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the eraser against her teeth one more time and then, before she could talk herself out of it, she jumped from the main area to the council’s search engine.
    There were no alarm bells, no Instant Message warnings. No council members swooping down to take her off to the Hall of Justice.
    So far, so good.
    She pulled up the southern California directory and searched for Buster Taylor. Nothing.
    She searched for Atlas Insurance. Still nothing.
    Odd
. The council’s records were more complete than the IRS’s. Why couldn’t she find him?
    She tried for a few more minutes, searching the more obscure directories, pulling up old case files, generally snooping around where she didn’t belong.
    Zilch.
    She couldn’t believe it. Buster Taylor didn’t exist.
    Which meant two things. First, he’d lied to her.
    And second, she’d probably never see him again.
    Well, darn.

    Lane Kent had a problem. Not a huge problem, but as a general rule, she tried to avoid huge problems. She had enough trouble keeping track of all her little problems, and Lord knew she had plenty of those lately, all decked out in tiny George Washington outfits.
    From her perch on the Mustang’s hood, she looked up at the green-gray sky, wondering if it was going to rain, and hoping it would. Rain in Los Angeles was like no place else. Like millions of little scrub brushes, the raindrops would attack the smog, polish the mountains, and leave the city crisp and clear and sparkly.
    She could really use sparkly. These days her mood was anything but bright, and it was way the hell and gone from shiny.
    Nope, these days she was worrying. Worrying about her car, her kid, her job—or, rather, her lack thereof. About the only thing she wasn’t worrying about was her rent. And that only because her foster brother, George Bailey, had managed to sweet-talk Mr. Timmons into letting her stay another month.
    On one hand, that was good. On the other hand—the hand holding her checkbook—it was bad. Bad because George had worked out a deal with her landlord, and now she ought to pay him for a job well done.
    So here she was, camped out on the hood of his classic red Mustang, waiting for him to come out of his apartment so that she could present him with the whopping sum of two hundred and fifty dollars, an amount that would pretty much clean out her checking account.
    She saw him the second he rounded the building, then watched as his face changed from bland to pleased to annoyed.
    “Would you stop, already? I’m not taking your money, Lane,” he said, shouting to be heard over the traffic behind them. He finished crossing the parking lot and stopped in front of her, looking pointedly at the hood. “And don’t sit on Francis Capra. You’ll scratch her.”
    “Sorry,” she said, slipping off, feeling as if she were twelve again. “Thanks for working all that out about my apartment.”
    “You’re welcome,” he said, but he still looked wary.
    Lane almost giggled. It wasn’t every day she had to sneak around just to give someone a check.
    “But I’m still,” he said, walking past her to the side of the car, “not,” he added, opening the door, “taking your money.” He slid in and started to close the door.
    She grabbed it. “That’s not fair. I asked you to. I want to at least pay your hourly rate.”
    “We grew up together, Lane. Family gets a discount.”
    “Fine. So knock some off your normal price.” She held out her wallet. “But I should pay the rest.”
    “It’s your lucky day. Fifty percent off.”
    “Terrific. One hundred and twenty-five. No problem.”
    “It’s double-coupon day. Guess you lucked out. No charge.” He slammed the door, which—since the car was a convertible, and the top was down—didn’t really go a long way toward cutting off her arguments.
    “George,” she said, sure she was whining.
    He cringed. “Taylor, okay?”
    “I’ll call you Taylor if you let me pay you.”
    “Lane ...” His voice was firm,