Jules knocked on the half-open door to the suite, peeking in to see Nash sitting up in bed, finishing breakfast and watching cable news. “Mind if I come in?”

“Of course not.” Nash picked up the remote and muted the TV.

Tess was sitting curled up in a chair across the room, doing Sudoku, and she smiled—tightly—at Jules. “Checking in to make sure I didn’t kill him last night?”

“I was pretty confident you’d draw the line at something relatively benign, like leaving the bedpan out of his reach,” Jules countered, “so, no. I wish that was why I’m here.”

“Uh-oh,” Nash said, glancing at Tess, who uncurled herself and stood up. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

Dressed as he was in red plaid pajamas, with his dark hair still rumpled from sleep and in need of a shave, Jimmy Nash looked charmingly vulnerable and not at all like the government-owned-and-operated hitman that Jules knew him to be. He pushed back a bowl of oatmeal as he visibly braced himself, no doubt waiting for the next shoe to drop, right on his handsome head.

“Dave Malkoff is going to be all right,” Jules told him, and Tess, too, “but he spent last night in the hospital. In Boston. After being attacked—stabbed—by a man with a knife, in a parking garage at Mass General.”

“Oh, crap,” Tess breathed.

“What the hell was Dave doing in Boston?” Nash asked.

“He was with Sophia,” Jules answered, “visiting her father, who’s dying of cancer.”

“And you think this is somehow related to me,” Nash correctly deduced. His eyes narrowed. “That it’s some kind of backlash because we tested the DNA from the shirt...?”

“I’m pretty sure that it is,” Jules told him. “Yes.” He closed the door.

“Did we get results back from that yet?” Nash asked.

“Yep. We found out that the man who tried to kill you last winter has been dead since 1988,” Jules said. “The name Kenneth Labinsk ring any bells?”

“Yes and no,” Nash said. “Not the name itself, but the strategy.”

“It’s a standard Agency MO,” Tess chimed in. She’d worked in the Agency’s support division for years.

“You’re in the field, you get into a scuffle, you maybe get a ding,” Nash told Jules.

“A ding being Jimmy’s expression for anything from a hangnail to being gutshot,” Tess interrupted.

“Getting gutshot’s not a ding,” he countered. “Even I know that.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said.

Jules cleared his throat.

“The point being,” Nash brought them back, “if you’re on an op, and you unexpectedly leave behind some DNA, support steps in and alters some records. Your DNA comes up as belonging to some long-dead civilian.”

“The procedure started in the black ops division,” Tess said. “It was how the black op agents got the name ‘ghosts.’ Can we please rewind for a sec, back to Dave?”

“He’s going to be fine,” Jules told them. “Well, at least in terms of his injury. I’ve been monitoring the situation all night, because it’s kind of crazy, and... DNA backlash or not, I’m pretty certain this is your blackmailers reaching out and sending us a message.”

Tess pulled a second chair over to Nash’s bedside, so they could both sit. “Well, we’re listening,” she said. “What’s going on?”

Jules sat down. “How well do you know Dave?”

“Not very,” Tess said, even as Nash contradicted her with, “Well enough to trust him with both mine and Tess’s lives.”

She turned to look at her longtime fiancé. “Really?”

“Without hesitation.” Nash was absolute.

Tess didn’t seem as convinced.

“Are you familiar with the reason Dave left the CIA?” Jules asked, and again they looked at each other.

Clearly both of them were hesitant to speak, but finally Tess cleared her throat. “Well, the nonofficial reason is that he was burned out on the bureaucracy,” she said. “But I’m, uh, pretty certain that his private file says otherwise.”

Nash was genuinely startled. “You hacked into Dave’s CIA file?”

She glanced pointedly at Jules—the FBI agent in the room—and answered evasively. “That’s illegal. And close to impossible to do.”

But everyone here knew that Tess was a computer specialist of legendary ability—able to break into the most intricately guarded files, without leaving even the tiniest cyber-footprint behind.

“We’re working together,” Jules pointed out. “I’m aware of what you’re capable of doing, so let’s not play games.”

He knew, even as the words left his mouth, that that was the dead-wrong thing to say to this woman who’d been lied to, repeatedly, by the man she loved. If anything, she was the playee, not the player.

“Wow, I’m sorry,” Jules apologized immediately, as Tess’s mouth got even tighter and her fair skin began to flush beneath her girl-next-door freckles. “That was thoughtless and completely uncalled for. My excuse is fatigue—I spent most of the night on my phone and at my computer and... You’re one of the most up-front, honest people I’ve ever met, Tess, and you have every right to be cautious, but let me say this again: We’re working together—against a formidable enemy that may well turn out to be a sanctioned part of the Agency’s black ops division. We all need to be completely honest with each other. Starting right now.”

She nodded. And answered Nash’s question. “Yes, I hacked into Dave’s file several months ago.”

Nash was perturbed. “Why?”

“You were behaving oddly. Something was really wrong, and yeah, okay, I suspected someone was pressuring you. So I checked out everyone you had contact with. Everyone.” She looked at Jules. “Congratulations on winning second chair clarinet in All-State, back in high school.”

