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she’ll have a change of heart, call tonight and agree. If not, I’ll get the order myself. It’ll take longer, but maybe I can squeeze an old debt to hustle it through.”
    He quickly ended the call before he got a lecture from Rico on the way the court system was supposed to work. Calling in old debts didn’t fit with the kid’s altruistic philosophy. Just as he hung up the receiver, the phone rang again.
    “Yeah. What’dya forget?”
    “Detective Ramsey?”
    His adrenaline kicked in.
    “This is Jillian Sullivan.”
    As if he didn’t know. As if he wouldn’t recognize her voice in an instant. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Sullivan?”
    “I’d like to see those photos again.”
    “I’ve got a plane to catch early in the morning.”
    “How about now?”
    Man, oh, man. Someone somewhere was smiling on him. “My place or yours?”
    She was quiet for a moment. “How about splitting the distance? A café or something.”
    “Sure. It’s your town, you make the call and tell me when to be there.”
    They made plans to meet at a diner at six-thirty. She said she had a birthday party to attend afterward.
    He knew why she wanted to see the photos again. She wanted to make sure she was right—that the man in the photo wasn’t her husband.
    No matter how much you trusted someone, once the seeds of doubt were planted, they were tough to ignore. He knew that only too well. He felt a twinge of regret that he’d sowed those seeds in Jillian Sullivan. She seemed like a nice person. A conscientious mother.
    But in his business, the reality was that people sometimes got hurt. So why did this one lodge so solidly in his craw?
    Hot, sticky and irritable, he showered and shaved, pulled on a pair of jeans and a white Polo shirt. He decided to go with the ankle holster for his gun…do whatever he could do to make her feel more comfortable and more agreeable to his suggestion. People were always more agreeable when they were comfortable…and getting what they wanted. He’d learned early on that the proverbial ‘flattery will get you everywhere’ was quite true in most cases.
    It was six-twenty when he pulled into Joe Bailly’s parking lot. An early-evening breeze dusted over him as he headed toward the door. He hoped for some quiet corner where they could talk privately, but the place was crowded and noisy as an old fashioned jukebox blared oldies-but-goodies as a reminder that rock and roll was here to stay.
    “How about the patio?” he said to the hostess, who led him outside to a table with an umbrella. The heat wasn’t as stifling as it had been earlier, and it was quieter outside, although he could still hear music. He picked a spot where he could see anyone who entered the patio.
    Five minutes later he saw Jillian Sullivan striding toward him in a figure-skimming scarlet dress that was so hot it could’ve set the place on fire. With each confident step, her long strawberry-blond hair, straight tonight, swished from side to side keeping time with the totally appropriate, primal beat of Billy Idol’s Hot in the City.
    As she neared, he could see large silver hoops glinting at her ears, and dark red toenails peeking from barely-there, nose-bleed high black sandals. He’d never been so freaking aware of a woman in his life.
    For a moment he regretted he was going home in the morning.
    Reaching him, she gave him only the briefest acknowledgment, and when he made an attempt to stand, she said, “Don’t bother.”
    She sat opposite him. The waitress took their drink orders, Jillian’s for one of those fancy iced coffees and his for a cold glass of draft beer.
    “You mind if I order dinner and eat while we’re talking?”
    “And if I did?” She crafted a wry smile.
    He shrugged and gave her a smile of his own. “I’d order anyway. Maybe you’d like to join me?”
    “I’d like to look at the photos again. Did you bring them?”
    “I did. And I apologize if I seemed insensitive earlier.”
    Her eyes