CHAPTER 11

Michael arrived at Nikita's apartment as the crime scene techs and Birkoff pulled up. A second-floor door stood open and Nikita was clearly outlined as she talked and gestured to two uniformed cops.

He watched as Birkoff approached them and showed his ID. They spoke for a moment, then everyone moved inside the apartment. The crime scene people hustled up the stairs with their kits.

Michael itched to check out the apartment, but he remained in the car. There was that little problem of maintaining his cover. At least for the time being.

Ten minutes passed. Nikita and the cops were coming down to the parking lot. Nikita kept running her hands through her hair in jerky motions and glancing around. They stopped beside one of the squad cars while one officer reached inside for a clipboard.

While her back was turned, Michael eased out of the car, ducked behind some shrubbery and sprinted up the steps.

"Who are you?" demanded an elderly neighbor from the doorway of the unit next to Nikita's.

"FBI."

The woman looked skeptical. "I don't see any identification."

"Right." Michael reached in his shirt pocket and brought out his ID. He offered it for inspection. Once satisfied, the old lady relaxed.

"FBI? What's this all about? You're not implying Miss Wirth is involved in something fishy, are you?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"I've known Miss Wirth for two years. She's a lovely person. She always waters our plants when we go to Florida to visit the grandkids."

"Is that right? Did you see or hear anything unusual tonight, ma'am?"

"Nothing. But I may have dozed off during The Sopranos marathon."

Michael handed over a card. "If you remember anything, even if it seems unimportant, please call me."

She nodded. "Of course. I hope you find whoever did this. It's just shameful."

"Edith! Shut that front door. All the air conditioning is escaping," groused a male voice from within the apartment.

Edith rolled her eyes and pursed her lips. "In a minute, Frank." To Michael she said, "I mentioned this to the officers, but you should talk to the young men in apartment 10. Moved in a couple of months ago. Had some loud parties. You know what I mean."

"Yes, ma'am. Do you know their names?"

Edith darted a glance toward the apartment. "They're brothers. Hillinger's the name."


"It may be several hours before the crime scene guys wrap up, Miss Wirth. Do you have family or friends you could stay with tonight?" asked the burly lead investigator.

"My friend Carla lives five minutes from here." Nikita sighed and opened the bottle of water someone had thrust into her hand. "But my purse is still upstairs."

"Why don't you get it and I'll have one of my men drive you over."

"Thank you." Nikita trudged toward her ransacked apartment feeling bone-tired. When she entered the living room, she got angry all over again. The technicians were busy dusting for fingerprints and taking photographs and took no notice of her.

I'll grab a nightshirt, she thought. Surely, they don't need that for evidence.

She stopped at the bedroom door. Two men were there. One had introduced himself as Special Agent Birkoff and the other one, well, there was something vaguely familiar about him.

Recognition hit her like a speeding eighteen-wheeler. The intriguing, yet annoying man from the grocery store and the plane.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" she shrieked, rushing forward. "ARE YOU STALKING ME?"

Both men turned. Michael's right hand reflexively reached for the weapon in his back waistband. Then he dropped his hand.

"Relax, Nikita. I'm on your side."

"How do you know my name?" she demanded. To Birkoff she said, "Who is this man?"

Birkoff's cell phone rang. He stepped into the hall to answer it.

He'd been burned. Michael had no choice but to come clean with blondie. He replaced his weapon. "I'm FBI Special Agent Michael Samuelle, from Miami."

For the first time, Nikita noticed the ID around his neck. Then her eyes dropped to his left hand and the lacy pink bra he held. She reached out and snatched it away. "I'll take that, if you don't mind."

Michael grinned.

"This is about Gray, isn't it?" She balled the bra up in her fist.

Michael lifted his gaze back to her face and cleared his throat. Before he could respond, Birkoff stepped back into the room. His eyes flicked from Nikita to Michael and back again.

"That was the hospital. Gray Wellman died on the operating table."

"Gray . . . died. Oh my God," moaned Nikita. Her knees buckled and she fainted.

Straight into Michael's arms.

CHAPTER 12

Michael scooped Nikita up, then gently deposited her among the scattered lingerie and pajamas on top of the sleigh bed.

"Birkoff! Get a wet cloth!"

Birkoff stepped over and around things into the bathroom and turned on the tap.

Michael pushed the hair out of Nikita's face and stroked her soft cheek. In a low tone he murmured, "Nikita. Wake up, Nikita."