Jules had to laugh. Was that really in his file? “Thank you.”

Nash, meanwhile, was still securely focused on Dave. “I’ve heard rumblings that Dave left the CIA after he was looked at—hard—for murder and treason. It was pretty sordid, but these things usually get warped—exaggerated way beyond truth.”

“According to Dave’s statement,” Jules told Nash, because clearly Tess was familiar with the minute details, “which I read for the first time last night, he met an American woman named Kathy Grogan while he was in Paris, on assignment for the CIA. It was love at first sight—for both of them. At least that’s what she led him to believe. Anyway, it turned out that Grogan was neither American nor named Grogan. She was Anise Turiano, an Eastern European con artist, who targeted men, preferably Americans, got into their good graces—usually via their beds—and ended up robbing them blind.

“In Dave’s case,” he continued, “she discovered—somehow—that he was with the CIA, and because of that she thought she’d hit the mother lode. They were engaged within a week, but that ended when she tried to auction off his identity and turned up dead—nearly killing Dave in the process.”

“Christ,” Nash murmured.

“And you’re right—it was sordid,” Jules told Nash. “There were semen samples and DNA tests and... allegations of, um, necrophilia.”

Nash was nodding. “That’s what I heard, too.”

“Dave said he didn’t kill her,” Tess chimed in. “But it’s hard to believe he didn’t.”

“So what if he did,” Nash countered. “She outed him—and blowing his cover could’ve been a death sentence. It’s the equivalent of attempted murder.” He turned to Jules. “So how is this connected to his getting knifed last night?”

“The CIA operative in charge of the investigation into Turiano’s death was a cheerful fellow by the name of Barney Delarow,” Jules explained. “He was convinced Dave had been Turiano’s willing cohort, and that Dave had killed her to keep her from becoming a witness against him, for those pesky charges of treason. Even after the case was officially closed, Delarow kept the file active on his computer.

“Dave claims that last night he was stalked and jumped in one of the Mass General parking garages by a skinhead gangbanger-type with an Irish accent. He says the man pulled a knife, which he knocked away. Dude pulls a second knife which, again, Dave dispatches. But now they’re down on the tarmac, fighting hand-to-hand, at which point, the perp pulls a third knife and sticks Dave, saying, Give my best to Santucci.”

“Oh, my God,” Tess whispered as Nash closed his eyes and shook his head.

“I take it you know someone named Santucci,” Jules said.

“You’re looking at him,” Nash admitted. “Is Dave really all right?”

“Yeah,” Jules said. “Are you saying that your name is—”

“Was,” Nash corrected him.

“The Agency often assigned new names and identities to operatives with questionable pasts,” Tess explained. “Before his name was changed to Nash—and it was legally changed—Jimmy was James Santucci and... Can I just say that that’s information that’s considered highly classified? In order to protect their operatives, the Agency wouldn’t share that information, not even with the FBI.”

Which was why this all was news to Jules.

“Whoever we’re up against,” Tess continued, “their access to Agency files goes deep.” She glanced at Nash. “And I think it’s safe to say that Dave’s mugging wasn’t random.”

“But how does it connect to Anise Turiano?” Nash asked.

“You’re going to hate this,” Jules said. “But after Dave gets stabbed, he fights off the skinhead with, shall we say, renewed vigor, and—remember that first knife the guy pulled? The one Dave kicked away? Well, Dave now rolls over to it and picks it up—which of course puts his prints all over it.”

“Oh, fuck,” Nash breathed—he obviously saw where this was going.

“In the brouhaha, Dave manages to call 9-1-1,” Jules continued, “and the skinhead runs when he hears the approaching sirens. He’s gone by the time the black-and-whites show up. There’s just Dave, with that knife in his hand, bleeding. But then one of the cops discovers another body—this one’s dead, his throat slit. And oh yeah, it’s good old Barney Delarow.”

Nash didn’t say a word, but Tess reached over and took his hand.

“Next to the body is a knife which, natch, bears both Delarow’s prints and Dave’s blood. As for Dave’s knife? It’s mostly clean, but there are trace amounts of Delarow’s blood and, uh, well, trust me on this—it’s clearly the murder weapon.”

“Someone’s trying to frame Dave,” Nash deduced.

“Or Dave’s lying and there never was a skinhead,” Jules felt compelled to point out.

“Why would Dave lie?” Nash asked.

“You tell me.”

“He wouldn’t.” Nash was certain. “For one thing, he doesn’t know my name was Santucci.”

“You’re sure of that?” Jules asked.

“Yes.”

“If Dave slit Delarow’s throat,” Tess argued, “wouldn’t he have been covered with his blood?”

“Not necessarily,” Nash answered her. “There are ways that... You don’t want to know.”

“Yeah,” Tess said snappishly, releasing Nash’s hand, “actually, Jimmy, I do want to—” She cut herself off, shaking her head in disgust.

