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drink.”
    She shrugged and then nodded. For the first time in her life, she had nothing to say.
     
    What the hell was wrong with him?
    He couldn’t believe he had stopped himself. Everything had been perfect: the intimate space, the dim lighting, the rich, heady scents of cedar and wine, and the lush beauty in his arms.
    But a part of him knew if he took their encounter even a step further, he would never see her again. He sensed she truly was, as she had said, not that kind of girl, and he didn’t want to be the one to make her think otherwise.
    He grabbed the Meursault and motioned for her to go up the stairs, enjoying the sway of her hips beneath the thin wool of her pencil skirt. He couldn’t let her just walk away. He wanted to unravel her secrets, bare her soul and discover the real reason behind his intense attraction.
    They emerged from the quiet intimacy of the cellar into a maelstrom of light and sound, dancers and drinkers. Catching Katy’s desperate glance at the door, Mark grasped her arm. “Stay for a glass of the Meursault. You won’t find a better vintage in Vancouver, I promise you.”
    He held up the bottle and smiled at her careful appraisal of the label. He didn’t often meet a woman who shared his appreciation of wine.
    She bit her lip and studied him for a long moment. He steeled his mouth into a neutral expression while his heart thundered in his chest, ripe with anxiety.
    Finally she gave him a non-committal shrug and rounded the bar.
    Mark nodded toward a vacant seat while he fished around for a corkscrew. He pulled two glasses from the rack and turned to place them on the counter. Only then did he realize he was alone.
    He made a quick visual sweep of the club, but it was once again a sea of PVC and leather. A trip to reception told him what his gut already knew.
    Katy was gone.
    And he was damn sure she wouldn’t be back.
     
     
    “The body is this way, Detective Hunter.”
    James shuffled through the living room of the run-down apartment, his crime suit rustling as he walked. The thrill of attending a new crime scene never faded, even after twelve years with Homicide, six in the drug unit and a couple of years on patrol. His colleagues called him a lifer. He called it love.
    Mike, the newest member of his investigation team, shifted his weight from foot to foot as he waited on the other side of the room. New rules meant Mike had made it through to the homicide team with only three years under his belt instead of the usual seven. His youth and inexperience were evident in his lack of patience. As primary investigator, James had responsibility for the overall investigation and he needed time to take a good look around.
    He nodded to the forensics squad scattered around the small space. With the blaze of floodlights setting their white suits aglow, the scene had a surreal, alien feel. He had never been interested in the painstaking and detailed procedures involved in forensic science. He enjoyed putting the pieces together. A big-picture kinda guy.
    He skirted the empty pizza boxes and beer cans strewn across the threadbare carpet in the main living space. Peeling wallpaper hung in strands off the water-stained walls, and the scent of stale cigarette smoke filtered through his mask. Typical East Side apartment. Cheap. Run down. Rented by the week, sometimes by the day.
    His feet thumped on the scratched linoleum tiles and he followed Mike down a narrow hallway to the bedroom. Mike pulled away the police tape and stood to the side to let James through. The coroner, always the first person allowed in the crime scene, had already come and gone, as had James’s supervisor, Sergeant Donaldson. Something in the room had rattled the two most imperturbable men he knew, and he steeled himself as he stepped across the threshold.
    “We’ve unofficially identified him as Manuel Garcia, but the forensics department and the coroner’s service will have to confirm the identity because of the state of