Birkoff returned with the damp washcloth and Michael bathed her face and neck. Her eyes fluttered open and a frown creased her forehead. "What . . ."

"You fainted. You've had a long, traumatic day."

Nikita struggled to sit up. "Gray . . . you said he died?" She clapped a hand to her mouth. "How awful. They wouldn't let me see him in the hospital. He was in a coma. I can't believe he's gone." Tears welled up in her eyes.

Birkoff handed her a box of tissues from the dresser. She grabbed a handful and swiped at her eyes. "What happens now?" she asked Michael.

"We need to talk at headquarters. Take a statement. But that can wait until morning. You need some rest."

Nikita nodded numbly and pushed to her feet. She swayed a bit and Michael's hands shot out to steady her. "When did you last eat?"

"Around eleven. Had a cinnamon roll."

Michael jerked his head toward the door. "Birkoff, see if there's any food here."

Holding firmly to her arm, Michael propelled Nikita to the small kitchen.

"Only a head of lettuce and a birthday cake," said Birkoff.

Nikita roused from her lethargy and shook off Michael's hand. She marched to the refrigerator and stared inside. "That stupid carrot cake. It was Gray's favorite. But I hate carrot cake!"

She picked up the cake and dumped it into the garbage can. Thunk!

Michael and Birkoff exchanged a look. "Let's go," said Michael. "I'm not too fond of carrots myself."

Birkoff cast a wistful glance at the can. "I like carrot cake," he mumbled.


After conferring with the APD officer in charge of the scene, Michael ushered Nikita to his vehicle. "I'll drive you to your friend's house. Birkoff will pick you up in the morning and take you to FBI headquarters."

Nikita sighed deeply. "Whatever you say. But I've already told them everything I know."

When they were seated and buckled in, Michael said, "Let it go for now. Tomorrow when you're refreshed you might remember some detail, okay?"

Nikita nodded and stared through the windshield. She had a defeated look about her as she toyed with the box of tissues.

Michael opened the console between them and pulled out a chocolate bar. "Would this help?" He could deal with anger or lust in a woman, but tears scared the crap out of him.

A small smile played on her lips. Michael was struck again by her beauty. Even with red-rimmed eyes and tangled hair, she was gorgeous. He was almost glad Gray was out of the picture. He didn't deserve a woman like Nikita. Of course, with Gray gone there were some questions that could never be answered.

"Only a fool would refuse chocolate," she declared and began unwrapping the bar. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Where does your friend live?"

Nikita gave him directions as she polished off the candy bar.

Michael backed out of the parking lot and drove a couple of blocks until he spotted a fast food joint. He went through the drive-through and ordered some burgers and shakes. Nikita started to protest, but Michael held up a hand. "You don't want your blood sugar to drop."

"No chance of my cholesterol dropping either."

Michael pulled to the edge of the parking lot and cut the engine. They ate in silence for a few moments. It was like a cheap date. They could have gone inside, but Michael hoped she would start to unwind and talk about Gray. He didn't want her distracted by other patrons.

"How could I have been so wrong about Gray? I thought I knew him better than that."

"How long did you date?"

"Over a year. He was a guest at a wedding I worked on. He was funny and charming and seemed dedicated to his work."

"What about his relatives? Did you meet any of them?"

"His parents died in a car crash several years ago and he didn't have any siblings." Nikita paused to sip her chocolate shake. "Wait a minute. I met a cousin once. Richard something. He had a cabin in the mountains and we drove up there one Saturday. It was near the South Carolina line."

Michael kept his expression neutral. It could be important or it could be nothing. But at least it was something new. They finished their burgers and drove on to her friend's apartment.

"If you recall anything else, call me," said Michael as he gave her his card.

Nikita studied the card. "If you're from Miami, why are you up here?"

"The case I was working on got a little too hot."

Nikita's eyes widened. "Were you in danger?"

"Yeah, I got clipped in the shoulder." He gestured to his left side.

"I'm sorry."

"All part of the job," he shrugged. Which reminded him, he needed to follow up on that low-life Manny cooling his heels in the Atlanta jail.

Nikita paused, her hand on the car door. "Will you be there in the morning? You're easier to talk to than those other guys."

"I don't know. I have to maintain my cover at the grocery store. There's a lead I'm following there."

Nikita nodded. "Well, thank you for dinner."

"Next time I'll take you to a classier place," he grinned.

She exited the car and ran up the steps to her friend's apartment. Michael waited until the door opened and Nikita was enveloped in a hug by a curly-haired young woman wearing shorts and a tank top.

