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Lopez crowding her dreams. She was no hero, and she wouldn’t pass herself off as one.
    But she couldn’t have said that to Michaelson. He didn’t know what had really happened in the Greco case, and even if he had known, he wouldn’t have understood how she felt. Maybe no one understood. Certainly no one in Denver had seemed to grasp it or care. There had been the usual empty comments about how nobody could foresee every contingency, there were always risks, tragedies happened, and on and on until she thought she would start screaming just to keep herself from going insane.
    She’d learned to accept the platitudes. She’d learned to sleep despite the dreams. But one thing she would not do was present herself to the world as…what had Michaelson said they called her? Super Fed.
    She wasn’t feeling very super these days.
    The car glided west on Olympic Boulevard. She was scarcely conscious of where she was going. Her only impulse was to put distance between herself and the white tower of City Hall. She supposed she would head into Westwood and see what was happening in the field office—assuming her FBI credentials hadn’t already been revoked.
    One good thing had come out of the debacle at City Hall, anyway. She’d gotten the Nose seriously pissed off. The helpless frustration on his face had been almost worth the price of admission.
    What she needed was to hear a friendly voice. She got out her cell phone, which she’d turned off during the flight. There must be messages piling up in her voice mail—even a couple of hours incommunicado was enough to create an electronic logjam—but she would worry about them later.
    She called the Denver office, connecting with ASAC Joshua Green, whom she’d left in charge. “Just checking in,” she said.
    “Good to hear from you. You’ll be pleased to know the place hasn’t degenerated into anarchy yet.”
    “I trust you to keep it running smoothly. Any headway in the Garrick case?”
    “Lab came back with a blood-type match to the first crime scene.”
    “No surprise.”
    “Yeah, I didn’t think there’d be two creeps running around with an MO that sick. Oh, the DA says Charlie Harris is copping a plea.”
    “What did they plead him down to?”
    “Man one.”
    “Good deal for him.”
    “For us, too. He’ll testify against Heinz. And he’s walking us through the operation, spilling everything. They can’t get him to shut up.”
    “That’s good, I guess.” She wasn’t a fan of plea bargaining, and Harris had been guilty of much more than manslaughter.
    “Try to contain your enthusiasm. So how is LA?”
    “Violent and crazy.”
    “Your kind of town. Haven’t you been pining for your glory days in Miami? The rampant crime, the drug cartels, the colorful hit men…”
    “Miami was a long time ago. I think I’m getting too old for that stuff. Could I, uh, ask you a favor?”
    “Is it sexual in nature?” He was always doing that in their private conversations—making inappropriate remarks. She should have found it objectionable. She didn’t.
    “It’s botanical in nature,” she countered. “I forgot to water the plants in my apartment. They’ll be getting a little thirsty.”
    “Most plants can go a few days without water.”
    “I’ve been forgetting for a while. Sorry.”
    “No problem. I can swing by on my way home. How do I get in?”
    “There’s a spare key in the upper right drawer of my desk.”
    “While I’m in your place, maybe I’ll snoop around a little.”
    “There’s not much to see.”
    “I can check out the porn on your computer, the erotic toys under your bed.”
    “My computer is traveling with me. The only thing under my bed is dust bunnies.”
    “Well, at least I can say I’ve been in your bedroom.”
    “You’ve probably been saying that anyway.”
    “But now it’ll be true. So how can I expect to be repaid for this favor?”
    “I shouldn’t have asked.”
    “I’m thinking a table for two at Tuscany. Sound