would get a kick out of that. Come to think of it, he'd never introduced himself or Charlie Garson for that matter. Oh well, there would be plenty of time to straighten out names later.

Grabbing the Rodriques file from the Lieutenant's desk, the file he had been searching for when Callie Masters interrupted him, he headed for his own desk at the far end of the room. Jake's eyes searched out his partner, Carlos Quintana. When he found him, he motioned for Carlos to join him.

"What's up Jake?" The Puerto Rican asked.

"Boy, have I got a story for you."

Callie spotted her colleagues where she had left them, near the front of the large auditorium. Plopping herself down in the chair, Callie braced herself for the onslaught of questions that were sure to come.

"Where have you been?" Karen was first, followed closely by Anne.

"Were you out sight-seeing already?"

Luckily the lecturer began speaking and the women had to be satisfied with, "I'll fill you in later."

Most seminars and workshops Callie had attended that were related to sign language were usually conducted in just that, sign language, but because of the diverse group of people-fifteen countries were represented at this seminar-spoken English would be used for the most part, excluding the group work. Since sign language often varied from region to region, let alone country to country, the choice was a practical one. For Callie it might as well have been Chinese because her thoughts were elsewhere and her efforts to concentrate were in vain.

Who? Why? These two questions refused to let up. Who were those men and why had they stabbed that man?

The rest of the afternoon the scene played over and over in her head, in full Technicolor, complete with fast forward and rewind.

"Lucas . . . Lucas Mendez?" The incredulous ring in Carlos' voice was obvious.

"Right oh, partner. If this broad's story checks out, we got the makings for a Murder I charge against the ever elusive Lucas Mendez." Jake double parked the car and ignored the security guard ready to blast him with hotel parking rules. A flash of Jake's police badge shut him up quickly. They continued toward the automatic doors at the entrance of the Carlton Hotel.

"Did she ID Mendez?"

"No, not yet but she described him and his sidekick, Willie, to a tee. If this end pans out, we'll bring her in to look at some photos and make it official. Oh, and get this Carlos," Jake paused a second, "the way she described some quick wrist action when the knife was in the guy's chest, it sounds like the same wound as Jimmy Perez. Remember him?"

"Yeah, I do." It was the discovery of Jimmy Perez's body that had brought Lucas Mendez to their attention.

The night manager had long since gone home but Officers Lisko and Greggor had taken his statement. A chubby man with a bad toupee introduced himself as Wally Bower, Manager of Hotel Maintenance. "The other officers said I could clean up the mess but my maintenance staff are running a little behind today."

"That's okay. It'll give us a chance to take a look." Kicking aside a chunk of plaster, Jake asked, "Can you describe what this used to look like?"

"It was a portable display stand, one of the older models that takes a herd of men to move. Not like the fancy lightweight types they've got out now," Wally told the two men. "This one was thick and sturdy too. Now it's totally ruined. Your guys took a few slugs out of it and some samples from the stairwell. Looks like blood to me. Fresh too, I guarantee. My staff wouldn't miss spots like that."

"I'm sure you run a tight ship around here, Wally." Carlos fed the chubby man's ego and watched him beam with pride.

"You bet I do. Nothing gets past Wally Bower, no sir!"

Slipping his arm across the short man's shoulders, Jake slowly led him away from the loud hum of the vacuum cleaner. "This is a big place, Wally, lots of staff. But I bet you know just about everyone around here. Is that right?"

"Almost everyone," Wally smiled, "get along with most of them too."

Coming to a stop, Jake turned to face the coverall-clad man. "I'm sure you do. Would you know a gentleman by the name of Thompson? Don't know his first name but he would come to work wearing a suit, maybe carrying a briefcase. He's a small man with thinning hair. Sound like someone who works around here?"

"Well, I don't know everyone's last name but I can think of a few Thompsons right off. There's Pete Thompson down in Parking but he don't wear no suit to work, that's for sure." Wally laughed at his own comment while the officer did not. Clearing his throat, he continued. "Let's see . . . you can forget about Leah in the lounge 'cause she's a girl." His second attempt at humour got the same response as the first. After thirty seconds of thought, he said, "no, can't say that I know any Thompson like the one you're looking for."

"Thanks for your help anyway, Wally." Jake dismissed him and said to his partner, "let's check missing persons. Maybe a Thompson hasn't shown up where he's supposed to be."

"A lady called about an hour ago wanting to file a missing person's report on her husband, Lyle Thompson." Officer Marlo Sandiego shared this information with Detective Fowler over the telephone. "I told her he had to be missing twenty four hours before I could do anything official about it, but since she was only shy by a couple hours I logged it anyway."

"Have you got an address on this guy?"

"Yeah, let me check." Jake nodded his head in answer to the question on his partner's face.

"It's in Coral Gables - 24th Street and Granada Boulevard - house number 24135."

"Thanks, Marlo. I think we'll pay Mrs. Thompson a visit."

The Spanish style home of the Thompsons was typical for Coral Gables where strict beauty regulations were infamous. An approved city "color" book was maintained for residents wishing to paint their homes. Only pastels were featured, and every home must adhere to its outlines, including the rule your lawn must be properly mowed or the city would do it for you, then send a large bill for their services. Not that the residents of Coral Gables couldn't afford to pay. A look at the sleek yachts parked in the backyard canals, waiting for the next floating dinner party was a good indication of the wealth of the neighbourhood.

"Lyle didn't come home last night, which isn't anything new." Susan Thompson told the two police officers. "Sometimes he'll work late and sleep on the sofa in his office. But I called his secretary this morning and he didn't come in this morning. He's usually pretty good about phoning, either Agnes or myself, if he thinks he'll be detained. When he didn't show up for a luncheon engagement we've planned for months, to celebrate his mother's birthday, I got quite alarmed."

"What does your husband do, Mrs. Thompson?" Jake asked the pretty brunette.

"Lyle is the President of the Bureau of Customs at Miami International Airport."

"Her story checks out, Lieutenant," Detective Fowler informed their supervisor as he and his partner entered the Lieutenant's office. Referring to a piece of paper in a file, he rattled off some data. "Callie Rae Masters . . . Vancouver, Canada . . . twenty-eight . . . single . . . no dependants. Employed by Inner-city Interpreting Services for the Deaf as a Sign Language Interpreter. She's in Miami for an International Seminar. Her flight from Denver confirmed arrival at 1:05 a.m. this morning."

"And the blood samples match Thompson's blood type," Detective Quintana added before taking a seat in one of the office chairs. "I just got back from the lab. Those samples obtained in the stairwell-the blood type is the same as in the insurance records his wife gave us."

The Lieutenant was silent as he absorbed what they told him. Setting down the papers he was reading, he leaned back in his comfortable, high-backed chair. "Did either of you talk to the night manager?"

"Personally, no. But I have Lisko and Greggor's report right here. The manager and another worker heard the gunfire but saw no one. Miss Masters must have fled quickly, like she said. They then notified the police." Putting down the file, Jake shook his head. "I saw what they did to that display stand. Crouching in the corner was the only thing that saved Callie Masters' life. If she hadn't, I wouldn't have wanted to be the clean up crew."

"Yes, she deserves credit for that one," agreed Charlie. "If we get this case to Court, Miss Masters will have plenty to contend with. I hope she won't crumble under the pressure."

Jake had to hand it to her though; coming forward with what she'd seen took a lot of guts. For some reason he had a feeling Callie Masters possessed strengths they were only beginning to tap.

"Should we bring her in to look at some photos?"

"Yeah. Jake, go pick her up," said the Lieutenant. "Carlos, get some pictures ready, include what you got from Thompson's wife, and make sure you give her lots to choose from. I don't want anyone coming back at us for stacking the deck. If Miss Masters confirms our suspicions, we'll have Lucas Mendez's head on a platter. Everything's gotta be by the book. We aren't going to lose that bastard this time." His stocky fist gave the desktop a hearty stomp.

How Callie made it through the afternoon, she had no idea. Her retention of the proceedings had been minimal, yet she was exhausted all the same. She longed to crawl between some cool, crisp sheets and sleep until the morning session.

As the five hundred and forty three seminar participants filtered out of the auditorium, Callie held back, not wanting to be trampled by the crowd. Karen held fast the questions she was dying to ask and, instead, she suggested they grab a cup of coffee.