FBI Field Office, Atlanta

SAC Paul Wolfe threw the file down on his desk. "Two 'persons of interest' dead in a major case, a bank robbery first thing this morning, and the higher ups want to cut my budget. How am I supposed to run a field office with budget cuts?"

"I don't know, sir." Birkoff shifted from one foot to another in front of Wolfe's desk.

"And now it appears that someone stole Madeline's identity. I'm telling you, she read me the riot act at breakfast today. It came to light yesterday when she was buying new ballroom dancing shoes." Wolfe paused and rubbed his forehead as if a headache was developing.

Birkoff glanced at the picture of Dr. Madeline Hollifield Wolfe, prominent forensic psychologist, on the credenza. He was creeped out the few times he'd met the woman.

"That's unfortunate, sir."

Wolfe looked up sharply. "Unfortunate? That's putting it mildly. Well, enough about that. Where is Samuelle? I need him to do surveillance on Nikita Wirth. Aguilar had a gall bladder attack last night and is in the hospital."

"He should be starting his shift at the grocery store."

"Get him back here. I've got to juggle some assignments."

CHAPTER 13

"Sir, what about his cover at the store and the other painting?" asked Birkoff.

"Get a GPS tracker and have him put it on that crate. As for his cover," – Wolfe paused and drummed his fingers on the desk - "make it look like an arrest. Tell management he failed a random drug test."

"Yes, sir."

"We'll convene in the conference room in thirty minutes."

Birkoff scurried toward the basement area where munitions and surveillance equipment was housed. Ten minutes later he had the tracker, had updated Michael, and was headed to the grocery store.

Michael was arranging a display near the front of the store when Birkoff entered and passed him the tracker. Michael glanced around. "That's Hillinger over there." Birkoff followed his gaze and saw a lanky young man listlessly pushing a broom around. "Give me five minutes, then come to the office in the back." Birkoff nodded and pretended to study a display of cookies.

Michael proceeded to the loading dock, looking over his shoulder several times. Walter was talking to a couple of vendors at the end of an aisle and didn't notice him. Michael slipped into the loading dock and counted off the crates until he located the correct one. He quickly checked to be sure his little surprise was still in place. Then he affixed the tracker to the opposite end of the crate.

A few minutes later, Michael stood handcuffed with his head down in front of Walter. The old man shook his head and his craggy face registered shock. "I'm real disappointed, son. I had high hopes for you." A handful of employees milled around and looked on with morbid fascination. Scowling, Walter waved a hand at them. "The rest of you get back to work."

Michael lifted his head and looked directly at Walter. "Yeah, I screwed up. Sorry, man."

Birkoff prodded him. "Let's get a move on."

Michael dropped his voice and continued to stare at Walter. "Don't believe everything you see."

Walter frowned and rubbed his chin as Birkoff led Michael away. Maybe there was more to this situation, and Michael Samuelle, than he realized.

FBI Field Office – Thirty Minutes Later

"Birkoff, bring us up to speed with what you've learned," ordered Wolfe from the head of the conference table. He tapped his pen on the legal pad before him.

Birkoff rolled up his sleeves and became positively giddy as he launched into his report. "A check of Gray Wellman's cell phone records show a call to Mick Schtoppel, owner of Protozoa, at 9:21 p.m. on the night Woody Rollins died. Surveillance video taken from the club's entrance show Wellman entering at 9:47 p.m. and exiting at 10:33 p.m. This is approximately two hours prior to Rollins' death."

"What's Schtoppel's part in this?" asked Michael.

"Schtoppel has already admitted that Wellman approached him about a loan that night to pay off his gambling debts. Schtoppel begged off, but placed a call to his buddy Rollins. Woody is known to frequent the club when he's in town."

"Why didn't Schtoppel loan him the money? From all appearances, the club is a success," said Michael.

"That's the kicker," said Birkoff. "Mick's in hot water with the IRS and since we initially questioned him, he's hiding behind his attorney."

"What time are you bringing Nikita Wirth in?" Michael asked Wolfe. "I want to question her some more."

"Not until tomorrow. Wellman's funeral is this afternoon. His next-of-kin, a cousin named Richard Corning, flew in last night from Boston."

"Boston?" inquired Michael. "Greenfield Museum? Two stolen paintings turning up here?" He looked at the other agents around the table. "Does that strike anyone else as too much of a coincidence?"

Wolfe nodded. "Exactly. Although information about the paintings has not been released to the public yet."