And Jules found himself wishing he had access to the Bureau’s vast array of departments. Particularly counseling and mental health services. If he had, he would have recommended some hard-core couples counseling. He knew—firsthand—what it was like to love someone who kept secrets and told lies. Before he’d met and married Robin, he’d spent too many years trying to maintain a relationship with a man who hadn’t included honesty among his top values. That had sucked, but even so, it had taken Jules years to recognize that he deserved better.

It was entirely possible that Tess was nearing that breaking point. Which meant that unless Nash wised up and found some serious religion, so to speak, their relationship was circling the drain. Which was a freaking shame, because it was beyond obvious that they loved each other more than life itself.

Jules didn’t know Nash well enough to provide the necessary ass-kicking. Of course, when it came to kicking... He made a mental note to ask Sam to pop in and talk to Jimmy, privately. For someone who wore cowboy boots and meant it, Sam was remarkably sensitive and almost freakishly astute.

“Is this something the people who were after you might do?” Jules asked Nash now. “Try to shake you out of the tree by going after your friends?”

Nash nodded. “Yeah. This sounds like them. Someone needs to call Decker and give him a warning. If they went after Dave... Deck could be next.”

“I tried calling Decker’s sat phone,” Jules told them. “But got bumped to voice mail. I didn’t want to leave a message, even on a secure line—”

“Message,” Tess said. “Let’s back up a second and really think about the message they were sending—I mean, if this really is the Agency’s black ops department trying to shake you loose.” She turned from Nash to address Jules. “We did that DNA test, so we’ve got to assume they know we’re looking for them. But now they’re also trying to figure out if it’s possible that Jimmy’s still alive. Because really? What if he had died, and someone went through his things and found that bloodstained shirt? What if they found other evidence—records or, I don’t know, a list of names of people he’d... contacted or... You know...”

“Deleted,” Nash interjected. “Just say what you mean.”

Tess laughed at the irony of that, but didn’t let it slow her down. Jules knew what she was heading for, and it was a freaking great idea.

“You could set up an FBI investigation,” she told Jules.

“Of me?” Nash asked. “If I’m already dead, there’s no—”

“Of me,” Tess interrupted. “And Decker, too. The FBI could investigate to see if we were somehow involved in whatever crimes Jimmy committed.”

Because without the Agency’s authority, the jobs Nash had done would have been crimes.

“The subtext of that message,” Jules said, “being yes, Nash really is dead. It gives us an additional opportunity—to see if I get a call from Max, my boss, saying he got a call from someone at the Agency, asking him to let the entire case drop.”

Tess, the smarty-pants, was nodding. But she wasn’t done. “Before we get ahead of ourselves, we also have to think about the message we send with our reaction to Dave’s attack. Do we hunker down, and bring everyone into the safe house—Decker and Dave and Sophia and, God, Tom and Lindsey and everyone we’ve ever called friend? Because if we do that, if everyone we know suddenly vanishes, and I’m the scumbag who hired that skinhead to attack Dave? I’m thinking, There we go. James Nash is definitely alive. But if Jimmy really were dead? And Dave got attacked like this? Decker would be first in line to assist. And you know, I’d even come out of mourning to go to Boston, to help him.”

“Over my dead body,” Nash said.

“Yes, Jimmy,” Tess told him tartly. “Exactly. That’s the point. And it’s the message we want to give them. That you really are dead.”

Nash wasn’t happy about that.

“There’s another possibility here,” Jules pointed out before the man could argue with Tess. “And yes, it’s likely that our adversaries are going to be watching closely to see what we do next. But it’s also possible that they think Dave’s in the loop—that he knows for sure if you’re dead or alive. And if he did know you were alive, wouldn’t it make sense for him to contact you? I think it’s likely they’re going to be watching Dave closely, too—to see what he’s going to do next.”

Dave knew that his next move had to be to find the Irish man who’d stabbed him.

Providing that he had a next move. It was entirely likely that his discharge papers from the hospital—which according to the nurse, he’d have in hand in about thirty minutes—would allow Bill Connell to swoop down, arrest him, and take him into custody. And in a jail cell, Dave wouldn’t be able to move very far at all.

Sophia was still sleeping in a horribly uncomfortable-looking chair across the room when another nurse came in to free him from his final IV bag. Dave sat up after the young man left the room, cautiously getting out of bed to test his still-wobbly legs and, yes, to use the privacy of the bathroom instead of that hideous urine jug.

He relieved himself without waking Sophia—or falling down and peeing on the wall—and on the way out of the bathroom, he poked his head into the hallway, to test the reaction of the guards. Much could be learned from their response to him—which could be anything from them drawing their weapons and shouting for him to back the hell up, to a nod and a polite request to stay in the room with a please and a sir.

But Dave didn’t anticipate the total non-reaction he received—on account of the guards being gone.

The guards were gone.

He moved quickly, back into the room, on legs that weren’t quite ready for moving faster than a slow shuffle. “Sophia, help me,” he said, and she snapped awake, leaping from the chair.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

She headed for the nurses’ call button, but he stopped her.

