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as it slid across her smooth, pink skin. Then she was naked, in the dim light, nothing between us but the warm air.
    She was still moving toward me and I stood there, my mind frozen. She came so close I could feel her hot breath on me. Goosebumps crept up my arms, the back of my neck.
    “I want you, Roland. When you came into the room the other night, something just . . . clicked. You felt it, too, I know.”
    I felt my hands literally ache to roam that perfect pink skin, and I realized that I was sweating. She stood closer now and it seemed as though she was daring me, challenging me not to touch her. Her nipples were hard in the gray light. I could smell the jasmine and her warm, musky, female scent so temptingly close. I finally gathered enough presence of mind to take a step backward. We stood there for a second more. Her lips parted slightly, perfect for a long kiss, and I heard her soft velvety breath. But the spell had been broken. I turned and left without a word.
    * * *
     
    I drove across town in a vain attempt to clear my muddled head. Nosing my car out over the cloverleaf toward the Central City, I turned east on 280 and went back to Westmoreland Heights. I knew with a horrible certainty that I wanted to go back there and spend the afternoon with Eve, believe all of the things she said . . . which was obviously the plan.
    I was irritated, also, because it seemed that Harry had orchestrated the rendezvous. But for what purpose? An extra incentive to find Danny? Or did Harry have in mind some alternative payment methods? It added up too nicely that way. There was something left out here and it was Harry’s omission. He and I were due for a long talk. However, Harry’s game, whatever it was, would have to wait. I had wasted time the night before that I might have used making contact with Lena.  
    I took up a post across from Lena’s and mulled it over while I waited for her to appear. I didn’t get much of a chance to think though. I had just taken up my customary watch over on Bowery Corner when she appeared down the street, her body huddled against the cold drizzle. She wore only a thin dress and a ragged blue coat.
    She looked very frail. I begin to get the feeling this wasn’t going to be easy. I mentally made a note never to take a runaway case again. I walked slowly across the street. I saw that she was fumbling with the keys, and that she held a package in the other hand. I made my voice as soft as I could, and still be heard.
    “Lena.”
    She stopped moving and then slowly turned around. I saw her eyes widen slightly. Her mind had probably quickly scanned all the reasons that a six-foot-six, 260 lb. black man might approach a girl on a rainy, empty street, and the tightness and fear in her face told me that she had come to a very wrong conclusion. I must have looked like a foreboding giant to her; I had seen the expression that ran across her face before. If she’d had a gun, I’m sure she would have shot me.
    “Don’t be afraid. My name is Roland Longville. I’m a private detective.” I extended my credentials. She didn’t move. She looked at me, the scar on my face, and then looked down, without looking completely away from me. The drizzle continued to fall fall; I felt its biting cold through my heavy overcoat.
    “What do you want?” Her voice was the voice of a child from the bottom of a well, small and distant.
    “Lena, your parents hired me to find you. They haven’t heard from you in over a year; they’re very worried.” As I spoke I noted how thin she looked beneath her coat. She was trembling slightly.
    “My . . . parents?” There was a sob in her voice. “They hired you to look for me?” As though the idea was incredible.
    “That’s right. They’d like you to come home.”
    We stood there for a few minutes, getting steadily wetter, Lena with her brown package and her key in the lock, me with my I.D. extended in my hand. Finally, she took a deep breath and looked up,