"But how did Greg Hillinger wind up with that painting?" wondered Birkoff.

"Last night when we were at the Wirth apartment, a neighbor mentioned that some rowdy brothers named Hillinger recently moved in. Said we should check them out. Of course, it could just be disgruntled elderly neighbors versus Gen-Xers."

"I'm on it!" Birkoff pulled his laptop closer and his fingers flew over the keys. "Think it's another coincidence?"

"If you can find a multimillion-dollar painting in a grocery crate, then anything could be possible," said Michael. Even Nikita being involved, he reminded himself. He couldn't, and wouldn't, let his growing attraction for her cloud his professional judgment.

"Okay, right now Meyerson has Nikita under surveillance. Starting at noon, Michael and Birkoff will take over. You'll go to the funeral and see who shows up."


Mick's eyes darted from the computer screen to the printout in front of him. He blew out a sigh and closed his eyes briefly. Only days ago, he had made light of Gray Wellman's financial troubles. What goes around, comes around, he thought.

His eyes opened and he looked at the printout again. The numbers had not changed. He'd only managed to put off the aggressive IRS broad for one more day, pleading the death of a close friend.

Close friend. Hah! What a joke. Wellman was nothing but a whining, pain-in-the-ass. Good riddance.

The desk phone rang. When Mick saw the caller ID, he gasped in shock. David Fanning. Mick reached down and unplugged the phone. He knew from experience that Fanning would keep calling and calling.

After years of being a bouncer in London, Mick saved up some money and came to the States to pursue his dream of having his own club. When his savings weren't enough, he borrowed the rest from some questionable sources. David Fanning was the contact for these "investors."

In exchange for this financing, the investors sometimes demanded a cut of the profits or other favors. From time to time, packages arrived that Mick was to hold until a courier retrieved them. There was no set schedule. The packages varied in shape and size and the couriers were different as well. Mick didn't bother to ask what the packages contained.

One afternoon, a long, cylindrical tube arrived. One end was damaged. Mick had just gotten off the phone after a testy exchange with one of the investors. He grabbed the tube and stomped off to his office and locked the door. He stared at the tube for several long minutes before ripping the end off. He didn't know the first thing about art, but he didn't think someone would go to so much trouble to transport a fake painting.

He turned on his computer and did some research. When he realized what he had, he almost messed his trousers. Here was his insurance policy against Fanning and his cronies. If they tried to screw him over, Mick would trot down to the nearest police station and wave this under their noses.

But where to hide this? That was the question. Neither the club nor his house seemed safe enough. The next night, Woody Rollins and his friends came to the club. An answer to prayer! Woody was stoned about half the time and wouldn't question why Mick didn't simply use his office safe.

But now Woody was dead and where was the painting? There was no mention in the media of a stolen painting surfacing. Mick was sure Fanning was wondering, too.

Stupid, stupid idea! Mick wanted to bang his head against the stupid computer. He didn't need Fanning to screw him over. He had done that quite nicely to himself.


"You ever do surveillance, Birkoff?" Michael adjusted his binoculars as the mourners arrived for Wellman's graveside service.

"I pulled a shift once on Benny 'Two Toes' Torlucchi when I worked out of the Nashville office."

"On a woman?"

"No."

"They're the worst," said Michael. "They go to ten different stores in the mall, try on fifty pairs of shoes and don't like any of them. Then they go to the food court, eat a super-sized ice cream sundae with a girlfriend and complain that their designer jeans don't fit."

Birkoff sighed. "Okay, but this is Nikita. It might be fun to watch her try on shoes."

Michael considered that for a beat. Long, shapely legs. Hmm. "I'm getting a visual on that."

CHAPTER 14

A good-sized crowd assembled for Gray's service. Michael and Birkoff were parked in a non-descript sedan on a hill overlooking the mourners. A line of trees hid them from curious eyes should anyone glance in that direction.

"Those people on the left are from his office," said Birkoff as he peered through the binoculars. "And the group on the right seems to be all neighbors in his building."

"Where's the cousin?" asked Michael.

Birkoff scanned the crowd. "The tall guy shaking hands with the minister."

Michael saw a slightly older and paunchier version of Gray. "Keeps looking at his watch. Must be anxious to get back to Boston."

Birkoff snorted. "No doubt. He's a high-powered attorney and sits on several corporate boards. Guess what one of them is?"

Without losing his focus, which was now trained on Nikita, Michael answered, "The Greenfield Museum?"

"Bingo."