Callie spotted Lieutenant Garson in the foyer, his neck strained despite his above average height. He surveyed the crowd, annoyance knotting his brow. It vanished when he saw her.

"Had to be the last one to leave, did ya?" His smile was friendly.

"Didn't feel like beating the rush," she teased back, appreciating the humour.

"My fault, I should have had you paged." By this time Karen and Anne were regarding her inquisitively.

"Lieutenant Garson, this is Karen McCall and Anne Harris."

He seemed in a hurry, and did little to hide the fact. He simply gave her friends a curt nod. "Can I speak to you alone?" He asked her. Without waiting for a reply, the officer placed his hand on her elbow and steered her to the staircase.

"Excuse us, ladies," was an afterthought.

"Look at that," Anne clucked, "we aren't here twenty four hours and Callie already has a man hunting her down." Her hungry eyes took in the length of the handsome blonde's athletic physique and she fell just short of licking her lips.

"Christ, Anne, you're drooling," Karen snapped. She still managed to make one last quick appraisal before averting her eyes.

"You looked, Karen! I saw you!" Anne teased.

Callie was very surprised by the Lieutenant's brusque manner, especially since he had shown her nothing but courtesy at their first meeting. Shaking off his hand, she stopped, a little annoyed by his rude behaviour.

"What is it?" she asked.

"We need you to come to the Precinct and look at some photographs. Try to identify the men you saw last night."

"Now?" she asked, not at all pleased by the thought of spending what could be hours looking at mug shots. She envisioned herself sifting through stacks of photos like a dramatised scene in a cop show. She could be catching forty winks upstairs. Her face revealed her weariness.

"Yes, now." He'd caught her look and was even more impatient. "We're kind of anxious to have this part of the investigation behind us."

"Excuse me if I don't jump at the chance, but seeing those faces again is the last thing I want to do right now." Callie's mood was turning sourer by the moment.

"Don't tell me you sat in that auditorium this afternoon without those faces haunting you?"

Callie would have loved to lie, just to squelch the astute little look on his face, but he wouldn't have bought it, and she knew it.

"Granted," she admitted, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Which is exactly why I don't want to look at any 8 x 10 glossies of them now!" Heads were turning, and Callie realised she had raised her voice. Looking back at her friends, both regarding her worriedly, Callie discreetly communicated to them in sign language.

"I'm fine. Everything is okay."

Callie lowered the pitch of her voice before continuing. "Look, I'm exhausted. My sleep last night consisted of a few hours before going to your office. Give me a break, Lieutenant. Can't we do this in the morning?"

"No one gave that gentleman a break last night, Miss Masters. We all have problems-myself included. I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist you come to the Station now. I'll throw you over my shoulder if I have to.

Callie stared at him; horrified when she realised he was truly serious. The gleam in his eye told her so. The slight turn he gave one side of his mouth suggested he'd enjoy every minute of it.

"You wouldn't dare," she challenged, appalled by the gall of this American Police Officer.

"Try me."

He might be good to look at, as Anne would say, but his appeal was rapidly diminishing. Nothing like an arrogant, pigheaded male to brighten her day.

Didn't I leave one of those back in Vancouver, Callie asked herself.

They stared each other down for a moment, their bodies rigid with defiance.

Green against blue.

Blue against green.

Blue won, only because Callie couldn't stand the thought of the humiliation she'd suffer being tossed over the shoulder of this overbearing beach boy and carted through the hotel lobby. With overt defeat, she sighed to emphasise her frustration. Callie moved her hands quickly in sign language, telling Anne and Karen that she would see them later. Then she marched to the exit, expecting the Lieutenant to follow.

Jake was captivated by the quick, graceful movements of Callie's hands, and a few seconds lapsed before he realised she was leaving. Hastily he fell behind her retreating figure. A look over her shoulder did not miss his grin.

Callie gave in but damned if she would indulge in frivolous conversation to ease the awkward silence on the trip to the police precinct. She did not appreciate being bullied into something. The ride was a quiet one. Callie fumed. Jake gloated.

"Can you pick out the victim from these pictures?" It was Detective Carlos Quintana asking Callie the question. The two of them were seated at the Lieutenant's desk, alone in the room, with eight photographs of various sizes placed before them. Instantly, Callie pointed to the picture of the man she'd heard referred to as Thompson.

"Are you sure, Miss Masters?"

"Please, call me Callie." She liked Detective Quintana. He had nice brown eyes and a broad face that smiled easily. "Positive. That is the man who was stabbed."

Removing those photos, he replaced them with eight more. All were Caucasians males, like the first set, but this time she was asked to pick out one of the perpetrators.

The face of the last photo sent a shiver through her body. It wasn't an ugly face, by any means, quite the contrary. His complexion was dark, slightly pockmarked but it didn't take away from his swarthy good looks. Black hair was pulled back, framing his face. It was the eyes staring back at her-cold and black-that filled Callie with trepidation. She remembered his fury, then the calmness that overtook him as he glided the knife blade so easily into his victim's chest.

Not trusting her voice, Callie simply pointed at the picture and looked into the understanding face of Detective Quintana. Over his shoulder she spotted the Lieutenant in the doorway and quickly closed her eyes, but not before he saw the fear she was trying to control.

Hastily the photographs were substituted with those of eight Afro-American males. Callie had no problem with this group either, selecting the burly, mean-looking man who had towered over his companions. Promptly all pictures disappeared, as did the police officers, and Callie was given some time alone to sift through her emotions.

In a vacant interrogation room, the three of them met-Lieutenant Garson and Detectives Fowler and Quintana. Jake chose to stand with his back against the drab grey wall. The other two sat on the stiff-backed chairs scattered about the room. The only other piece of furniture was a table marred with graffiti where Carlos rested his forearms, his fingertips anxiously tapping the surface.

Lyle Thompson was officially missing-his wife had filed a missing person's report while Callie Masters' looked at photographs. Callie's account of the events that took place in the foyer of the Carlton Hotel described a life-threatening wound. No identical wound had been reported by any of the hospitals or medical clinics in Miami or the surrounding counties. The police department would continue the investigation on the assumption that Lyle Thompson was the victim of foul play.

Their eyewitness positively identified the notorious Lucas Mendez and Willie Kerr as the perpetrators in the case.

If you lived in Miami, there was a possibility you had been a patron of at least one of Lucas Mendez's ever increasing list of business ventures. Art galleries, restaurants, nightclubs, and health spas were his legitimate enterprises. But it was his illegal dealings that attracted the attention of the authorities.

Rumour on the street was that Lucas was involved in gambling and smuggling, but no one had been able to prove anything. Numerous attempts to curtail his illegal actions had proven futile. The extent of his operations was unknown. Several tries to infiltrate his organisation had failed, the last one ending in disaster, and criminal charges were thrown out of Court because of technicalities.

It was even suggested that key people in the Miami Police Department were on his payroll but, to date, this remained an unfounded suspicion.

Mendez was a shrewd and calculating man surrounded by loyal employees and friends. One such person was Willie Kerr, his right hand man. Willie stood almost seven feet tall, an ominous giant never too far away from Mendez, and in tune with his employer's every whim. A man of few words, he could squelch any thoughts of insubordination with one look.

Lucas didn't need Willie's presence to ensure things went his way, Willie simply rounded off the package. You either liked or feared Lucas Mendez, but either way, he had your respect. He was a very charismatic and gregarious individual many people adored. But if you crossed him and his icy stare didn't get to you, his barrage of top-notch lawyers and executives would see to it that you remembered not to tangle with him again. If money meant power, they saw to it that you were reduced to poverty. And whatever this corporate brass could not accomplish within the confines of the law, Willie took care of personally-or so it was alleged.

The fact that it was by Lucas' hand that Lyle Thompson met his maker was, by all accounts, not the norm. Lucas preferred to leave the dirty work to Willie. There was only one other instance on record where Lucas had soiled his hands-ending the life of an individual caught with his hands in the cookie jar. Unfortunately, some unavoidable circumstances surrounding the incident had forced Judge Arrison to throw the murder charge out of Court.

To the public, Lucas portrayed a wealthy businessman concerned with all aspects of his community and the well being of its citizens. He was well known for his extreme generosity to numerous local charities, and his involvement in fundraising events was detailed in the society pages of the local newspaper.

The three men gathered in the small room knew what Lucas Mendez was capable of, and wanted to nail his ass to the wall.