“We’re getting out of here,” he told her. “Now. Where are my clothes?” The words weren’t even halfway out of his mouth when he opened a cabinet and saw them, folded neatly atop his shoes. They weren’t the shirt and pants he’d been wearing last night—those had been ruined—but rather a pair of jeans and one of his polo shirts with a collar, a clean pair of briefs, and socks. Someone, probably Sophia, had gotten this out of the suitcase that was no doubt still in the trunk of their rental car—on account of their never making it to their hotel last night. He scooped the clothing into his arms. “Get your things. Let’s go. Now.”

He didn’t know whose snafu this was. But whether it was Bill Connell’s, the local police chief’s, or the individual uniformed officers who’d apparently left their post unattended, it didn’t matter.

What mattered was that, for this brief, shining moment in time, Dave could walk out of this hospital, completely unchallenged.

He opened the door and, glory alleluia, the hall was still empty. The nurses’ station seemed to be off to the right. To the left was a long corridor—and a door marked AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY.

“This way.” Sophia brushed past him, taking his arm and leading him left, but she didn’t take the mystery door. Instead she went down the hall and took another left and then another. She led him through a set of double doors and around another corner, this time to the right, finally ending at a bank of elevators. She pushed the down button as he juggled his shoes, trying to shake free his briefs, because the last thing he needed was to get picked up for indecent exposure.

There was a sign for stairs on a door across from the elevators, and Sophia pulled him toward it, not missing a beat as she scooped up the shoe he dropped.

And then, thank God, they were in the quiet isolation of the stairwell and she was helping him get dressed, efficiently but gently, careful not to bump his bandaged wound.

It was the first time since the attack that they’d had any kind of real privacy. In fact, it felt like the equivalent of a planetary alignment or the sighting of a comet—exceedingly rare and not likely to happen again in his lifetime. Especially since he fully expected the missing guards to come bursting into the stairwell at any moment.

So Dave grabbed hold of the opportunity with both hands, jumping into the deep end of what should have been a delicately approached, one-toe-into-the-water-at-a-time topic.

“I caught the gonorrhea from oral sex,” he announced as she helped him on with his jeans. “It was the only time we didn’t use a condom. Kathy—Anise. And me.”

Sophia’s response as she pushed him to sit on the stairs so she could put on his socks and guide his feet into his shoes?

She laughed.

And immediately apologized. “I’m sorry. It’s just that... you said that last night—oral sex—and I had no idea what you meant. I was pretty sure it wasn’t a request, because you were extremely upset—not to mention nearly unconscious—so...”

He caught her hand, forcing her to look into his eyes. “I didn’t kill Anise Turiano, Soph. And I didn’t—”

“Shhh.” She gently broke his hold on her to pull down his shirt and straighten his collar, as he fastened his belt. “We can talk about this later. Are you good for the stairs, or should we take the elevator?”

“I’m good,” he lied, starting down, leaning heavily on the banister. “I just wanted you to know—”

“Stop talking and move.”

Back when he and Sophia were in their “just friends” mode, he’d told her about the week he’d spent with Kathy-slash-Anise. He’d confessed that it had been his first-ever sexual experience—about time for a man already in his thirties—which had been hard enough to admit. The fact that he’d ended up catching an STD was icing on the embarrassment cake—and proof that life could be a real bitch.

But of course, life had then turned around and caught him completely off-guard by giving him Sophia, so, truly, how could he complain?

“I lied to the investigators,” he couldn’t not tell her. “It’s true. But mostly by omission—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she told him, helping move past a door that was labeled 3RD FLOOR.

“Yes it does,” he insisted.

“No,” she said, emphatically, “it doesn’t.”

“It would’ve complicated things,” he told her as she continued to support him. They headed down to the second floor, and then the first. “I was treated anonymously, at a clinic, so there were no medical records. And it was a week between the time I thought she’d left me and her body was found, so... Her autopsy revealed that she had the disease, but by that time I was clean. And I know they tested me for it—I was in the hospital with a punctured lung, courtesy of the same ex-KGB thugs who snuffed her. Although there was no hard proof of that, so...”

Dave’s insistence that he’d never had unprotected sex with Anise Turiano, either before or, God, after her death was confirmed by his clean bill of health. He’d been dropped as the prime suspect—due to insubstantial evidence—although the agents in charge of the investigation remained convinced of his guilt and wrongdoing.

Sophia didn’t say anything so Dave kept going. “And as far as Barney Delarow—”

She cut him off. “There’s a taxi stand near the main entrance,” she said, “but they could be watching for us there. My gut is to get to the street and just keep moving, try to pick up a cab down toward... what is it? Cambridge Street?”

“No, Charles. Soph, please, if you have any questions at all, about anything—about Anise Turiano—I’ll make sure you get the case file so you can—”

She stopped outside the door to the first floor and got right in his face. “David. We’ll talk about this later. Can we walk through the lobby, please, without you shouting about all the murders you didn’t commit? Let’s keep this low-profile, all right?”