Another group of mourners arrived. "What about these people?" asked Michael, reluctantly dragging his view from Nikita.

"Not sure." Birkoff grabbed his camera and began snapping pictures. "I'll run them through the system when we get back to the office."

Michael panned back to Nikita. She wore a simple black sheath dress and black pumps. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail held by a rhinestone clip. Her friend Carla was by her side and clutched a box of tissues. She plucked out several and handed them to Nikita. People clustered around Nikita, offering hugs or handshakes.

"Well, well. Look who's coming up," said Michael.


Mick fidgeted with his tie as he walked along the gravel path toward the white tent covering the mourners. He'd been half afraid to come to the service. What if David Fanning was following him and suddenly popped up out of the shrubbery and stuck a gun in his ribs? Mick wouldn't put it past him. He glanced around nervously, but didn't see anyone suspicious. So far.

He really needed to speak to Nikita. Perhaps Gray confided in her about his meeting with Woody. Did Gray and Woody argue? Did Gray kill Woody, as the newspaper speculated? Mick never pictured Gray as a murderer, but when a man is weak and desperate, he could be capable of anything.

A sudden uncomfortable thought stopped Mick in his tracks. He had assumed that Woody would simply leave the painting at his small bungalow in a newly gentrified section of town. But what if he'd taken it out to the farm, for whatever reason, and Gray had seen it and pinched it?

Mick began to sweat profusely. If that were the case, Gray could have stashed it God only knows where. Or could the cops have already found it?

"I am totally, royally screwed either way," Mick mumbled to himself. "I'm a dead man." He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. Up ahead, the minister motioned for the group to be seated. Mick tweaked his tie again and forced his feet to move forward.


Gray's service was brief and simple and now everyone began to disburse.

"Check out this guy by the tree," said Michael. A man in a groundskeeper's uniform and cap stood watching the mourners. After several minutes he reached into his pocket, brought out a cell phone and made a call.

"That's a different uniform from the other workers," said Birkoff as he snapped off multiple shots.

"I don't think picking up trash is his main objective," said Michael.

Birkoff gasped as he focused his binoculars again. "Nikita looked right at me."

Michael looked at him sharply. "Don't be ridiculous. We're too far away."

"You're right," sighed Birkoff. "But it was still freaky."

"You need to get out in the field more," laughed Michael. "It can't be good looking at that computer all the time."

"Do you think she's involved?"

Michael sobered. "No. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't squeeze her tomorrow. She might have seen or heard something significant without realizing it."

"And if you're wrong?"

Michael was silent for a moment. "Then she goes down." It wouldn't be the first time he'd put a beautiful woman behind bars.

CHAPTER 15

Birkoff returned to headquarters and his beloved computers and databases. He was never happier than when peering at his monitor, cross-checking data or running down leads in cyberspace.

Michael continued to follow Nikita and Carla after they left the cemetery. Carla's red mustang was easy to spot and somehow Michael was not surprised when she pulled into a strip mall and parked in front of an old-fashioned diner touting its homemade desserts.

Must need an infusion of chocolate, thought Michael. Like every woman after a bad day. He smiled. His preferred method of relieving stress was not something that could be done sitting in a picture window as shoppers went about their business.

Michael huffed out a sigh and adjusted the binoculars. When two women were talking, it could be hours before they were done. Surveillance was a necessary part of his job, but it could certainly be mind-numbing. Fortunately, the car windows were tinted and traffic was heavy as people went in and out of the grocery store, shoe store, dry cleaners and nail salon so he did not attract any unwanted attention.

A waitress came and took their orders. When she left, Nikita reached back and undid the rhinestone clip in her hair and shook it loose. Michael groaned as an erotic image flashed through his mind. Nikita bending over him on a wide bed, laughing as her long, silky tresses brush his chest. Their lips touch, tentatively at first, then more demanding. Before Nikita realizes it, she's on her back and Michael kisses a feverish trail down her throat and chest to one peaked nipple.

Get a grip, man. Get a grip. This is work.

The waitress returned with coffee and a large slice of pie for Carla while Nikita got hot tea. Up and down, up and down she dunked the tea bag, finally twisting it around a spoon and giving it a squeeze.

For over an hour, Michael watched the women. Nothing interesting happened and no one approached them, other than the waitress. Carla appeared to be doing most of the talking with Nikita occasionally nodding. At last, they got up to leave. Michael waited until they pulled out of their parking space before he cranked his engine.


