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almost attractive. She wore a pair of flip-flops that Sergeant Penniman had pulled out of her locker, and was sipping a Diet Coke. Bill was asking questions and I was taking notes.
    She peered down her nose at me and said, “Involuntary. That’s I … N … V…”
    Bill choked on a laugh. I felt the top of my ears getting warm. “I know how to spell ‘involuntary.’ I went to law school.”
    “Oh, how interesting? As what?”
    “As a student!”
    Bill restored the peace by asking, “Okay, where do you live?” She gave an address on the southern edge of Jokertown. Bill leaned back and studied her. “They pretty much cater to students. I thought you said you were an actress?”
    Abigail blushed, and took a quick sip of soda. “Well, I am … almost. I’m just finishing up a few classes at the New York School of Performing Arts. But I’m understudying a major role at the Bowery Repertory.”
    “Oh, so you’re a wannabe actress,” I said.
    “And you’re a failed barrister.”
    “I chose to be a police officer,” I began.
    “Franny, go get me a soda.” He handed me a dollar bill. “An orange. And while you’re at it ask Apsara for the victim report form.”
    I left, grumbling. That girl had really gotten under my skin. I had to ask the old ram’s horn detective how to find the file room. He gave me a very tedious set of exact directions, and I headed there.
    Watching too many cop dramas had given me a sense of what a file clerk should look like. An old, male, potbellied, maybe retired cop. What met me was a vision out of an Asian film. The girl looked very young, and she was flat-out gorgeous. Jet-black hair that hung past her ass, skin like honey, an amazing figure. I tried to moisten my lips, but my mouth had gone Sahara dry. “I need … I need…”
    “Yes, officer?” Her voice was like bells. “What do you need?” Long lashes briefly veiled the laughter in her eyes.
    “Victim’s report form.”
    “All right.” I watched her go swaying away to a filing cabinet.
    Her path led her past a strange little ornately carved wooden house with a gold leaf roof. I realized I’d seen similar styles in Thai restaurants.
    She returned with a couple of sheets of paper. “I’m Apsara Nai Chiangmai. You’re new. What’s your name?”
    “Fran—” My voice squeaked. I coughed and tried again. “Francis Black.”
    “Francis,” she said slowly, making my name into a song. “That’s a nice name. I like the feel of that on my tongue.” She did that thing with her lashes again, and I thought about cold showers.
    “Thank you,” I muttered, and grabbed the papers and headed for the door.
    “Come by anytime,” she called.
    “Okay,” I gasped.
    As I left I thought I heard a cranky old man’s voice saying her name in that parent tone that tells you you’ve really fucked up.
    I found the soda machine, bought Bill’s orange beverage, and got myself a Coke. I didn’t open it right away. Instead I rolled the cold can across my forehead. Having regained control over my anatomy I went back into the interrogation room.
    ♥
    It wasn’t deliberate, I hadn’t planned it, but I happened to be at the front door when Abigail headed out. She was still in the jumpsuit.
    “Do you need a taxi?” I had to clear my throat to get out the last word.
    “You might notice that I no longer have a purse, which means I have no money, so no.”
    “Uh … right … I could loan you…”
    She walked past me, heading for the door. I hurried to open it for her.
    “Uh … look … I’m new in town, and you’re … foreign, maybe we could have dinner … tonight…” At her expression I modified the statement. “Sometime?”
    “Are you on crack? No!”
    The door closed behind her and I heard Sergeant Taylor (whose nickname was Wingman, I had learned) give a snort of laughter. “You gotta work on your timing, Franny,” he said.
    ♣
    2:10. Back on the street. Bill gave a warning to a panhandling joker whose