"Lieutenant, any ideas on where to go from here?" Detective Fowler broke the silence, toying with an empty Styrofoam cup that had held a potent serving of caffeine. "I want this bastard bad!"

"We all do," added Carlos.

"Yeah," agreed Garson, "but this one seems too good to be true."

"This could be our ticket, Lieutenant," offered Jake. "An eye witness from out of state, hell, out of the country, who knows nothing of Lucas Mendez. Someone who cannot be intimidated by a reputation she knows nothing about."

"I see your point," said Charlie, "although we'll have to tell her enough to give her an inkling of what we're up against."

It was by chance that his best homicide detectives were in on this one and the Lieutenant was curious. "Either of you mention the possibility of linking Mendez to Thompson's disappearance to anyone else?"

Sad as it may seem, you trusted no one when it came to Lucas. There was too much at stake to risk the chance of Mendez knowing their every move. Both men shook their heads and Garson breathed easier.

"I'll talk to Andrew Marcotte from the District Attorney's office to see where we stand. I'm going to push for a quick hearing before the Grand Jury on the grounds there's a need to temporarily protect the identity of our witness. We'll need to set up some protection, too. That should speed things up considerably." Rising to his feet, he added, "I'll fill the Captain in as warranted."

His subordinates nodded their heads.

"Obviously they never saw enough of her to recognise her face so she should be safe at her hotel for the time being," Carlos offered.

"Tomorrow the streets should be buzzing." Jake chuckled, a grin spreading across his face, "I'm sure Lucas must be climbing the walls by now."

"And with any luck, soon it'll be the walls of a jail cell instead of a penthouse."

The three men went to join Callie who was waiting anxiously for their return. When they entered, the officer named Charlie sat on the couch directly across from Callie and leaned forward, shortening the distance between them. The other men stood on either side of him.

Callie's deportment gave no sign of the fear she had experienced earlier, and she listened intently as the identity of the men she had pointed out was given, along with a brief yet dramatic depiction of their background.

"Wow! I really stumbled onto something, didn't I?" Callie said, a little dazed by what she had heard. "Talk about being at the wrong place at the wrong time. I don't suppose we can turn the clock back about twelve hours and none of this would have happened?" Her attempt at lightening the mood made all of them smile. She knew she was starting to ramble.

"Afraid not, Miss Masters." The tall blonde folded his powerful arms across his chest and leaned back on one leg. "Besides, you wouldn't have had the pleasure of meeting Miami's finest."

"How true. Especially you, Lieutenant." Her voice rang with sarcasm and she took pleasure in the fact that her words caused him to wince. Charlie's next words took the wind out of her sails.

"Apparently some introductions are in order. I'm Lieutenant Garson," the older man offered along with a scolding look, meant for Jake, "and this is Detective Jake Fowler."

Jake held out his hand and in a husky voice replied, "Pleased to meet your acquaintance."

Callie ignored his bid at a truce and said, instead, to the stocky man in front of her, "I'm sorry. Detective Fowler failed to correct my inaccurate assumption, much to my embarrassment." She shot the Detective a look filled with daggers for making her look foolish. He simply smiled and shrugged his shoulders, and Callie would have loved to wipe the silly grin off his face.

The Lieutenant extended his apologies for the misunderstanding, and proceeded to inform Callie that they would keep her abreast of any changes in the case. She would be secure at the seminar since her identity was presently unknown by the suspects.

Callie's ride back to the hotel was courtesy of Detective Quintana and both refrained from mentioning the circumstances that had brought them to this point.

She noticed his wedding ring and, to make conversation, asked about his family. Carlos was indeed married, to a bubbly Hispanic lady named Pierra and they had three children: a son who was a freshman in college and two teenaged daughters that constantly caused him worry. His wife was a nurse in the Emergency Ward at Poinciana General Hospital. As a matter of fact, that was how they had met-he as the patient and she as the nurse.

"I was a rookie and got all the lousy jobs," he explained, expertly weaving his weathered Mustang through the late afternoon traffic. "That day was no different. My partner was an old gumshoe who did not take kindly to-as he put it-babysitting the new kid. He resented the hell out of it!

"Well, I was on a donut run-yes, a donut run," Carlos glanced at Callie while they waited for the green light and she grinned at his words, "when I walked in on a lone gunman holding up the coffee shop. The guy was obviously strung out on something and started shooting as soon as he saw a cop. It was over in minutes and when it was, a waitress had been shot in the leg; I took a bullet in the shoulder and the gunman was dead. Shot himself."

Callie's smile disappeared.

"It gets better," Carlos reassured her. "At the hospital, a pretty young nurse was on duty and caught my eye. We hit it off right from the start and the rest, as they say, is history."

"That was a nice story, despite the tragedy."

"The funny thing is . . . to this day, I cannot eat donuts." His eyes asked Callie if she believed it. "I don't know why but they just sit in the back of my throat and all I do is gag."

They both laughed. It was an easy laugh. The kind you experienced after a funny joke with a good delivery. It felt good.

"I must congratulate you, Detective, you've succeeded in making me laugh my first heartfelt laugh since I landed in this city," her eyes blinked away the trace of tears brought on by her mirth.

"My pleasure."

When the laughter eased, out of curiosity, Callie asked. "How long have you been partners?"

"A little over five years."

"I can't help but get the impression he's almost joyous about this incident."

"I guarantee he's not morbid," he credited his partner, "but Jake and Lucas go back a few years." His mood was suddenly very dark. "Lucas has no greater enemy than Jake Fowler."

Before Callie could ask what he meant by that, the car stopped in front of her hotel and a valet was opening the door, ready to assist her from the vehicle. In a flash, the detective's face beamed with a smile as he bid her goodbye.

He gunned the accelerator, leaving Callie to selfishly ponder just how sane her decision had been to go to the police. Life sure would have been easier had her conscience simply left her alone.

Lucas leaned back into the plush sofa and reached his arms high above his head. The movement felt good so he stretched his arms out to the sides before dropping them in his lap. Next he swivelled his neck, slowly drawing out the built up tension.

He was alone in his penthouse suite overlooking Miami Beach, a luxurious high-rise where one could behold the magnificent view of endless ocean as it met the horizon. If your eye should tire of this, there was the rainbow neon of the curvaceous and flirtatious art deco architecture that towered along the coastline.

The apartment's decor was unique. Everywhere there was black trim, clear surfaces, and right angles. Serene, orderly modernity but with a catch.

Gold.

Lucas revered it and in this apartment, he paid homage to it: miniature statues, tasteful not offensive; elaborate goblets with gold stems; light fixtures highlighted with gold trim; etched glass and opulent picture frames. The most striking feature of all was the gold chandelier, which hung over the grand piano. Soft, creamy, gold wallpaper, the color blending perfectly with that of the thick and luxurious carpet, hugged the walls of every room.

To enhance the brilliant look of Lucas' prized gold, he had chosen the color black: French deco chairs, living room sofa, dining suite, and tinted glass.

The living area was spacious with a vaulted ceiling dotted with skylights, and a spiral staircase leading to the upper level.

Rising from the sofa, Lucas slid open a door on the endless glass window and proceeded onto the deck. The light breeze that accompanied the fading sun was refreshing, and he leaned his weight against the concrete barrier. The barrier prevented residents from plummeting to the street cafe below where patrons sipped champagne and viewed the bronzed, ponytailed weightlifters whizzing by on skateboards or the long-legged blondes in shimmering lycra suits strutting their stuff.

Lucas brought a hand through his dark, wavy hair, unbound and falling to his shoulders. Any traces of grey had been discreetly removed except for a touch at his temples, which added to his look of distinction. Not an excessively tall man, Lucas made up for this with a sturdy posture. Dedicated hours in the gym didn't hurt either. He was a strong fifty-four year old showing no rapid signs of ageing. He was proud of his capacity to control his physical appearance, another thing to be manipulated at his whim.

Normally, this perch twelve stories above the sand and surf brought solace to a mind full of turmoil. Not today. His thoughts were pre-occupied with the incident at the hotel.

Lyle Thompson had bucked Lucas' efforts to control him. Suddenly Lyle had been consumed with the pressing need to clear his conscience, and his threats to expose their convenient arrangement if Lucas didn't let him off the hook, had made it necessary to get rid of him. The lives of many people would have been affected should Thompson achieve redemption. This Lucas could not allow. He had seen to it that Thompson never opened his big mouth again.

Now there was the risk that someone had witnessed Thompson's demise.