"Are you sure you don't want to come back to my place, at least for tonight?" asked Carla. They were sitting in the parking lot below Nikita's apartment.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Do you think it's safe after that break-in? I think I'd move." Carla gave a shudder.

"The cops and the FBI checked out every inch of the place. It's as safe as it can be. And Julio in maintenance changed the locks and fixed the door yesterday."

"Okay, if you're sure."

Nikita sighed. "I'm just ready to get back to my stuff and my routine, you know? Well, at least tomorrow after I go to FBI headquarters again maybe I can begin to move on."

"Oooh, FBI guys," giggled Carla. "Are there any hot ones?"

When Nikita didn't respond, Carla persisted. "There are hot ones! I knew it! Are they single?"

"Most of them were older, balding and well, awfully grouchy and serious. But a couple of them were nice – Seymour Birkoff and Michael Samuelle."

"This is good. Go on," urged Carla.

"Birkoff is younger and kinda shy. I don't think he's been an agent very long. But Michael . . ."

"You're on a first-name basis?" A wide smile lit Carla's face.

"Okay, Michael is hot. There, I said it out loud." Nikita paused and frowned slightly. "It almost seems wrong to admit that so soon after Gray's death."

Carla did an eye roll. "Honey, we all know that Gray wasn't the man he appeared to be and besides, he's the one who's dead, not you! You gotta keep on living. Get back on the horse. That's what my grandpa always says."

"You're right. But I don't want to rush into anything. My relationship track record is pretty crappy." Nikita looked down and toyed with her hair clip.

"But you could get to know him better. Spend more time with him."

"Not really. He's from the Miami office. He'll go back when this case is finished."

Not to be outdone, Carla straightened in her seat. "Well then, we have to come up with a plan."

Now it was Nikita's turn to roll her eyes and chuckle. She knew nothing could stop Carla once she latched onto an idea. "I'm listening."


Aren't they done yet? For almost an hour Michael watched as Nikita and Carla sat talking in the mustang. Now Nikita got out of the car, waved as Carla drove away, and proceeded slowly up the stairs to her apartment with shoulders slumped.

A wave of sympathy replaced his earlier earthy feelings for Nikita. She'd lost someone she cared about, maybe even loved, and the worst was yet to come. Wolfe had made it clear that she was to be grilled ruthlessly tomorrow. Leads were limited and so was the SAC's temper.

Everyone wanted this investigation wrapped up ASAP. But then what? Back to Miami, his firebombed rental house, and catching drug runners? He'd been with the Bureau almost six years. Maybe it was time to do something else.

While Michael pondered his future, Nikita's door opened and she came down to check her mailbox. She had changed into shorts and a tee shirt and was barefoot. A light breeze whipped her hair. Dusk had fallen, but the mailbox area was well-lit, affording Michael a nice visual of her long, tanned legs.

As much as Michael appreciated the view, he silently urged her. Get back inside! Lock your door. A young couple with a German shepherd on a leash walked up. Nikita said a few words to them and returned to her apartment.

Michael breathed a sigh of relief and rubbed the back of his neck. If nothing happens in the next hour, I'm out of here. There was someone he needed to touch base with tonight.

CHAPTER 16

Another hour inched by and numbness crept into Michael's rear end. Lights winked on in various units as residents returned home from work. Joggers came out and stretched, some accompanied by their canine friends. A group of kids zipped through the parking lot on skateboards and rollerblades before disbursing to their apartments. A FedEx truck delivered a package to a first-floor address. In all, a typical evening.

There was no sign of Greg Hillinger's old truck and his unit was dark. Michael reached for his cell phone and punched in Birkoff's number. "Any intel on the Hillinger brothers?"

There was a garbled response. "What was that noise?" asked Michael.

"Sorry. Oreos." After some throat-clearing and paper rustling, Birkoff came back on the line. "Greg was an information systems major at Georgia Tech with a reported genius IQ. However, he was suspended after a parking lot altercation with a professor over a test score. Seems he broke the guy's nose. Brother Kevin is two years older and the proverbial struggling artist. Graduated three years ago from the Savannah College of Art and Design, but hasn't been able to make a name for himself yet. Has a lot of credit card debt and student loans to repay. He recently consulted a lawyer about filing for bankruptcy."

There was a pause as Birkoff slurped his drink. "But here's where it gets interesting. Until two weeks ago, Kevin was a bartender at Mick Schtoppel's club. Just up and quit one day. Told coworkers, and I quote, that he 'didn't need the f-ing hassle of this dumbass job anymore.' "

"Any connection to Nikita?"