Dave gazed into the crystal blue of her eyes, searching for... something he didn’t find. He honestly couldn’t tell what she was thinking, and that made him feel sick. “What are you doing?” he whispered. “Helping me break out of here, when you don’t even believe me?”

She turned away.

What he’d wanted—no, needed—for her to do was look him in the eye and say, I believe you, Dave. I believe everything you say, but instead she’d turned away.

“Yeah,” she said, and he realized that her cell phone had vibrated, and she was taking a phone call.

Great. It was probably Bill Connell himself, telling them that the stairwell was surrounded, and to come out with their hands up.

But then Sophia exhaled hard and said, “Oh, thank heaven,” and then, “Uh-huh. Yes, wait, hang on, let me write down the address.” She pulled her notebook and pen from her handbag. “Albany Street,” she said. “Got it. No, the rental car has a GPS, so... We’ll be there—probably in...” She glanced at her watch. “I want to say an hour, but it’ll probably be before then.” She laughed at something said by whoever was on the other end of the call. “See you then and... Thank you so, so much.” Snapping her phone shut, she put both it and her notebook back in her bag.

And turned to Dave. “That was Joe Hirabayashi, from the FBI. He wants us to come to the morgue, so you can identify the man who stabbed you last night.”

“The morgue,” Dave repeated, shifting to sit on the flight of stairs they’d just come down. People generally didn’t go to the morgue to appear in a police lineup.

Sophia nodded. “The man from last night? Bald, tattoos, leather jacket, biker boots, gold tooth? He was found a few hours ago, in some park—someplace called the Fenway—with a bullet in his head. Blood splatters on his clothing are a match both for you and Barney Delarow. Your story pans out—you’re no longer a suspect.”

And that was why the guards had vanished from his door. That bastard Bill Connell had pulled them and left—without having the decency to inform Dave that he was in the clear.

Sophia sat down next to him on the stairs, and she looked so exhausted, he swallowed the words he was about to say: So... About that Anise Turiano thing. Do you believe me now?

“How about we take the elevator back upstairs,” she said, “so you can sign all the papers you need to sign to be officially released. I’ll go get the car, pick you up out front, and we can go to the morgue and do... whatever needs to be done.”

Dave nodded. “Identifying the skinhead would be a nice step toward finding out who tried to frame me.”

Sophia nodded, too, but then asked, “Why would someone want to frame you?”

“That’s definitely the question of the hour. If we find out who, why might come for free, like a two-fer.”

She laughed, but it was weary. “You said he mentioned a name—Santucci.”

“Give my best to Santucci,” Dave repeated.

“How can you give your best to someone you don’t know?”

“I don’t know.” But whoever Santucci was, Dave was going to find him. Or her. He sighed. “Come on,” he said, tugging at her hand. “You slept in a chair—after talking to your father for the first time in decades. Let’s ID the perp, then go someplace where you can get some rest.”

“I just want to go home.” But she didn’t move. In fact, she leaned her head against Dave’s shoulder and sighed. “Seeing my father again was nothing,” she told him quietly. “Not compared to seeing you in that parking lot, and thinking...” She drew in a deep breath, and when he turned to look at her, she had tears in her eyes. “When I saw all that blood...”

“Hey,” he said, pulling her chin up so he could kiss her. Her lips were so sweet, so soft. “Come on. You should know better. I’m harder to kill than that.”

She nodded, forcing a smile. “I sometimes forget that you are,” she admitted. “It’s just that you’re Dave. You’re... Dave.”

“Yes, I am,” he said. “I’m not sure what you mean by that but... I gotta agree. Although these days I’m calling myself Lucky Dave.”

Her smile became more real as she held his gaze, but then it faded. She touched him, her fingers almost cold against his face. “I didn’t not believe you, you know.”

Which wasn’t the same thing as her believing him.

“We’re both tired,” Dave said. “Let’s just get going. Maybe Yashi’ll have more information when we get to the morgue.”

The trip to the safe house was going to have to wait.

Tracy knew that wasn’t the only reason Decker was antsy as they sat in his truck, in the quiet parking lot of the medical complex that housed Dr. Heissman’s new office, waiting for her to show up.

Which wasn’t going to be too much longer. In Starbucks, the woman had given them her entire day’s schedule—for this very purpose, no doubt.

The parking lot at the VA was too busy, too crowded, too vast—not a good place to connect with the doctor. So here they sat, waiting for her to arrive, as the hands of Tracy’s watch moved from 3:45 to 3:46.

But Deck had even more things on his mind besides finding out the details behind that help me message.

His secure satellite phone had stopped working, which made it difficult to communicate with any of his fellow operatives.

They’d stopped over at the Troubleshooters office, and the place was empty and locked up tight, which had felt strange. Much to Decker’s disgust, there were no replacement sat phones available. Tracy tracked one down—Lindsey Jenkins had it—but she was in a meeting and wouldn’t be able to drop it off until later in the day.

It was while they were there, using the secure landline to get in touch with FBI agent Jules Cassidy, that Decker had really had his cage rattled. He’d called Jules to report the weird new Jo Heissman problem, and in the midst of that conversation, he’d found out that last night, while he and Tracy had been having the world’s most unsatisfying sleepover, trouble had come to call on the East Coast.

