"It's called football because you play it with your feet!"

Jo knew she was in the right place when she heard the man's annoyed voice. He was posh and British. Her kind of football was played in abandoned lots with shirts and skins. It wasn't soccer.

"Detective Martinez," she announced above the arguing fray. She flashed her badge as identification. "I'm here to escort Henry Morgan to the stadium."

"Thank god!" the dark haired man in question said as he moved toward her, flipping the long tails of his scarf around his neck.

"I wonder why anyone would try to kill you, Mr. Morgan. Is it your sweet personality?" she asked sarcastically as they started walking toward the waiting car.

"I think it's for the insurance money, but they can't kill me. I'm in top physical shape," he said nearly walking ahead of her.

She put her arm out to halt his progress. "Let me go first. It's safer for you that way."

"You don't have to do this, detective," he whined at her.

"According to my boss, I do. You seem to be the man with the golden feet, so I'm going to protect you and get you there. Is that understood?" she asked him in a no-nonsense voice.

Making the face of a surly child, Henry said, "Yes, detective."

"Good," Martinez replied, her expression softening a little. "I'm glad we agree with each other."

At the end of the long tunnel, she made sure the coast was clear. Then she stuffed him in the back seat of the car with her sitting beside him. Jo motioned for the driver to go, and then they were off to the stadium.