"Nothing so far. It looks like it's entirely random that they live in the same complex. They moved there four months ago."

"Now why would a guy who's in debt up to his eyeballs suddenly leave his job?"

"He's found an alternate means of support and it's probably not on the up and up," said Birkoff.

"Right. And we need to find out what that is. Stay on it. What about the pictures from the funeral?

"Nothing of interest – professional colleagues, fraternity brothers, a couple of childhood friends. However, the groundskeeper may be David Fanning, mob money man and sometime enforcer. I can't be totally sure since he was wearing that cap. Remember, he showed up right after Mick. Oh, there is some bad news, too. Because of a paperwork snafu at APD, your informant Manny was accidentally released yesterday."

"He was what? Damn bureaucrats," huffed Michael.

"Tell me about it. Tough break."

"Well, I can't do anything about him now. But I will catch up with him eventually."

Michael disconnected and decided to pack it in for the evening. He was reaching for the key in the ignition when a taxi suddenly pulled up and a man hopped out.

Mick Schtoppel.


The silence in Nikita's apartment was too heavy, too oppressive. She picked up the TV remote and began channel-surfing. As usual, there were too many channels and yet nothing to watch. She looked around at the mess left by the FBI and cops and decided to straighten up. She was just getting into a routine when the doorbell rang. Frowning, she dropped the pile of magazines in her arms and reached for her purse and the pepper spray. A girl couldn't be too careful after recent events.

"Nikita, luv. It's Mick. Are you in there?" He rang the bell again.

Mick? What's he doing here? She wasn't afraid of him, but she didn't entirely trust him, either. She dropped the canister in her pocket and opened the door a fraction.

"Hello, Mick. I didn't see you at the funeral."

"I got there late and then there was such a crush of people I didn't get to speak to you." Mick glanced over his shoulder nervously and tugged at his tie as if he were choking. "Look, I know it's been a bad day, but could I come in? I really need to talk to you."

She shrugged her shoulders. "Sure." She closed the door to slide the security chain off, then re-opened to allow Mick entrance. "What's on your mind?"

"I was wondering if . . ." Mick halted as he took in the disarray before him. "Holy shit. What happened?"

"Somebody broke in a few days ago." Nikita picked up a cushion and plopped down on the sofa, hugging it to her chest.

"I'm really sorry, luv. How much did they take?"

"Nothing. That's the weird thing. Just made a huge mess." Nikita studied Mick as he walked around, pausing to pick up photographs and various objects to look at them. He was clearly agitated and kept wiping his hands on his trousers. A nagging suspicion was beginning to form in Nikita's mind. Was he somehow connected to the painting?

"Why are you here, Mick? You said you had to talk to me. Is there a problem?"

Mick stopped and looked at her sharply. "Yeah, a big one. Did Gray ever leave a package with you? You know, for safekeeping?

"No, never."

"Are you sure? Did he mention anything about a package? Maybe he said something off the cuff."

"I'm positive. What kind of package? Did you give him something?" Nikita persisted.

"Me? No! No way." Mick began pacing again. "But I'm wondering if he perhaps borrowed it."

"Borrowed what? Mick, you're not making any sense. Why don't you tell me the truth?"

The phone in the kitchen rang and Mick jumped as if he'd been shot. The answering machine picked up, revealing nothing more than a telemarketer's spiel.

"Never mind. Forget that I was here. Forget I said anything." He went to the front door and paused with his hand on the knob. "It's nothing. It's my problem." He smiled his charming club owner's smile. "Listen, Nikita. Don't be a stranger at Protozoa just because Gray's gone. I'd love to see you there anytime."

"Right," she nodded. Maybe when hell freezes over.

Mick let himself out and Nikita shook her head in disbelief. Okay, that was some major weirdness. I probably should let Michael know about this. But I'll see him tomorrow. The thought brought a smile to her face.


After twenty minutes, Mick emerged from Nikita's apartment, got back in the waiting cab, and took off. As Michael considered his next step, an old Volkswagen with a "King Kong Pizza" sign on top skidded to a halt where the cab had been moments earlier.

The driver, a lanky teenager, got out, went to a lower-level unit, and rang the bell. Michael was close enough to hear the resulting conversation. The resident insisted he didn't order a pizza. The delivery guy shrugged and said, "Whatever, dude. My shift's over. Maybe I'll eat it myself."

