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conversation drifted through the wide room.
    The Windy City held less appeal these days than it ever had before. Part of it was career burnout—he’d been at this damn job way too long, had never responded well to being told what to do and was ready for a change. Although at thirty-eight, he didn’t have a freakin’ clue what else he’d do with his life. Part of it was a need to keep his distance from one overzealous reporter who wasn’t getting the hint he was no longer interested. And short of shooting her himself, he couldn’t figure out another option.
    A vacation sounded a hell of a lot better than spending the next thirty years in prison.
    The scent of coffee did little to brighten his mood. A hot beach, a bottle of beer and any woman who wasn’t blonde would suit him just fine right now.
    “Hey, Maxwell.” The uniformed officer across the room lifted the phone in her hand. “You got a call on line four.”
    So much for fantasies. Real life beckoned.
    “Thanks.” He wove through the sea of officers and banged-up office furniture and settled into the seat behind his metal desk. His chair creaked as it rocked on its hinges. Lifting the phone, he prayed it wasn’t the press. “Detective Maxwell.”
    “Find any two-thousand-year-old dead bodies in that city today?”
    He smiled as he leaned back in his chair. “No. You know of any I should be looking for?”
    Lisa laughed. “Not yet. How are you, little brother?”
    “Miserable. What else?” He picked up a pen and tapped it against the edge of his desk. “Where are you?”
    “Still in Italy. Shane, listen, I need a favor.”
    “Sure, anything.” She was the only woman in the world who could draw those words from his lips.
    “I faxed you a picture a few minutes ago. You should be getting it anytime. The guy’s name is Rafael Garcia—or at least that’s what he told me his name was. He gave me the impression he was a professor at the University of Barcelona, but no one at the university has ever heard of him. No onefitting his description lives anywhere near Barcelona. Can you run him through the system, see if you can find anything?”
    Shane glanced toward the fax machine on the corner of his desk. It beeped and clicked as paper fed into the tray. “Looks like the pic is coming through now. How do you know this guy?”
    “I met him at a conference here in Milan.”
    The tone of her voice had warning bells going off in his head. “Did something happen?”
    “Sort of.”
    “Lis?” he asked with concern.
    “I’m fine, don’t worry. But I need to find this guy. I have a hunch he’s not Spanish, like I’d thought.”
    “You think he’s American?” He took a close look at the photo. The dark-haired man was sitting at a table in a restaurant, the photo taken from the restaurant’s security camera. “Why?”
    “The waiter said he paid for dinner with U.S. dollars.”
    “In Milan?”
    “Yeah.”
    “So all you’ve got to give me is a photo of a guy who may or may not be an American, and a name that may or may not be accurate.”
    “Pretty much.”
    He frowned and tossed the photo on his desk. “Lis, this’ll take me ten years.”
    “Would a fingerprint help?”
    “Hell, yeah. But only if the guy’s got a record. Otherwise it’s still like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
    “I’ll fax you one of those as well. My gut tells me he’s got a record.”
    “Wait. How’d you get a print?”
    “A cute officer with the Milan polizia got a partial print off a wineglass.”
    Shane pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t flirt with the kid, Lis. It’ll just frustrate the poor guy.”
    “I’m older than you. Don’t try to tell me what to do.”
    “By five minutes, and you know that doesn’t count.” He dropped his hand. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
    “Not yet. But I will.”
    He knew that was the best he was going to get. “Where will you be in an hour?”
    “Here at the hotel.” He jotted down