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attention on her. “Big tits. Blond hair. Big tits. Short skirt. Big tits—”
    “There is not a chance in hell I’m getting a boob job to work this case.”
    “She’s dressed like she wouldn’t mind me coming up and asking her what her sign is. You know what I mean?”
    He looked at me looking at myself in my smart linen pants and my silk shirt and my leather flats. “Now, you, for instance—”
    “That’s enough. I get the picture.” I couldn’t help but think about what a strange twist my life had taken when I was accused of not looking like a hooker and resented it.
    “Anyway,” he said, one hand smoothing his hair in back, “I don’t know if that helps you.”
    “No, it helps. You know what it’s like? It’s like being back in high school. Did you like high school?”
    “Nobody likes high school, Shanahan.”
    “These women, these hookers, they’re like the cheerleaders. Revered or despised by all who are not they. They’re completely unapproachable…a world unto themselves. You don’t get into their little clique—their tiny, exclusive clique—without being invited. And they don’t invite anyone.”
    “You didn’t hang out with cheerleaders in high school?”
    “I didn’t hang out. I was either taking care of my little brother or working.”
    “That’s a sad story. But we’re grown-ups now. We get over that shit, right?”
    I stared across the terminal at the blonde buying the magazine. She had probably been a cheerleader in high school. Or at least one of those girls who always knew what to say to boys. Regardless of who she was then, she was now a woman at whom men like to stare, and I wondered what that felt like. I also wondered if changing my clothes would be change enough.
    “Shanahan, your fifteen minutes have been up for fifteen minutes.” He stood up and stretched his back, then leaned over and used his most discreet voice. “All I’m saying, you’re working undercover, right? That means you have to be undercover. Maybe if you looked the part more, you’d feel it more. God knows you’ve got the body to pull it off.”
    “Yeah?”
    “The real question is, do you have the balls?”

Chapter

6
    T HE W OLFBOROUGH SHOOTING RANGE WASN’T much more than an opening in the trees at the end of a long dirt road. It was easy to spot Tristan leaning against a Porsche—a Porsche? —in the lot down at the open field that served as the pistol range. As far as I could tell, he was the only living organism there at ten-thirty on a Friday morning. I pulled into the space next to his and climbed out.
    “You’re late,” he said.
    “Sorry. Since when do you drive a Carrera?”
    “It’s Barry’s, and you’re changing the subject. Don’t even think about screeching up at the very last second when you go to Moon Island to take your range test. They don’t like that, and you’ll get all flustered, and you won’t shoot straight, and you won’t pass the test, and you won’t get your license, and I’ll feel like a failure. I have a personal stake in this. In fact, when are you scheduled?”
    “The week after next.”
    “I’m going with you. I’ll pick you up. We’ll get out there in plenty of time. That’s what we’ll do.”
    Tristan had switched into his shooting instructor role, one he obviously took seriously. I had been amazed when he’d told me he could teach me to shoot. Tristan didn’t exactly exude machismo. But he had grown up in Wyoming and when he’d told his parents he was gay, his father decided he needed to know how to defend himself and taught him all about guns. It turned out he needed less protection from the rednecks than from his own mother. She disowned him and tossed him out.
    When my old instructor had left town, Tristan had happily volunteered to take over my firearms instruction and help me prepare for the test. Not only was he an excellent teacher, he had lots of guns. He also had accepted without question my vague explanation that I just