Damn!

Lucas headed for his study, his anger taking each step with him. Willie found him there a short time later. He'd calmed down enough to attempt some paper work but he would be sure to have his secretary review some figures tomorrow because Lucas couldn't guarantee he hadn't made an occasional slip. His concentration level was definitely suffering and he freely admitted to it.

Without looking up, Lucas inquired, "What did you come up with?"

"Nothing," Willie said flatly, towering over the mahogany desk, hands clasped in front of him. His dark brown face was expressionless except for the occasional clenching of his jaw, the action a habit of his.

Lucas roughly flung aside the material he had been trying to read. He looked directly at Willie in disbelief.

"What do you mean, nothing!" His fist smashed against the desktop as his temper exploded once again. "I don't believe this! Where the hell are all those assholes I pay to keep me informed?"

Willie chose to remain silent, eyes focused on an imaginary object just above Lucas' head. This was what he usually did when Lucas expressed his rage.

"I saw someone, I know I did. So did you," he motioned at Willie, who nodded his agreement. "Obviously, whoever saw us survived-somehow," Lucas shook his head. "Or there'd be a corpse in the morgue and I'd know about it. It happened too fast . . . I'm positive he was behind that display!"

Lucas began pacing the floor, arms stiff, and the skin on his knuckles white as he made an effort to control his fury. A few moments passed before he spoke again, and it was with a more levelled pitch.

"I don't like this at all. The lid is on too tight . . . something's up."

He walked to the window, his hands now hanging loosely in the front pockets of his dark pants. He was pensive as he looked out, not actually seeing the dimming horizon.

"You personally took care of Thompson's body?" Lucas asked, loosening the silk tie around his neck and unbuttoning the collar of his shirt.

"Yes, Lucas," confirmed Willie. "I did exactly as you asked."

"Good." He turned to face the big black man. "I want everyone to dig deeper."

Willie acknowledged his boss with his customary nod and waited for his next instructions.

"Have Rio bring the car around, we're going to Banditos. I need to relax."

Lucas left the room and Willie followed him to the private elevator. The chauffeur was paged from a speaker on the elevator control panel. During the short drive to the club, Lucas rested his head on the back of the seat, trying to keep his mind blank. He could feel the tension slowly leave his body.

When the limousine stopped and the door opened, Lucas appeared as the compelling image people expected of him.

Banditos was a popular spot with the young at heart, the idle rich, the elite businessmen, and those who passed the intent scrutiny to become the privileged playmates and pawns of its clientele.

The spectacular neon never failed to dazzle. Colorful figures of intricate workmanship flashed on the walls. Ruby lips sipped bubbling champagne through a straw and dancers exhibited their shocking flexibility. Bikini clad swimmers dove into a bottomless pool while a hell-bent biker raced across the wall. A man and woman locked in a feverish embrace, then separated as the man raised his hand, palm forward, joining his forefinger and thumb. He winked, indicating what he perceived to be the makings of a promising intimate encounter.

The surroundings were very open with several mirror-backed bars scattered on the main floor. A second level, occupied by couples or groups seeking a more intimate ambience, encompassed only half the area of the ground floor, allowing way for the dance floor spotlights to display their kaleidoscope of colors. The furniture was comfortable, the atmosphere festive, men and women eager to please and the alcohol generous. The only rule of the house was that drugs be subdued and not openly consumed, which was generally respected by regulars. Occasionally a newcomer displayed flamboyant behaviour and was urged to curtail his actions or deal with the numerous muscular bouncers that were only too eager to include a troublemaker as part of their workout.

Even at this rather early hour the crowd was sizeable and many bid Lucas welcome as he made his way to his private table located on the mezzanine. The reserved area overlooked the far end of the dance floor, directly above the Deejay's booth. Pop and rock music blared from the speakers but not so loud that people had to yell to be heard.

Lucas' favourite brand of Scotch was waiting for him. After sitting down in one of the roomy booths, he broke the seal, poured two fingers of the fiery liquid into a glass of ice, and then drained the drink in one swig. His first drink was always consumed in this manner. He'd then continue in a more moderate fashion. People began stopping by his table and the rest of the evening consisted of a merry-go-round of acquaintances.

Lucas was ready to call it a night when he spotted an alluring redhead by the dance floor, swaying enticingly to the music. She smiled provocatively when he looked her way. He motioned for her to join him and she made her way to his table. Lucas bid everyone goodnight, to a chorus of disappointed groans, and stood to watch as she sauntered up to him. She wore a low-cut mini as if it was a second skin and he was pleased to see that the lights had not deceived her beauty.

They stared into each other's eyes, never exchanging a word. She ran a finger slowly down his chest, licking her lips at the same time. Lucas fiercely grabbed a handful of her hair at the nape of her neck and crushed her lips against his. With his other hand, he cupped a buttock and pressed her closely to himself. Exploring her eager mouth with his tongue sent a ripple of pleasure throughout his body. When Lucas stopped and pulled away, both were breathing heavy. She flashed a tantalising smile and slipped her arm through his as they descended the stairs, heading toward the door.

Lucas thought with a sigh, there is nothing like a passionate, lusty woman to help a man sleep peacefully.

Callie stopped speaking and pushed her chair away from the table. Standing, she walked to the large picture window, the heavily lined curtains drawn. Anne's hotel room was situated high enough to access the brilliant lights of the streets beyond but close enough to distinguish some detail of the shops and passers-by.

It took some time for Callie's story to sink in and when it had, Karen spoke first. "Why didn't you say anything about this sooner?"

"I didn't get an opportunity," Callie told the two women.

"How horrible!" Anne hugged her friend, expressing concern and support for what Callie had been through. "They say crime is rampant in the States, but this is ridiculous. Here a few hours and to have to witness something so horrible," she shook her head in disgust, "and then to get shot at to boot."

"I thought you weren't yourself today. You seemed preoccupied," Karen stated.

"Oh, sure you did, ole mother hen," teased Anne. "You never said anything to me."

"That's because you were too busy ogling the officer who came to collect Callie."

"Yes, well you must admit there was plenty of him to ogle," giggled Anne.

It made Callie sad to have dampened the mood of their trip.

"I wish I had mentioned it to you sooner," Callie said, trying to appear serious. "Your jabbering would have kept my mind occupied with other things."

The ladies stopped their chatter, expressions suddenly sober. A pillow landed on Anne's head, compliments of Callie, sending them all squealing with laughter.

When the laughter finally subsided, Karen said, "Were you able to identify the men? Did a police artist sketch their faces or, better yet, did you pick them out of a line up?"

"You've watched too many movies, Karen," Anne pestered the woman lounging on the sofa in a pair of sweatpants.

"Actually, they had me look at some pictures, not mug shots either, just a collection of snapshots. And, get this," Callie said, getting caught up in the excitement of the situation. She plopped down on the bed and tucked one leg under her. "Apparently the men involved are some pretty well-known figures in Miami."

"Oh, how intriguing." Anne's interest was sparked.

"No one really famous or anything," Callie shrugged, not bothering to mention names.

"What happens next?" asked Anne.

"I'm not sure, but I know one thing," Callie said, a hand covering her yawn, "I've got to get some shut eye or else I won't get anything out of tomorrow's workshop.

But Callie's sleep was fitful. On at least one occasion she woke with a start, remembering little of what she'd dreamt. All she recalled was Lucas Mendez's cold, black eyes. She refused to let it get the best of her. Lying still in the darkness, she took deep, methodical breaths before finally drifting off into a somewhat comforting sleep.

The hot redhead had proved to be exactly what Lucas needed and he tucked a generous number of bills into her panties before sending her away just before dawn, preferring his own company in the morning over that of a dishevelled whore.

Damn!

Still no word about the episode at the hotel.

Could he be so lucky? Is it possible that whoever witnessed Thompson's death had been too afraid to go to the cops? Lucas wouldn't rest comfortably not knowing for sure.

It was possible this person feared for his life, which was the smart thing to do. Lucas loved the aura of fear in those around him, at the same time despising those that displayed it.

Damn. Who could have seen us?

Lucas knew killing Lyle at the hotel had been bad judgement on his part, and it had not been his intention, but an all-consuming rage had clouded his appraisal of the situation. Whoever it was better take what he'd seen back home with him, and chalk it up to nightmare material. What that person would experience at Lucas' hands, should Lucas find him, would make what he saw a walk in the park.