Apparently, Dave Malkoff had gotten into a knife fight outside of the Boston hospital where he and Sophia had gone to visit her ailing father.

And yes, the idea of Dave—uncoronated king of the nerds—in a knife fight was enough to send anyone’s incredulometer rocketing sky high. But it was the fact that Sophia had actually met with her horror-show of a father that had made Tracy pause.

Decker, too.

Of course, that wasn’t entirely unexpected, since every breath he took was all about Sophia. Every heartbeat murmured her name to him. Every nose whistle, every belch, every fart, and okay, now Tracy was just being mean. But she had to admit to feeling envy for the blonde. Although envy plus mean thoughts equaled jealousy, which was unattractive in a woman of a certain age. As in anyone over eighteen—months.

And, realistically? While it was fun to flirt and to daydream and to play a muted version of That Dawg Would So Totally Cut Off His Left Nut to Do Me with many of the men at Troubleshooters—including Lawrence Decker—the man had been ragingly right last night. Having a fling with someone she worked with would be crazy complicated.

And also, Tracy knew darn well that she didn’t fling. She relation-shipped. Upon full penetration, she bypassed logic and reason and went directly to I-Love-You Land. Which was massively stupid—she knew that, too.

These days, though, Tracy was a realist. Or at least she’d started trying harder to be a realist in the wake of her bewildering breakup with Michael-the-Creep, who’d ripped out her heart after she’d just barely gotten it sewn back into her chest. She’d still been vulnerable and emotionally raw following the fiasco with her cheating ex-fiancé Lyle and then that bastard with his Navy SEAL muscles, Irving Zanella. His nickname was Izzy, but it helped, in getting over him—which had taken far too long, considering it had been only one night—to think of him as Irving.

So yes, she’d been neither realistic nor smart when she’d gotten involved with all three of those losers. And she definitely hadn’t been realistic or smart last night at dinner with Decker, when she’d gone on a fishing expedition, using George as bait.

Hello, extremely attractive, slightly older, and hopefully more mature man sitting at my kitchen table. I’ve always found you hot. I also haven’t had sex in a very, very long time, and well... here we both are. I know from my mirror that many men think that I’m both beautiful and sexy. So if you put in just a small amount of effort, I will let you talk your way into my bed tonight.

But Decker apparently was too mature—to the point of recognizing what an awful mistake that would have been. Or maybe he was simply too in love with Sophia ever to dally, even briefly, with any other woman.

Either that or he was totally gay.

And yes, all right, that was Tracy’s inner jealous crybaby bubbling forth.

She had plenty of gay friends, and although observation and gaydar could never provide a completely accurate verdict—not like asking “Are you gay?” and getting back an answer, “Yes”—she was virtually certain Decker’s orientation was strictly hetero.

Although picturing him naked with, say, Izzy Zanella? It worked for her in a rather odd way.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Decker said, interrupting her wayward thoughts.

She laughed as she glanced at him. With his sunglasses on, he was harder than ever to read. Still, she was pretty certain that telling him she was imagining being in the middle of a Zanella-Decker sandwich wouldn’t go over well. So instead she switched on the signal jammer and said, “You really need to tell Sophia the truth.”

Of course, he started shaking his head the moment Sophia’s name crossed her lips.

They’d picked up the jammer when they’d stopped in at the TS office. If anyone was trying to listen in with long-distance microphones, it would screw with the signal, but make it appear to the listener as if the problem was radio interference from passing trucks or taxis.

It wasn’t as creative or colorful—both figuratively and actually—as taping George to the window and flipping on his shower-safe switch. But on the other hand, it wasn’t likely to get them arrested, either. And it did allow them to talk freely without fear of being overheard. And over the past few hours, Decker had filled her in, completely, on the situation with Jimmy Nash.

Well, probably not completely.

But Tracy knew there was a plan afoot to make the bad guys who tried to kill Jimmy—whoever they were—believe that the FBI had opened an investigation to see if Decker and/or Tess weren’t somehow connected to potentially criminal activities that Nash had engaged in. It had something to do with a bloodstained shirt and a list of people whom Jimmy had apparently deleted while he’d worked black ops for the Agency.

Tracy hadn’t asked exactly what that meant—to delete—but really, she hadn’t had to.

She chose now to talk of less violent but no less volatile things. Such as Sophia.

“You need to tell her,” she persisted. “You bring this with you”—she pointed to the jammer—“when you pick them up at the airport tonight. You get them into the truck and... You tell them both the truth.” That Jimmy was alive.

Decker just shook his head.

“Okay,” Tracy said, shifting so that she was turned more toward him. “Yes. Dave’s going to get hurt. It’s unavoidable, but—”

“It’s not about that,” he said.

“Sure, you can believe, if you want, that—”

“Look, I know you’d rather think that this is about personal feelings, rather than decisions based on strategy and logic—”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “Now you’re pretending it’s logical, not to—”

“Honey, why do you think Liam Smith was found dead, in a deserted part of a Boston city park?” Decker asked, adding, as if she might not remember who Smith was from their earlier conversation, “The man who attacked Dave last night?”

