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worry about him.”
Or me ever seeing him again.
A pain stabbed her chest in the vicinity of her heart.
    “Good. You’ll be happy to know another department has asked for your help.”
    She sat up, electrified. “A case?”
    “Yes. It’s rather odd. It’s narcotics.”
    She deflated. “You know I have little success finding drugs.”
    “Yes, well they don’t need you to find drugs. I’ll let them tell you about it.” He held out a piece of paper, and she took it. “Go to the Fourth Precinct and ask for Detective Montoya in Narcotics.”
    “All right.” She frowned. It was odd that her father was being so closed-mouthed. But she rose, stuffing the paper in her purse. She made it to the door before her father spoke again.
    “Juliana, there’s a love bite on your neck.”
    She couldn’t control her jerk of unwelcome surprise. She dared not look at him or answer because anything she said could incriminate her.
    “I know you’re an adult living on your own . . . ” He stuttered to a stop. “I think I’d like to meet the young man.”
    Oh, God. She moistened her lips. “Papá, you make young men nervous.”
    “Only if they have something they wish to hide. Does this young man have something to hide?”
    Only a one-night stand with his daughter. Only the name Charlie Ziffkin. She lifted her chin and turned to face him. She was not a child. “When the time is right, you’ll meet the man who’s important to me.”
    Her father tried to stare her into submission, but she’d worked too hard fighting his tight control to back down.
    “I hope it’s soon,
m’hija
.”
    Juliana escaped, breathing a great sigh of relief. It wouldn’t be soon.
    Detective Joaquin Montoya in Narcotics looked the part—early thirties, dark hair in waves to his shoulders, dressed in black jeans, a loose colorful shirt, and a chunky gold necklace.
    His partner, Brian Hunt, was grungy with straight dishwater blond hair. He was thin enough to pass as a teenager, but the hard edge to his gaze revealed he was much older.
    They took her to one of the interrogation rooms and closed the door. Montoya gestured for her to take a seat. He fidgeted, so she knew what was coming and braced herself to face a nonbeliever.
    “I don’t believe in psychics,” he began.
    “Then why am I here?” She’d heard it dozens of times before.
    “What we’re looking for is out of the ordinary. We’ve tried regular ways to find it. Nothing has worked so far.” Montoya scowled and glanced at his partner. “If you weren’t Captain Sanchez’s daughter—”
    Juliana held up her hand. “Stop right there. I don’t help the department because I’m his daughter, and I don’t listen to requests because he’s a captain. That has nothing to do with this. Facts are facts. I have a high success rate at recovering things that are missing.”
    Montoya’s bronze face flushed, but whether in shame or anger, Juliana couldn’t tell.
    “We need to find this item.” Detective Hunt’s cold mask had dropped. “It’s very important and will prevent a flood of drugs coming into Miami.”
    “Why don’t you tell me what you know,” she suggested.
    Hunt looked at Montoya, and then leaned forward on the metal table. “We have a reliable snitch. He says there’s excitement in the drug distribution community. There’s going to be a new pipeline of cocaine established, but who gets to head the pipeline depends on who locates an item the Columbian drug lord wants.”
    “What item?” she asked, intrigued.
    Montoya shrugged. “Some relic supposed to have special significance to the Columbian.”
    “You can’t stop it from being brought into the country?”
    “It’s already here. In fact, the snitch is sure it’s in Miami,” Hunt answered.
    “And you want me to find it.” Juliana inhaled. “I’m not sure I can help. I need something related to the item to draw me to it.”
    The detectives looked at one another. She saw doubt on Montoya’s face. “We