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filters were safe.”
    “For BT, yes.” Rick glanced at the radio unit, painful gurgling coming through the speaker. “That doesn’t sound like BT.”
    “Do you have . . . what are those protective suits called?”
    “Space suits. Back at Quantico. Not with me.”
    “. . . help me . . . please God help . . .”
    I racked my brain. Who would have a space suit? Fire stations? Nearby laboratories? I just saw a suit like that a little while ago. Where the hell was it?
    Then I remembered what neighborhood I was in, and who lived nearby.
    “Goddammit,” I said, yanking out my cell phone, wondering if I’d ever bothered to erase his number.
    It was still there. I hesitated two full seconds, then pressed the dial button.
    “Harry’s House of Love Juice, one hundred percent natural with zero carbohydrates, stop by for a free sample.”
    “McGlade,” I said, swallowing my pride. “It’s Jack. I need your help.”

 

    CHAPTER 6

    M CGLADE BEAT THE BOMB SQUAD and the HazMat team to the scene, which was both a good thing and a bad thing. Good because we desperately needed his help, bad because being around McGlade was slightly less enjoyable than pulling out your own toenails with pliers.
    “Hiya, Jackie,” he said through the driver’s-side window, pulling his Corvette alongside the curb. “You want me to park this big boy here, or shall I use your rear entrance?”
    I briefly wondered what happened to his trademark 1968 Mustang, then realized he couldn’t drive stick shift with his newly acquired prosthesis. McGlade had been a player in a homicide investigation of mine not too long ago, and he hadn’t come out of the debacle entirely intact.
    “Got the space suit?”
    “I got it. You’re lucky too—I just had it cleaned. There were stains, Jack. Lots of stains.”
    I put the thought from my mind. An eternity ago, Harry McGlade and I were partners. Since his dismissal, he’d been earning his living as a full-time private eye and part-time television producer. Along with boasting the IQ of a tire iron, McGlade also had the unwelcome distinction of being one of the biggest perverts I know, and I’d met quite an assortment of them working Vice. Whatever he was using this space suit for had nothing to do with science.
    “Where is it?” I asked.
    “In back.”
    He popped the trunk, and I stared at a big pile of Day-Glo orange. I grabbed a sleeve and pulled the suit out of the car. The material felt like a combination of rubber and nylon.
    “I should be the one going in,” Rick said, coming up behind me.
    “Those are my people in there, Agent Reilly. I’m going.”
    Herb ran over, looking even shittier than he had earlier.
    “They’re not responding anymore,” he said. “Radio is silent.”
    “Can you hear anything? Moaning? Breathing?” Rick asked.
    Herb shook his head. I kicked off my shoes and pulled down my skirt. Rick and Herb averted their eyes. McGlade whistled.
    “This is a police matter, McGlade,” I said, struggling into the suit. “You can leave.”
    “Ease up, Lieutenant. We still haven’t worked out what you’re giving me because I’m letting you use my suit.”
    I fought the material. The inside clung to my bare legs like plastic wrap. “It can wait.”
    “I want a liquor license.”
    Unbelievable. Herb must have thought so as well. He grabbed McGlade’s shoulder.
    “You need to leave. Now.”
    McGlade waved his artificial hand. It wasn’t a primitive pirate claw, but it didn’t look entirely realistic either. The flesh color was too light, and shiny like rubber.
    “Don’t shoot me, Sergeant,” he said. “I’m unarmed.”
    Herb gave McGlade a push backward.
    McGlade smiled and shook his head, raising both hands in apparent supplication. Then he placed his fake one on Herb’s shoulder. There was a faint mechanical sound, like gears turning, and Herb yelped and fell to his knees.
    “Modern technology,” Harry said. “Six hundred pounds of pressure per square