Tracy paused, thinking about it, while Deck just waited, watching her. “Because he was... an unsavory person,” she guessed. “Who went unsavory places, where he got himself killed in an unsavory way.” Assuming there were savory ways to get oneself killed.

“On the very same night he knifes Dave.” Decker’s voice was loaded with skepticism. “Come on, Tracy, use that big brain I know you’ve got. What do we know—from the fact that Smith was shot, point-blank, in the face? The man had a powder burn on his chin.”

“I didn’t know that,” she said.

“Well then, I’m telling you now,” he countered. “What does it tell us?”

She wished she could see his eyes, but they were securely covered by those dark glasses. He thought she had a big brain, which was refreshing. Most men combined the word big with boobs when they referred to her. “That... whoever shot him was standing very close to him.” She realized as she spoke the words what that meant—and Decker was right. This wasn’t that hard to deduce. “That he probably knew whoever shot him—well enough for the shooter to get that close.”

“Good girl,” he said, and she felt an absurd rush of pleasure. It was particularly absurd considering his word choice.

“I’m not a girl,” she felt compelled to point out. “I’m a woman. And it still could be a coincidence.”

“Liam Smith was found with his clothing stained with both Dave and Barney Delarow’s blood,” Decker told her, a muscle jumping in the side of his jaw, as he no doubt thought about what that had meant to Sophia. If Smith had had Dave’s blood on him, Dave must’ve been bleeding badly. Which couldn’t have been a happy sight for Sophia. “He was lying there like the perfect little get-out-of-jail-free card for the police and other investigators to find.”

Tracy struggled to understand. “So you think whoever killed Smith wanted Dave not to be charged with Delarow’s murder. But... why? After going to all that trouble to frame him?”

He didn’t answer. He just waited for her to reach her own conclusion.

She knew Decker thought that the Agency was behind the previous attempts on Jimmy’s life. And if the Agency was the all-seeing, all-knowing organization they were reputed to be, then they surely knew that Dave had been friends with Decker and Nash. So...

“You think the Agency thinks that Dave knows whether or not Jimmy’s alive.” Tracy kept going, because Decker was nodding. “They hope Dave’s... going to... lead them to him?”

He smiled at her. “Correct for two points.”

“Only two?” she said.

“That one wasn’t as mind-stretching as figuring out Nash was, you know,” he told her. And she did know—Nash was still alive. And Deck was still unable to say it aloud, despite their cone of silence.

“For which I won an all-expenses-paid vacation,” she reminded him. “To the world’s most upscale jail. Provided I ever get there.” She returned to where this conversation had started. “So you’re using the fact that the Agency is probably watching Dave’s every move as an excuse to not tell him and Sophia the truth.”

Decker laughed his exasperation. “Will you please just let that drop?”

“What if the Agency goes after Dave again?” Tracy asked. “Or what if they go after Sophia this time?”

That got her a flash of his eyes over the top of his glasses.

“Frankly? I think you don’t want to tell them because you prefer wallowing in misery,” she said.

“You’re out of line,” Decker said quietly, which meant she was finally pissing him off. She’d noticed that about him through the years. He rarely raised his voice. In fact, she’d only seen him get crazy-loud once, when he and Nash got into a physical fight in the Troubleshooters parking lot—shortly before Nash had “died.” She’d stood there, with her mouth literally hanging open, astonished at the sight of Decker beating the crap out of Nash.

“I think you wouldn’t recognize happiness if it came up and bit you on the butt,” she countered now. “Or maybe you would, but you wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“I do know what to do with it,” he said. “I know exactly what to do. I leave it the hell alone.”

“You think Sophia’s happy with Dave,” she realized.

He sighed—an exaggerated expulsion of exasperation, meant to shame her into letting it drop.

She didn’t. “You do,” she accused him. “You actually believe—”

“Look, she is happy,” he told her. “I know it. All right? He’s good for her. I’ve seen them together and she’s—” Deck swore pungently, as if at himself.

And using her big brain, Tracy realized exactly what he’d just said. He’d seen them together. “You spied on them?” She couldn’t keep her delight from showing in her voice, on her face.

“No,” he said tersely.

She just looked at him, eyebrows raised, and he added, “I wasn’t spying. I was just...”

“Spying. You’re a spy,” she pointed out. “You spied. It’s okay. You couldn’t help yourself, it’s what you do, but...” She paused, a little icked out. “Not, like, through Sophia’s bedroom window, right?”

“No! Jesus.” He took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. “I wanted to make sure she was okay. And she was. She was, yeah, happy. Okay? I heard her laughing and it was real laughter. And I would never do anything to take that away from her.”

“And you don’t think she’d be even happier,” Tracy felt compelled to point out, “with you? I mean, considering she’s in love with you?”

He was back to shaking his head, after, once again, hiding his eyes behind his shades.

