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him.”
    â€œThis is the third time he’s been in.” Louise held up three slim fingers. “He was here yesterday and the day before. Won’t leave his name, and when I suggest he talk to someone else, he seems to disappear.”
    â€œWhat’s he look like?” She’d never asked before; hadn’t had the time or the interest, but the man was starting to get on her nerves—worry her a little.
    â€œThat’s the kicker,” Louise said, showing off even white teeth in her first smile of the afternoon. “He looks like he could have stepped off the pages of a Marlboro ad. You know the kind. Rugged, not polished, black hair, gray eyes that don’t smile much. Intense. Six feet, maybe six-one or -two, lean and always dressed in jeans and a shirt—no tie, just some kind of leather jacket that’s seen better years.”
    â€œSo he doesn’t scare you?”
    â€œNot really, but then I don’t scare easily,” Louise said, her smile fading. Miranda thought about Louise’s ex-husband, a man who had battered her, threatening her life for several years, before Louise had found the strength to get out and walk away from a violent marriage. “But there’s something about him I don’t trust. When he couldn’t get past me, he stopped by Debbie’s desk, leaned his hips against it, smiled, and turned on the charm.”
    â€œHe had some?” Miranda asked.
    â€œYeah—a little. If you like men who can turn it on at will—crooked smile, dimple, all at once Mr. Hard-As-Nails is the Boy Next Door. That’s what’s scary about him, if you ask me. Anyway, he started asking Debbie all sorts of questions. About you. Personal questions. She couldn’t answer ’em, of course, was practically tongue-tied around the man, and when I strolled over, he made a quick exit.”
    â€œMaybe he’s a reporter.” Slinging the strap of her purse over her shoulder, Miranda hauled her briefcase from the desk.
    â€œThen why not leave a card? A phone number? Make a damned appointment? Huh? I’m telling you, girl, there’s something not right about this guy. He’s not on the up-and-up.”
    â€œWe get a lot of those around here.”
    Louise shook her head. Black curls glistened under the harsh fluorescent lights. “No, we don’t, honey, not in the DA’s office, and even though the guy doesn’t look like a crazy with a gun, you can’t be too careful these days.”
    â€œPetrillo’s checking him out, though, right?”
    Louise lifted a shoulder. “Trying to.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” Miranda said, pausing at the door. “I’ve got a few days off. Maybe whoever he is, he’ll give up and crawl back under the rock he calls home.”
    â€œLike Ronnie Klug did.”
    The muscles in the back of Miranda’s neck tightened, and she nearly missed a step. Inadvertently, she touched her throat, felt the tiny trace of a scar, then let her hand drop.
    â€œI don’t think—”
    â€œThis could be another guy you sent to prison, Randa. You’ve been at this job long enough that some of those boys are getting out now.”
    â€œThe man who was here is an ex-con?”
    â€œI don’t know. Doesn’t look like it, but you can’t ever tell. Remember Ted Bundy? Good-looking. Charming. A real lady-killer.”
    Couldn’t argue with that kind of logic. “Point well taken.”
    â€œOkay. So Petrillo’s looking through mug shots of every guy or boyfriend of a woman you sent away. Trouble is, the list is pretty long.”
    â€œBesides, you can always reach me on my cell phone or e-mail.”
    â€œBy then it might be too late.”
    â€œLook, Louise. Don’t lose any sleep over it, okay? Just because a guy comes snooping around—”
    â€œIs reason enough to be worried. This man looks determined, the kind of