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Muscles in his back bunched so tight he rotated his shoulders.
    The phone rang. Archer swung his feet to the floor, picked up and barked, “Archer.”
    Silence, except for the occasional grunt, went on for a while before he got off and said, “You were more or less onto something. Everyone who ever heard Liza or Amber or Pipes Dupuis sing, or think they did, must have called in. I’m going up to Lemon and take a look.” He stood, but hesitated. “You’ll be here when I get back.”
    The order wasn’t subtle, and Fisher didn’t like it. “Not ifyou’re up there long. I’ve got to keep on doing what I’m doing. I’ve got a living to make.”
    “I’d like you to wait.”
    “I can give it about ten. After that, you’ve got my cell number. If I intended to make a run for some reason, for any reason at all, I wouldn’t be here now.”
    Hands on hips, Archer studied him.
    Fisher’s teeth locked together. He looked over his shoulder at someone standing outside the windows—looking in. Breath left his lungs as if he’d been winded.
    “Who the hell is that?” Archer said.
    Someone for me . He could feel it. Fisher didn’t answer.
    “Civilians aren’t supposed to wander about down here—on their own,” Archer said.
    A woman, a bit shorter than average, stared at them through spaces in the warped window shades. She had very curly, dark red hair that burst out in ringlets to her shoulders, and eyes green enough for the color to be obvious at fourteen feet. She was suddenly even shorter. Apparently she had been standing on tiptoe to get a better look at the office.
    The door opened slowly and she stepped partway into the room. Fisher heard a whine from the corridor and the woman turned and looked down. “Don’t embarrass me, Winnie,” she said clearly.
    Fisher realized he’d mashed the cup to a pulp. “Dog,” he said, hoping Archer wouldn’t notice the cup.
    “Why not a dog?” Archer said. “Or a damn performing monkey? Fits right in with the way this day’s been going.”
    “Detective?” the redhead said.
    Archer cleared his throat. “What makes you think I am?”
    “One of you probably is. There’s a name on the door.”
    Forest-green. That was the color of her eyes. Fisher couldn’t have met her before or he would have remembered the instant he saw her. A little woman with a big impact—on him. For the first time he understood exactly what was meant by raw nerve endings.
    “Who are you looking for?” Archer said, but Fisher noticed he didn’t sound angry.
    “Detective Archer,” she said with a puzzled frown. “I already said that.”
    “Ma’am, how did you get down here?” Archer asked. “The public isn’t supposed to wander in off the street and poke around.”
    “Why not? The public pays for all of this. We pay your salary, too.”
    While Archer watched, his lower jaw slack, she came in and shut the door.
    Again Fisher felt a slam to his diaphragm, this time even harder. This was it. The closer the redhead got, the more excited and riled up he felt. She was part of something to do with him.
    “I’m Detective Nat Archer. This is Gray Fisher—he’s a journalist friend of mine.”
    After nodding at her, Fisher balanced the notebook on a knee and wrote words, just words. Later he’d take a look and see if they said anything. For now he didn’t care as long as she didn’t get a look at the effect she was having on him.
    “I’m Marley Millet,” she said. “I wanted to talk to someone about what was on that press conference earlier. Upstairs they told me to wait and someone would get to me, only they didn’t.”
    “This is a busy place, Miz Millet,” Archer said. “A lot of people wait.”
    “They shouldn’t have to. Not all of them—not if they’ve got important information like I do.”
    “Come and take a seat,” Archer said, dragging another folding chair forward. “How did you know I was on this case?”
    “These questions are all a waste of time.”
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