Whoever it had been was lucky once, but Lucas would see to it that his luck would not continue. If the witness notified the cops, Lucas would hear about it-one way or another. He had a few greedy cops on his payroll to thank for that. Still, he hated it when things screwed up.

Lucas threw aside the pillow he had been wringing mercilessly in his hands and pulled his naked body from the bed. When he pushed a button against the wall, the blinds were automatically drawn and rays of sunlight streamed through the enormous windows. He laid an arm to rest on the cool, smooth glass and the course, dark hair stood in response to the icy touch.

With a face void of expression, Lucas stared at the ocean view and pondered his dilemma.

Willie paused at the bedroom door and watched the nude figure at the window, not wanting to interrupt his thoughts. Lucas was a striking man, clad or not. His lean physique was indicative of a man who commanded complete control of his life, and those around him.

He was in silent awe of the man who had saved him from certain death. Despite his ominous size, Willie had been no match for four guys yielding bats. After a good beating, some stranger with a gun scared them off, and months later when Willie got out of the hospital, this stranger invited him to his home, took him under his wing, and offered him a job. Lucas expected nothing in return-but Willie's loyalty.

Willie Kerr considered this no compromise for he owed this man his life and would have done anything asked of him.

Before meeting Lucas, Willie had no role models to speak of and was concerned only with himself. He'd been a kid of the streets, his mother dead, and his father living inside a bottle. He had existed hand to mouth, not caring what tomorrow brought.

That had changed.

Lucas gave his life a sense of purpose. Although Willie's role was subservient, he was treated with more respect than he had ever experienced before. In time, Lucas began to depend on Willie as much as Willie did on him. They complimented each other with a degree of give and take from which both benefited.

Willie was always aware of whose show it was, never caring for the lead role himself. He did not crave the approval and attention, so unlike his boss. There were many times Willie could literally sense what Lucas wanted, even before Lucas was aware of it himself.

In business, Lucas was aggressive-a real ball breaker. He hungered for control of every facet of his life. It was his drive never to repeat the powerlessness and vulnerability he experienced as a boy. The death of his parents, Isabelle and Samuel Mendez, and the subsequent adoption of his little sister, Leah, were landmarks in his life. A period of time Willie was certain moulded his character, in addition to changing his entire life. A government orphanage couldn't have been much more fun than Willie's upbringing but at least Lucas had known where he was going to sleep on any given night.

Lucas occasionally indulged in drugs; more often conceding to alcohol as a means of escaping his monopolising trait for control that otherwise deprived Lucas of his usual vitality. Everything and everyone served a purpose for Lucas, women included, discarding them when he was finished.

But only on Lucas' terms.

Willie knew all this about his employer but still he worshipped Lucas, and the world that opened up to him as a result of their relationship. The beautiful people in the world of art and nightclubs were light years away from the city streets where Willie had grown up.

The Cuban sensed Willie's presence, and turned from the window. Their eyes met but neither said a word. Willie's silence answered his boss' questioning look.

"The Grand Jury will hear the Mendez case." Lieutenant Charlie Garson informed his detectives, Carlos Quintana and Jake Fowler.

Carlos saw his relief reflected in his partner's face. Garson's next words brought wider smiles still.

"It's possible a decision for indictment could be handed down as early as the end of business today."

"That son-of-a-bitch is going to finally get what's coming to him." Jake's voice held venom, and Carlos knew his partner spoke for all of them.

"Yeah, well, he ain't on C Block yet," said the Lieutenant. He eyeballed the half-eaten Danish on his desk. "This gives us some time to figure out what we're going to do with our witness." In a single swallow it was gone, powered sugar on his chin.

"How do you do that to yourself, Charlie?" grimaced Jake, himself chewing on a rosy red apple, a bicep flexed at each bite and a taut jaw-line appeared as he chewed.

"Easy, Fowler. I just open my mouth and chew." The spare tire gathered around his mid-section hinted at his repeat performances of this morning ritual. "Shut up already, you're beginning to sound like my ex-wife!"

Carlos laughed, and Jake tossed his apple core in the wastepaper basket, a good twelve feet from where he stood. It landed precisely in the basket.

"Yes!" Jake cheered, bringing his arm back sharply toward his body, hand in a fist. Carlos gave him the thumbs up before the Lieutenant continued.

"With five hundred people around, it's impossible to ensure Callie Masters' safety at that seminar she's at. Mendez's lawyer will be provided with a witness list and statements after his arrest. This whole case hinges on Callie's testimony."

"There's no doubt Lucas will try to get to her." Carlos added.

"That's nothing new." Jake made reference to a long past with Lucas Mendez.

"There is no way getting around protective custody until the arraignment."

"That could take weeks . . . heck . . . months!" Jake offered objection clearly evident in his voice.

Everyone hates the babysitting assignments, thought Carlos, his earlier exuberance slightly marred.

"It's possible. But I'm going to do everything I can to put a rush on this. I'll argue the expense of manpower hours, if I have to, and get this one rolling as soon as possible."

Carlos lowered his weight into the chair behind him. Settling back he looked first at his supervisor, then his partner. "Any ideas?"

"Obviously we need a safe house," responded Jake.

"The usual flea bag motel?" Carlos shuddered at the flash of motel memories his mind conjured up.

"We do have a budget to consider," reminded the Lieutenant, wiping the pastry crumbs from his mouth with a paper napkin, sucking his teeth clean at the same time.

"Why not use Callie Masters' hotel room at the Carlton. You think Lucas would check the very spot where he committed murder? Maybe the seminar will even pick up the tab," teased Carlos.

"You know the Carlton is in direct competition with Fowler Resorts," Jake said facetiously, his manner formal and his tone proper.

"Your family just hasn't bought the damn thing yet." The Fowler name was well known in the Florida resort industry.

"You are probably right, my friend." Jake's manner was often flippant when it came to his family's wealth, but Carlos knew Jake had spent many hours contemplating his family's money. The task at hand saved him from dwelling on Jake's personal life.

"Yeah, and then see the fight you'll have keeping her from the seminar she's travelled thousands of miles to attend, taking place a few floors below her, no less." The Lieutenant's voice brought his men back on track.

"Charlie's right," agreed Carlos.

"Yeah, that won't work. This gal's got spunk. She might not listen to you, Carlos."

"She'll listen to me just fine, Fowler. I'll just sweet talk her with my verbal-"

"Garbage. Isn't that the word you were looking for, partner?" Carlos jerked his head up in offence, playing along with the ribbing. Then he sobered. "There's always the Largo Lodge Motel."

"No. I don't want to use anything familiar. We need something unusual." It was quiet as the three of them tried to think of some ideas. Jake broke the silence.

"I could get my hands on an estate in the Keys. Very secure. An hour by boat, and mine is gassed up and ready to go."

Sitting back in his chair, the Lieutenant mulled over the idea. "I can't think of anything better. How about you Carlos?"

"No, I'm coming up blank."

Charlie turned back to Jake. "Go ahead. Arrange to use it. You'll leave in the morning."

"Consider it done."

"Quintana, you can join them in a day or two. I'll need you here to tie up the loose ends. I want to know the full extent of Thompson's involvement in Mendez's operation. If all goes well, we might be able to pick up Lucas later today."

"If we're lucky, maybe the son-of-a-bitch will rot in jail tonight before he gets out on bail," Jake hissed.

Carlos admitted, it was a comforting thought.

That better be that last interruption, Lucas Mendez said to himself as he closed his office door. Stopping at the couch, he sat and stretched across the leather cushions, sinking into the full pillows. The black cowhide felt cool to the touch. Lucas' business ventures were extensive, but presently he hung his hat at The Galleria, an art gallery featuring renowned, and contemporary artists from all over the world.

Sculpture was his current passion and Lucas' office reflected it. The focal point was the desk he'd designed, combining glass and a synthetic substance similar to ceramic. It appeared as a sculptured flow of ivory in spacious and elegant surroundings. The room was odd in that it had several hidden corners and inlets where Lucas displayed select pieces of art. Rounded edges to the walls gave the room a sensuous feeling.

Lucas possessed an appreciative eye for artistry and a gifted sense when it came to unearthing new talent. He was quite active in the management of his considerable holdings. Today had been extremely hectic. The final preparations were finally complete for his Annual Charity Art Auction that evening. The guest list consisted of four hundred and fifty of Florida's most wealthy and elite expected to arrive shortly, and Lucas would be there to welcome each of them. It was an extravagant affair for which an invitation was eagerly awaited.