The door closed and the delivery guy saluted it with a raised middle finger. He was headed for his car when Michael approached and opened his wallet. "I'll take that pie off your hands."

"Hey thanks, man! It's only a cheese pizza."

"Works for me," said Michael. "I'm starving. I only had a pack of crackers for lunch."

The kid laughed and got in his car and drove away.


Nikita had stripped out of her clothes and was about to run a bubble bath when the doorbell rang again. "Now what?" she said in exasperation. She slipped into her pink terrycloth robe and tied the belt.

"Who is it?"

"Michael Samuelle."

Michael? Oh my gosh! She felt her cheeks turning as pink as her robe.

"And I have a pizza. Are you hungry?" In response, Nikita's stomach gave a loud rumble.

"Just a minute."

Michael waited patiently as several locks and bolts were undone. The door opened and the sight of Nikita in the short robe caused a sudden bolt of lust to strike him. In fact, she was more covered than when wearing the shorts and tee shirt earlier, but Michael surmised that there was only smooth, bare skin beneath the robe. He imagined his fingers sliding over it.

"Come in. If you don't mind the mess."

Michael looked a little sheepish at that. "Yeah, sorry about that."

Nikita nodded. "What are you doing here? You didn't just happen to be in the neighborhood, did you?"

Michael pinned her with that emerald gaze. "Does it matter?"

"Not when you're holding a large pizza box and I haven't eaten since morning," she laughed.

"Good. Let's get to it." Michael crossed to the small glass-topped dining room table and opened the box.

For several minutes they concentrated on eating, washing down the hot cheesy mixture with bottled water. When most of the pizza was gone, Nikita murmured, "Mmm. That was wonderful. Thanks."

"You're welcome." Michael pushed his chair back and studied Nikita for a long moment. "How are you? Today must have been difficult for you."

"I'm okay. Maybe the full reality of it hasn't hit me yet."

Michael nodded slowly. Would she volunteer information about Mick's visit?

Nikita's eyebrows drew together as she pulled her robe closer. "Something strange happened tonight. Mick Schtoppel came by."

"And?"

She looked up at Michael, her mind leaping ahead. "And I'll bet you already knew that. Am I right?"

Michael's face was a blank. "What did Schtoppel want?"

Their gazes locked. Michael finally broke the silence. "I need to know, Nikita. It could be crucial to the investigation."

"He was nervous and said he had a big problem. Asked if Gray gave me some package."

"What kind of package?"

"He didn't say. He started rambling."

"Did he threaten you?"

Nikita shook her head. "No, nothing like that. But he did say to forget he was here. Then at the end, he invited me to the club." She paused and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "He gives me the creeps."

Michael stood and checked his watch. "I need to go."

Nikita got up and followed him to the door. He turned and struggled not to reach out and caress her cheek. Nikita brought her hand up to stifle a yawn.

"Go to bed, Nikita. Try to rest. Tomorrow may be unpleasant for you."

"Unpleasant?" Her chest suddenly felt tight with an unspoken dread. She didn't think he was referring to the weather. "What do you mean?"

Michael slipped out the door without replying. He stood on the landing until he heard all the locks tumble and slide into place.


Only when the lights in Nikita's unit went dark did Michael crank the car to leave. He was beat after the long day of surveillance, but there was one more thing to do tonight. He pulled out of the complex and merged into traffic.

He reached his destination in less than 15 minutes and parked in a dark corner of the parking lot to wait. He only sat five minutes before he spotted his subject. He got out of the car and blended into the shadows close to the building.

The person he was waiting for approached his car and beeped it open. Michael stepped out of the shadows.

"Walter."

"What the hell? Michael! You shouldn't scare an old geezer like that." He clutched his chest. "I've already had one heart attack."

"Sorry, man. I need your help."

Not much got by Walter. His eyes narrowed. "You're a cop, aren't you?"

Michael scanned the lot. Everything was quiet at the moment. "FBI." He pulled a card from his pocket.

"FBI," nodded Walter. "I knew there was more to you. What do you need from me?"

Michael briefly explained the situation with as much information as he was allowed to release.

"He wasn't scheduled to work today, but he comes in at noon tomorrow. Do you want me to search his locker?"

"Yes. If you turn up anything, you can reach me on my cell or at headquarters. The numbers are on that card."

"One more thing. That story you told about getting drunk with your cousin. Was that true?" asked Walter.

Michael grinned. "No, just part of my cover." He paused to draw out the suspense. "But I do have a cousin named Eddie. He's with DEA in south Florida."