“So that’s it,” Tracy said. “You’re just going to quit?”

That got her another flash of his eyes. “Believe me, I quit this game a long time ago.”

That didn’t just surprise her—it annoyed her. “So... what then? You’re just never going to have sex again?”

He laughed, but then stopped abruptly. “That’s really none of your business.”

He’d told her that he hadn’t had sex with Dr. Help Me, and he sure as heck hadn’t had it with Tracy, last night. She knew something had happened between him and Sophia, but was now starting to believe it had occurred over the course of a single, accidental night.

Tracy had always known that Decker held himself apart from everyone else at Troubleshooters Incorporated, but she was starting to realize that she’d never imagined just how wide that self-imposed gap was. “Did you honestly tell Dr. Heissman that you were thinking about killing yourself?”

He smiled at that—a flash of straight white teeth in his tanned face. “Only you would dare to ask about that. Tracy, honey, you are absolutely a piece of work.”

“Is that a compliment or a disparaging comment?” she mused, forcing herself to pretend that his honey didn’t make her heart beat harder. “I’ve never quite figured that out.”

Decker just laughed—and she couldn’t quite tell if it was in despair or amusement.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, calling him on it. “I think you did tell Dr. Heissman that. But I also think you were totally BS-ing her.” On account of the doctor having worked for the Agency. Decker had filled Tracy in on his suspicions that Dr. H. had still worked for the evil overlord of the Agency as recently as a few months ago, even while she was employed as the one and only member of the psych department at Troubleshooters Incorporated.

It was creepy to imagine, but Deck seemed to think Dr. H. had taken the job at TS Inc. to keep an eye on Jimmy Nash. And apparently the woman now needed help, so maybe his paranoia was accurate. But did she really need help, or was she digging for information? That was, hopefully, what they were going to find out—if and when she ever appeared, here at her office.

Tracy glanced at her watch: 3:52.

“What if I told you I wasn’t?” Decker asked, but again Tracy couldn’t see his eyes through his sunglasses. “Bullshitting her.”

“Well,” she said slowly, aware that this enigmatic man was holding open the door to some extremely personal territory. “I’d make sure you knew that, from my perspective? The world’s a better and much safer place with you in it. I’d make sure you knew that you were loved, and that you’d be missed. Badly.”

He didn’t respond. They both just sat there for many, many long seconds as she gazed at her own reflection in his sunglasses. But then he turned to look away from her, staring out the front windshield at the deserted parking lot. He shook his head again. And finally spoke.

“I don’t get you,” he said. “I just don’t. Is it because... I’m here? I’m human? I’m male? I have both a pulse and a dick?” He turned to look back at her, taking off his sunglasses so that she could finally see his eyes. Just like that fraction of a second that she’d thought she’d imagined back in the Starbucks, he let his attraction for her show. Only this time he didn’t hold back. “What the hell would a girl like you want with me? You into danger, Tracy? Is that what it is? Because you are playing with fire.”

“First of all?” Tracy had to push to speak past her heart, which had securely lodged in her throat. “I’ll say it again: I’m a woman, not a girl. Let’s get that straight.”

“To me,” he shot back, “you’re just a curious little girl, looking for a diversion. For a fancier toy to play with. Honey, do yourself a favor, and stick with the one you’ve already got.”

She exhaled her outrage. “I’m sorry. Did you miss something here? Like the part of this conversation where I’ve been trying to talk you into telling Sophia that you love her? Get over yourself.” She forced a laugh. “Wow, that’s part of the problem. You’re so completely my type. A pulse and a dick, yes, but a giant stone in place of your heart. If I’m sending mixed signals, it’s because I am drawn to you, like a moth to a flame. But I’m smarter than that, and I am not doing this.”

“That’s right,” he said, putting his sunglasses back on and turning back to the deserted parking lot, “but only because I’m not ‘doing this.’ ”

“Oh, my God,” Tracy said, “could you be any more arrogant? Better stop that, honey, because I’m a headcase and it totally makes me want to fuck you.”

He sharply turned and looked at her again, and this time, despite the sunglasses, his smolder came through. She was afraid, for several long heartbeats, that he was going to yank her to him, and kiss her. Hard.

But then the fear was suddenly diminished by a clean, clear ping of shining hope—that this man would, in fact, do exactly that.

Instead he jumped—and Tracy did, too—as Jo Heissman knocked on the passenger-side window.

Decker swore, starting the truck with a roar—and flipping off the signal jammer; wasn’t that interesting?—as Tracy unlocked and pushed open the heavy door.

“Are you crazy?” the doctor said, clearly frightened. “This lot has a security camera—”

“I disabled it,” Decker told her. “You want help? Get in, and get down. On the floor.”

Tracy slid over on the bench seat to make room for the older woman, who hesitated only briefly before she climbed in. Decker, meanwhile, put the truck in gear and pulled out onto the street—almost before Jo had pulled the door shut.

“If you’re going to sit that close,” he told Tracy, his voice tight as he looked into the rearview mirror, no doubt to see if anyone was following them, “at least try to look like you mean it.”