He exhaled with satisfaction, knowing every detail had been covered. It didn't take long for his mood to falter, however, with the incident at the hotel creeping in. A tap on the door signalled the arrival of guests and prevented Lucas from brooding. He dragged himself from his cosy perch, quickly changed his clothes, and went to greet his guests. Looking handsome and impressive in his tuxedo, Lucas convivial charm was spread generously among the crowd. Miles Westab, his Assistant, whispered a phenomenally large amount of money in Lucas' ear, donations to date, and it brought a wide smile to his lips. Tonight was proving to be the most successful auction yet. Lucas was quite pleased with himself. The rush of his success was exhilarating.

At least this is going right.

He felt like King Kong, and he wasn't about to let anything dampen his mood. The woman standing beside Miles caught his eye and he appraised the young blond, making no attempt to be discreet. He allowed his eyes to travel lustily, soaking in the thin straps of her sandals wrapped around dainty ankles. Her long gown was a brilliant red, her silhouette sleek, and sequence glimmered under the lights. The designer had to be Herve Leger; it was a name Lucas remembered, a fan of the body-hugging bandage-wraps. Lucas' hand found the small of her back, and he steered her closer.

"You look beautiful tonight," Lucas whispered in her ear as he placed a moist, feather-like kiss on her neck. She smiled, appreciative.

Hmmm, oh so young, Lucas thought. He felt a rush of lust. Drawing his head away from the fragrance of her perfume, Lucas spotted someone watching him from across the room. He froze, eyes glued to the face of his nemesis, Jake Fowler. Their eyes met, both filled with the deep-seated hatred each felt for the other.

"Be right back," Lucas whispered as he left the pretty blond... A few strides later the two men stood face to face. Their images were definite contrasts. Lucas-dark and formal. Jake-fair and casual.

"What are you doing here?" Lucas seethed. Seeing Jake here, tonight, could only mean trouble.

"I'm not here for pleasure, Mendez," Jake glared back. Then the corners of his mouth yielded to a slow grin. "Although I'm going to get a lot of enjoyment out of this visit."

Handcuffs Jake had been hiding in his palm clicked shut around Lucas' wrist, a scratching sound unmistakable as it made contact with his Rolex watch.

"Lucas Mendez, you are under arrest for the murder of Lyle Edward Thompson." The words were almost shouted for all the patrons to hear, and Lucas visibly cringed, his eyes searching widely for Willie.

Reading his thoughts, Jake said, "You won't find him Lucas. Willie's busy wrestling four officers in the alley." His brow creased pensively. "Hmmm . . . seems Willie is claustrophobic. Can't stand the cramped quarters in the back of a cruiser. That's too bad. Doesn't look like he'll fair too well in a prison cell." Jake's partner stood back a bit, just far enough to let Jake enjoy the moment. Lucas thought about bolting for the door, but decided to avoid any further humiliation by resisting arrest.

"You will pay for this Fowler!" Lucas hissed.

"What's this?" Jake acted shocked. "Threatening a police officer? It's pay back time, Mendez, and I'm going to see to it that you don't slime your way out of this one. Guaranteed!"

Jake pushed Lucas roughly at his partner. To the people whispering among themselves, he said, "You can read all about it in the morning newspaper, folks. Have a nice evening." He gave the crowd a casual salute, and turned to the dumbfounded Art Director.

"I'd deposit those big fat checks a.s.a.p. Before these good people withdraw their support."

Callie arrived at Lieutenant Garson's office early the next morning, following instructions left for her at the hotel. She had requested no disturbances the evening before, hoping to get some uninterrupted sleep. The Lieutenant was waiting for her when she came through the doorway, and hurriedly ushered her into his office where Detectives Quintana and Fowler were waiting, lounging on the couch. They straightened their postures when she entered. Motioning for her to take a seat in a chair positioned before his desk, the Lieutenant dropped his sizeable frame into the worn chair. His desk was laden with files and paperwork, just enough room for him to fold his arms on the surface. Callie was certain he was a very busy man - with more than enough on his plate already - besides the events that she had recently witnessed. Loosening his tie, Charlie Garson's chair creaked as he shifted. The blinds on the window behind him were drawn, blocking out the brilliant sun creeping over the horizon. A bookshelf held the odd photograph.

The Lieutenant wasted no time, quickly getting down to the business at hand.

"Lucas Mendez and Willie Kerr were arrested last night."

"Already?" Her eyes passed between the three men. "That was fast."

"And long overdue!" was Detective Fowler's comment. The Lieutenant's look stopped him from adding any other remarks.

"I take it you don't need a body to proceed?"

"No. This case will be prosecuted solely on your testimony," said the Lieutenant. His words made her feel edgy. It was an awful lot of responsibility for one person, and Callie wasn't so sure she wanted the job.

"The D.A.'s office gave us the go ahead so we wasted no time. Both will be out on bail before lunch today, and their lawyers have been given copies of your signed statement." He picked up a stack of typed papers and dropped them on the desk again, in front of Callie. The rush of movement sent a shiver down her spine.

She felt cold . . . cold and scared.

If possible, the Lieutenant's round face became more solemn. Apprehension settled over Callie at the thought of what would come next.

"At this point we are concerned with your safety." He met her eyes, unwavering. "We cannot assure your well being at the seminar you're attending."

"You're kidding, right?" Callie asked with an uneasy chuckle. She was answered with stone-faced silence. Grabbing at straws, she said, "Why can't you protect me at the seminar?"

"Too many people. Makes it far too easy for someone to gain access to you." Lieutenant Garson was doing all the talking.

I really didn't think this thing through, did I? Callie found herself asking.

"We have another issue to consider." Suddenly he appeared extremely edgy. "As I mentioned to you yesterday, we have experienced . . ." he paused to clear his throat, appearing to struggle to find the right words. "We have experienced difficulties in our attempt to convict Mendez of other crimes." Beside him, Detective Fowler's brow lifted. His mouth opened to speak, and then he seemed to think better of it, for he remained silent. The Lieutenant continued.

"We have reason to believe that Mendez may have one or more police officers on his payroll." When he saw Callie's startled look the officer quickly added, "This is a very serious allegation I am making." His face revealed distress over such an admission. "Our greatest concern is for your safety. We fear that information regarding your identify, and your whereabouts, may be leaked to Mendez."

"This guy wouldn't blatantly try to harm me, would he?" she asked, already knowing the answer deep in her gut. Yes, he would.

"Lucas plays by his own rules."

"This is insane." Callie shrugged in disgust.

"In a word - you've described Lucas Mendez," Jake sneered. "Lucas will stop at nothing to keep you from testifying against him."

Callie hated the way the Detective emphasised the word nothing. The seriousness of the situation she was in overwhelmed her. Callie had been too anxious to ease her conscience to actually stop and think of all the ramifications of her going to the police. Once again, she questioned her Good Samaritan intentions.

Christ, this is becoming something straight out of the movies, Callie thought, feeling more than a little naive.

"For this reason, we have set up a safe house for you where you'll receive around the clock protection."

"Whoa! Just a minute." What was happening? "Back up here." Her hands flew up protectively. Pausing briefly, she tried to remain calm. Callie's throat suddenly felt dry, and it was an effort to swallow.

"You don't understand. This is a very important seminar." The moment she said it, Callie knew her words sounded frivolous. A hasty refusal to leave a seminar when two men may harm her, should they find her, truly did sound silly when you thought about it.

Detective Fowler and Quintana sat in their seats, saying nothing.

"We know the severity of the situation is hitting home for you."

Callie nodded, not trusting her voice.

"We've taken the liberty of arranging for safe and comfortable accommodations." His speech was slow and deliberate. "Your name has been deleted from the hotel's computer so there is no record of your stay." There was a pause in his words before delivering his next statement. "We've done this in an effort to secure the safety of your colleagues as well."

Anne. Karen. Their names burst into Callie's thoughts.

"My God, I never thought . . ." she started.

"If you co-operate, Ms. Masters, we can better ensure their safety. And yours. Otherwise . . ." He let his words trail off. His attempt at reassurance fell short.

Callie couldn't stand the idea of her two friends in any danger, and she shuddered at the thought. She wondered about the ugly hand that fate had dealt her. Instantly, she felt selfish. Lyle Thompson hadn't exactly come out the winner either.

