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one of the models at the Bryson party,” she informed Stuckey.
    “This young woman is mistaken. I didn’t attack anyone. As I’m sure you know, Lieutenant Stuckey.”
    Chloe’s jaw dropped, and she snapped it shut quickly. This man knew Stuckey!
    She stared at the lieutenant. He was built as powerfully as a bull and didn’t have much of a neck. He kept his snow-white hair cropped close to his skull, and his eyes were a clear sky blue that were incapable of mirroring anything but the truth.
    And in his eyes she saw that it was true. He and this man knew one another.
    Stuckey looked at her. “I gather there’s been a misunderstanding of some sort,” he said.
    She kept her jaw clamped tight, beginning to feel belligerent. Stuckey had found Jack all but beating her to a pulp, and now he was excusing the man?
    “What are you doing out here?” he asked her.
    “I was at the party,” Chloe said. “As you know.”
    Stuckey’s bushy brows drew together. “Yes, why did you leave the party?”
    “Because this man was chasing Rene.”
    “Chloe, we’ve talked about situations like this,” Stuckey said.
    Yes, they had talked about it. Often. He was one of her best friends—or so she had thought until just now. She had even promised that she would never let her “sniffing around” lead her into danger—such as leaving a crowded area to take risks alone—but…She dropped that uncomfortable topic for one that could feed her anger.
    Since when was Stuckey buddy-buddy with the local fashionistas?
    Which simply proved the truth of what she’d already been sure of. Jack Smith was no designer. So who—and what—the hell was he?
    “Let’s take this inside somewhere,” Stuckey said—and it was not a suggestion.
    Chloe realized that a small crowd had begun to gather around them. Stuckey took her by the arm and started toward the street and his car. It was a good thing he was a cop, she mused. Parking on South Beach at night was a near impossibility.
    She was aware that Jack Smith was following them, and she wasn’t pleased. If she’d truly been a terrier, the hackles on her back would have risen.
    “Where are we going?” she asked Stuckey.
    “Somewhere private,” he said. “We can duck into Jimmy Ray’s—it’s too late for the teenagers to be hanging out, too early for the club crowd to be looking for a snack on the way home. We can find a booth.”
    “I don’t have shoes,” she said.
    “You can wear my flip-flops.”
    They stopped at his car. Here on the sidewalk, the night was alive. Bands from a dozen clubs vied for dominance. People were everywhere, some in a hurry, some just soaking in the neon lights and the music.
    Cars moved past at a snail’s pace.
    Stuckey opened the passenger door and grabbed a large pair of flip-flops. She slipped them on. It looked as if she was wearing shoes intended for Frankenstein’s monster.
    “They’ll do,” Stuckey told her curtly.
    So far, Jack Smith—a name she was growing more and more certain wasn’t the one he’d been born with—hadn’t uttered a word. He gazed at Chloe as she took her first step, trying to keep the shoes on. His eyes were silver, and they had an edge. Everything about the man had an edge, from the angles of his face to the tone of his voice, and that edge seemed to demand respect. There was something about him. She didn’t like him. She was attracted to him, but she didn’t like him. And that was that.
    No matter what Stuckey might have to say, she didn’t trust the man.
    They made it across the street and down the crowded walk to the ivied opening that led down a narrow alley to Jimmy Ray’s.
    Jimmy Ray had been born and bred on South Beach. He liked to talk about the old days, and he knew what he was talking about, too, because he had to be somewhere in his eighties. But he still worked every day, and he served the best pizza on the beach. He also had the best bar, and the lowest prices on mixed drinks. There was never a DJ there