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back, my stomach souring as much from the overpowering smell of alcohol and urine wafting from the woman as the intensity of her eyes, the biting truth in her words: You believe me…. I know you do.
    The officers ushered the woman out of the way, and I beelined toward what seemed to be the front desk. I cleared my throat at the top of the officer’s bent head.
    “Good afternoon. I’m here to see Detective Hayes,” I said.
    The officer didn’t look up.
    “Excuse me,” I said again, a little louder. “I need to see Detective Hayes.”
    The cop looked up at me, and I blinked twice.
    He was twelve.
    Maybe not twelve, but certainly not old enough to be strapped into an officer’s uniform and running the front desk—even if he was just doing a Sudoku in yesterday’s Chronicle. His small hazel eyes were red-rimmed and set too far apart. His nose was thin and freckled and a few stray whiskers—a petty attempt at a beard?—grew in odd angles above his upper lip. With his close-cut cropped strawberry-blond hair and big ears, he looked like an odd cross between Opie and Butthead. Or maybe it was Beavis; I could never remember which one was which.
    “I’m sorry, miss, what was that?” Opie asked me.
    “Um, Detective Hayes,” I said for the third time, then patted my shoulder bag affectionately. “We’re working on something.” I straightened my shoulders and stood up taller. “A case. We’re working on a case together.”
    Opie raised one red-blond eyebrow, and I forced the polite smile I used for gargoyles—hard-headed, stubborn, immovable gargoyles—and nodded. “Do you know where I can find him?”
    Opie jerked a thumb over one shoulder, his hazel eyes never leaving the top of the blouse I forgot to button. I pinched the fabric together over my breast and narrowed my eyes on the officer. “Officer?”
    “Down the hall, on the left. You’ll see the sign.”
    I turned to leave, but Opie stopped me. “Ma’am?”
    I bristled, and then reminded myself that to the police force under fifteen, I would be a ma’am.
    “You’ll need to fill this out first, please.” Opie slid a clipboard toward me, and I sighed, filling in the obligatory information, then clipped the little plastic badge he gave me to my jacket.
    After two wrong turns and several glares from angry-looking hooker types being led around by their cuffed arms, I found the correct hallway and Hayes’s office. There was a folded piece of paper Scotch-taped to the frosted-glass door, the name DETECTIVE HAYES scrawled on it in black Sharpie.
     
    “How very Barney Miller,” I muttered before knocking quickly.
    “‘S’open!” I heard Hayes bellow from inside.
    Okay, here’s the thing. Like I said before, I’m not man crazy. But the sound of Detective Hayes’s rich voice floating out did something to me, and every hair on the back of my neck stood up, every nerve ending pricked—especially the ones in the nether regions I cared not to mention. I wondered what that voice would sound like first thing in the morning, gruff with sleep, whispered in my ear.
    “Come in,” I heard again.
    I shook myself from my fantasy and pushed through the frosted-glass door.
    Hayes was leaning back in his ancient leather office chair, his feet resting on the corner of his desk, ankles crossed. His dark eyebrows were knitted and intense as he scanned the papers stacked in his lap, his perfect teeth chewing on his full bottom lip as he read.
    I steadied myself against the little flutter I felt when his crystal blue eyes glanced up from his work and settled on me; I gripped the strap of my shoulder bag even more tightly when his face broke out in a warm, genuine grin that made my knees go medically oozy.
    “You made it!”
    I slung my bag onto one visitor’s chair and slunk into the other.
    “How do you manage around here? The environment is so hostile!” I shuddered and pulled my jacket tighter across my chest, and edged my chair a little farther back when I