Slowly Callie nodded her head. "I have no choice!" She said. Closing her eyes briefly, she wished this nightmare would end. She even promised God she'd listen more intently to the lecturer, if only he'd take her to the auditorium the moment she opened her eyes. Instead it was the Lieutenant's face she saw, his brown eyes filled with compassion. There was something else, too. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, and when he spoke to the Detectives, Callie realised it was restrained excitement she had seen.

This conviction seems to make a few people in the police department happy, Callie thought.

"I don't want to risk exposing Ms. Masters, not even to Lucas' lawyer. The ID she made from the photos will do. No need to organise a line up."

Callie was shaking off images of her friends in trouble when her eyes fell on the document the Lieutenant had referred to earlier. She was used to having her name spelled wrong, it happened quite often, but the way they had it recorded on the papers in front of her was a version she had never seen before. She picked up the document to show it to the Lieutenant.

"Looks like someone in the typing pool needs their eyes checked, Lieutenant," Callie told him. "They have me recorded as Cal Lee Masters." The Lieutenant took the papers she held up.

"You're right. Someone wasn't on the ball." He flipped through the pages, noting the same error whenever reference was made to her full name. "In our haste yesterday, I didn't spot the mistake."

"Neither did I, and I signed the thing." C. Masters graced the last page. The strokes were broad, yet legible.

"Hmmm . . ." he pondered. "We are positive no one saw your face that night, right?"

"Right. Willie not recognising her outside the restaurant proves that," Jake confirmed.

Callie reassured. "If they saw anything, it was the top of my head before I ducked down behind the display stand."

"How were you wearing your hair?"

"Excuse me, Lieutenant?" Callie was confused by the intent of his question.

"How did you style your hair that day? Was it hanging loose like you have it now or tied back?"

"Uh . . ." she thought for a second, "I had my hair in a braid down my back. Why?"

"Bare with me on this one guys," said the Lieutenant, "but if you only saw the top of Callie's head, could you assume she was a he if you didn't know he was a she?"

"What? Have you lost it Charlie?" Clucked Carlos.

"No, wait a minute," was his partner's response. "The way Callie wears her long hair-with no bangs, simply combed back -I could see it on a guy or a girl. Look, Carlos," Jake said as he rose to his feet. He grabbed a file folder from the desk, and walked behind Callie's chair. His hand felt warm on her back as he gathered her hair with one hand, using the other to hold the paper in front of Callie's face, shielding her identity, boxing off her view of the room.

"I see what you're getting at. If Lucas and Willie only saw the top portion of Callie's head, I could see them believing she was a man. The name on the statement would only confirm that."

"I've got another idea," the Lieutenant offered. "With us not knowing the source of Lucas' pipeline into the department, maybe we should go so far as to set up a decoy in a safe house? You know, to cover all our bases."

"A Mr. Cal Lee Masters," confirmed Detective Carlos.

"Carlos, we'll need you to pull in a favour from one of your snitches. A big one! See if you can find someone who wants to earn a few bucks sitting around and watching t.v."

"Sure boss, I'll see what I can do."

"In a minute . . . I have one more idea." He turned toward the other men, speaking more to them than to Callie. "If it helps to save our eyewitness' skin, it'll be worth it, so work with me."

The smile on Callie's lips disappeared at the mention of possible harm coming to her, and fear crept in again.

She didn't mask her feelings. When the Lieutenant turned to her, his face softened as he realised his insensitive choice of words. "I know you aren't pleased with this arrangement," he said, his expression apologetic, "but I'm going to ask one more thing of you. Keep in mind, I have your best interests at heart when I suggest this."

She nodded and braced herself for his request.

"This statement implies that our witness is male and I think we should go with it. Corrections can be made later in Court."

The other men agreed. Then Lieutenant Garson looked at Detective Fowler and said, "Jake, when you leave this room, I want you to introduce Callie to a few of the guys. Say she's a friend of yours in town for a visit. We can't have Ms. Masters linked to this case. Everyone in the department knows about the Mendez case, and they all know now it becomes a waiting game. Hell, even mention you are going away for a few days, it'll explain your disappearance for a while. You know how gossip travels around here."

Callie was about to object her mouth half-open ready to voice her disapproval, when Detective Fowler piped in.

"Sure Charlie, that's not a problem."

The look the oversized beachboy gave her was all innocence, and Callie knew her refusal would appear foolish. As much as Detective Fowler annoyed her, it was a minor request compared to the whole scope of things. She flashed him a look of defeat, so he wouldn't think she was eager to play the role of his friend, and nodded her head in agreement.

"Okay, off with the two of you then," the Lieutenant ushered them away. "I've made arrangements for Ms. Masters luggage to be delivered to the marina. It should be there by the time you arrive."

Detective Fowler stood and extended an arm, indicating Callie join him. Reluctantly, she rose and laced her hand through his arm. They proceeded to enter the outer office while the Lieutenant and Detective Quintana remained behind.

"Put a smile on your face. I'm not all that bad."

Callie raised her head to meet his eyes, for she only reached his shoulders, and feigned a radiant smile.

"Now that's more like it."

"Hey, Jake," someone shouted.

A heavy man, somewhere in his late forties, held up his hand in greeting. Brown hair, with grey at the crown, was brushed off his brow as he made his way around some empty desks toward them. A younger male, with a build similar in its roundness, followed a few steps behind him. Both were wearing silly grins and Callie knew they had seen her smile, misinterpreting it. They had been too far away to catch Jake's remark.

"Clayton, its good to see you." Jake shook off Callie's arm before shaking the man's hand. "And Bobcat, how you doing?"

"Not bad."

"They way you look, Clayton, I take it you had a good holiday," Jake motioned to the older officer, who removed from his mouth the toothpick he'd been chewing.

"Yeah, it was great. Makes it hard to come back to work after you've had a life of leisure for a few weeks, but I'll give it a try."

"You better, McMillan," Bobcat blurted. "I've covered your ass long enough," he complained as he tucked a set of keys in the front pocket of his grey cotton trousers, and hiked them up at the waist.

Callie was surprised by the paunchy appearance of the men, and wondered about the required fitness level of plain clothed officers. One look at these two fellows told you it either didn't exist, or was not strictly enforced.

"Heard about your bust last night. I bet that one felt good, hey?"

"The best!" Detective Fowler beamed. "If it weren't for the fact that he'll be out on bail soon, it would be the highlight of my career."

"Yeah, there's one Cuban with an attitude," Bobcat remarked. "And who is this lovely creature?" Clayton asked as he turned to include Callie in their conversation. A wide smile creased his already wrinkled face.

She sensed a bit of hesitation on Jake's part about telling his friends of their fabricated acquaintance, even though moments ago he had seemed gung-ho. Callie took the reigns, letting him off the hook.

"Hi, I'm Kelly." Opting for the name she was often mistaken for, purposely leaving out her last name.

"Clayton McMillan." Gesturing to the man beside him, he added, "and my partner Bob Greeley. We call him Bobcat because Stud Muffin was already taken," he teased.

"Aha," Bobcat scoffed. To Callie, he said, "Actually I rejected that nickname-didn't want to scare off the ladies." And he winked.

Callie couldn't help but laugh as she shook their hands. What these officers lacked in agility they made up for with humour.

Then Bobcat sobered, before continuing. "Serious though, Jake's the one who could use all the help he can get. Right, Clayton?"

"Righto," agreed his partner. "But I'd say his luck is changing. How did he find a beauty like you?"

"We go way back," Callie answered, looking at the man she had mistaken for the Lieutenant. He nodded, grinning from ear to ear, as if loving every moment of her lies. Callie put even more effort into her performance. "Actually, I'm in Miami on business but I had some free time on my hands and decided to stop by and see my old friend." She emphasised the word "old", all the while smiling up at Jake. She slipped her arm through his. "As a matter of fact, Jake is taking a few days off to show me the sights."

Giving her old friend a provocative look, she flirted shamelessly, enjoying the red hue that started at the Detective's neck and travelled upward.

"Yeah . . . well . . ." Detective Fowler paused to clear his throat, giving Callie enormous pleasure at his apparent discomfort. "It will take some time before everyone has their act together on this case, so a couple days off are in order." He was doing a good job of restraining his humour and Callie hoped she didn't live to regret this little acting session.

"You couldn't have picked a finer candidate than this big guy to show you around." Clayton chuckled and slapped her companion on the back. "Well, we won't keep you. Jake, make sure you get hold of me when you get back to work."

"Yeah, I will."

They said their goodbyes. Even before the men were out of sight, Jake started to laugh. Standing beside him, Callie waited for him to stop but he just kept on laughing. Losing her patience, she tried to pull her arm free from his. Her movement made the Detective's laughter cease. He stopped her escape by circling his arm around her waist, still clinging to her arm. Now they stood facing each other, posed similar to a couple about to embark on their first steps of a ballroom waltz.

"You did that very well, Kelly," He lingered on the pronunciation of her fictitious name. "The only thing is, I'm sure they're wondering just what sights I'll be showing you."

He had to know she hadn't been serious. She had been playing along with the scheme his boss had suggested. Feeling her actions alone had not warranted that impression, she said, "Why? Does your reputation precede you?"

He pulled her even closer, until their faces were but inches apart.

"Possibly." His voice was husky as he looked directly into her eyes.

She returned his stare. Uncertain of this man's behaviour, Callie didn't know what to expect next. Alarm flashed in her eyes and her upper lip might have quivered, she wasn't sure. Quickly she blinked away her anxiety, and bit her lip until pain registered slightly. She didn't want to reveal to this man any of her trepidation. She felt she had exposed enough weakness in the last twenty-four hours already, something she didn't often do, and certainly not among strangers.

Callie wasn't quick enough to predict his next move, and there was no time to turn a cheek to the lips that covered her own. His kiss startled her, her mouth opening slightly in surprise, allowing him complete access to her full lips. She did not kiss him back, nor did she stop him. She was caught off guard. When she did realise what was happening, the hand she had raised protectively when he had pulled her to him was now used to press against his chest, pushing him away with all the strength she could muster.

They parted at the same time the sound of applause reached Callie's ears. Both turned to find several officers voicing their approval, but not before the Detective recognised the deprecation in her face, and felt the pressure of her rebuff.

Confused and humiliated by what Jake Fowler had just done, Callie blushed from ear to ear. On impulse, she moved toward the door. When she reached the hall she looked back, expecting the officer to be close behind her, instead she found him bent over in an arrogant bow and her confusion was replaced by anger.

Lucas Mendez stood on the steps of the courthouse with his lawyer, Stan Derksen. Anger froze his features, making his expression mean, and he grumbled under his breath. His tuxedo needed pressing, thanks to a night spent in a holding cell. Vowing revenge on two rookie cops after a humiliating strip search, and being dumped in a small cubicle with a fowl smelling drunk who snored so badly it was like a rattlesnake occupied the bunk beneath him, Lucas' mood was ugly and showed no sign of improving.

"Mr. Mendez," Stan pleaded. "I did the best I could, but there was no one around last night to authorise your release before a bail hearing."

"Yeah, well, your best wasn't good enough, Stan. You're fired!" Lucas left the wide-eyed, red-faced attorney with his over-stuffed briefcase, and descended the stairs to the awaiting limousine.

Stan visibly cringed at Lucas' words, and for good reason. The hierarchy at McLeod & Elliott would be requesting Derksen's key to the executive washroom with news of his termination. It had happened to numerous lawyers before him, for reasons of much less importance.

Lucas' expectations were exceedingly high. Those who did not meet these expectations were fired. When it came to the law, Lucas believed there were ways of getting around any restrictions imposed-if you had the very best legal minds working on your behalf. For his enormous generosity, Lucas demanded these litigious loopholes.

Willie stood next to the limousine, holding the door, and both he and Lucas climbed in. Before the door shut behind them, Lucas bellowed orders. "I want to know everything about this witness the cops have conjured up-including where they're holding him." Irritation coated his words.

As the car left the curb, Lucas leaned back and closed his eyes. Breathing in deeply, he attempted to clear his mind. Nothing seemed to being right for him. As an afterthought, he made one last request.

"Oh, and tell Bill McLeod I'll be needing another new lawyer."

Neither Callie nor Jake spoke during the drive to the marina.

Callie flung her white sweater over the back of the car seat, and stared out the window the entire trip. To a person new to Miami, the sites that flashed by were like a kaleidoscope of colors. The city was a beguiling amalgam of the rich and the poor, the historic, and the modern. Multi-storied complexes reached for the sky and historical landmarks beckoned the homage of tourists. The homes ranged from elaborate estates stretched over acres of impeccably landscaped grounds to tacky, old buildings that appeared deserted. Streets were lined with palm trees and populated with people-young and old, locals and foreigners.

Jake appeared engrossed in his own thoughts too, his hands automatically maneuvering his black Camaro along the windy road to the marina.

When the car came to a stop Callie quickly opened the door, and jumped out. The bright sun warmed her back and shoulders. Out of habit she located the bright spot in the sky, her eyes shielded beneath her palm. The afternoon promised to be a hot one, and the humidity was intense.

Boats of all shapes and sizes dotted the pier and she couldn't help but think of home. Her childhood bedroom at her parent's cosy home, in the suburb of Whiterock, overlooked the marina. The touch of familiarity made Callie relax a bit, and she took a deep breath of the salty air and slowly exhaled. As she looked around at the boats, Callie wondered which one was Jake's.

Since the kissing episode Callie had discarded Jake's official title, and now opted for referring to the detective by his given name. Why not? It looked like they were going to be forced to share each other's company for the duration.

Exactly how long, God only knew.

As if on cue, Jake appeared at her elbow to lead her down the steps to the main pier, which ran parallel with the tide. She shook off his hand, just a little defensive, and took larger steps in order to widen the distance between them. The small heels that she had worn were not exactly appropriate for walking on wood planking, and she concentrated on every step. So intent was she that at first she didn't notice that her glorified bodyguard had stopped following her. Not hearing his footsteps, she turned.

Jake stood before a cabin cruiser that, despite her inexperienced eye, she knew was a beauty. It had to be forty feet long with a raised cabin and the bridge positioned above the living quarters. The brass was polished, the decks varnished, and the fibreglass gleaming white with black trim.

Callie hadn't expected anything quite so nice. Her ego still bruised, she gave no trace of approval. She did not want to feed the ego of the overbearing narcissist she had the misfortune of accompanying. Callie simply shrugged nonchalantly, and retraced her steps.

Jake's face, nonetheless, reflected his pride.

Standing beside him on the pier, Callie spotted the letters C.A.S.T.L.E. II painted in black on the bow. Castle II.

Callie immediately wondered what held the title Castle I.

Jake assisted her on board, and spoke for the first time since leaving the police precinct. "Why don't you go below and see if your luggage is here yet, while I get ready to cast off."

Callie did as he said.

A dinette and galley occupied the first level. A sitting area that also served as a berth was on the starboard side. Callie found her suitcase just inside the door on the floor.

"Found it," she yelled up to Jake. Rather than going back up, she moved toward the bow and down the couple of stairs to inspect the ample stateroom. She marvelled at the numerous built-in features that took advantage of every square inch of living space, providing every necessity. It almost made one forget about the restricted walking area on board.

One could easily live in these surroundings all year round, Callie thought to herself. Maybe Jake didn't live in a house or apartment like most people. With this guy, Lord only knew, and Callie admitted she wouldn't be surprised if that truly was the case.

Her quick eye took in the high level of cleanliness, a little clutter but not much amiss, and Callie was slightly taken aback. Although Jake's appearance was neat enough, she got the impression from his blasé mannerism that he probably dressed himself haphazardly, and did not pay too much attention to detail when it came to his personal life-even though his job dictated the opposite. She would have guessed him for more of a slob, not the well-organised individual this setting implied.

Maybe there was a female influence in his life, but a brief check of the clothes closet revealed only male attire. Not willing to shake her first impression, Callie decided Jake must have someone come in to tidy things up for him because she just couldn't picture any domesticity where Jake was concerned.

The motor kicked in and she braced herself by hanging onto the bureau as the vessel started to move. Making her way back in the direction she'd come, Callie joined Jake on deck.

The bridge was partially covered, affording shelter from the wind under a detachable roof. An L-shaped bench toward the stern allowed one to enjoy the sun. Two high-backed chairs, covered in cloth to save your skin from the relentless heat of the sun, flanked the comfy captain's chair situated in the centre with an oversized steering wheel before it. Callie thought the wheel to be a bit more elaborate than the size of the watercraft required, but it appeared impressive just the same.