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binocs. Nothing happening. I picked up the radio handset and called Dispatch, requesting possible backup.
    My partner found something in the ashtray, but rather than flip it and call it, he popped it into his mouth.
    “Did you just eat a dime?” I asked.
    “Hell no. It was a mint.” He made a face. “I think.”
    I tried to recall the last time I had mints in the car. It had been years. No, a decade, at least.
    “It was a dime,” Herb said, sticking out his tongue. “I was fooled by the fuzz.”
    I decided not to ask Herb why he would eat anything covered in fuzz. The radio crackled. Car 917 responded, saying they were en route. Approximate arrival in two minutes.
    I made the executive decision. “We’re going in.”
    “What happened to flipping a coin?”
    “You ate the coin.”
    “How about rock, paper, scissors?”
    “You really don’t want to get out of the car, do you?”
    Herb frowned. “What do we know about the guy? Sure, he’s got possible criminal associations and an expensive condo, but he hasn’t even gotten so much as a parking ticket, for chrissakes. His record is squeaky clean.”
    “He’s carrying a gun.”
    “Did you see a gun? Or just a bulge in his jacket? Maybe he was carrying an iPod, or a can of pop, or a magazine.”
    “Or a lawn gnome.”
    “Did you see a red, pointy hat? That would be eerie.”
    “It was a gun,” I said. “I’m just trying to protect you from a false arrest lawsuit.”
    “God, you’re lazy.”
    “I prefer the term cautiously inactive .”
    “Okay. Rock, paper, scissors. One, two, three…”
    I held out a flat palm: paper. Herb had a fist. Rock.
    “Paper covers rock,” I said. “We go in.”
    “Wait, it’s two out of three. It’s always two out of three.”
    I sighed. “Okay. One, two, three…”
    I held out paper again. Herb held out a single, chubby finger.
    “What the hell is that?”
    “That’s a hot dog.”
    “A hot dog?”
    “I’m starving. I can’t get my mind off of food.”
    “Again,” I said. “No hot dogs this time. One, two, three…”
    I made a rock. Herb, paper.
    “I win,” he said.
    “You sure that’s paper, not a sirloin steak?”
    “Mmm. Steak. Stop teasing me.”
    “One more time. One, two, three…”
    I held out scissors. So did Herb.
    “My scissors are bigger,” he said. “I win.”
    I said, “One, two, three…”
    I had a rock. Herb stuck with scissors. I won.
    “We’re going in.”
    I hit the gas, driving the two blocks’ distance in about eight seconds, parking in front of the Cadillac. Then I dug my Colt out of my purse, checked the cylinder, and got out of my car. A moment later, Herb rocked himself out of his seat and onto the sidewalk.
    “Be pretty funny if this was Mr. K, wouldn’t it?” he said.
    “It would be the perfect gift to myself.”
    “Oh, yeah.” Herb nodded, his three chins wiggling. “Your birthday is in a few days. You don’t have much luck with birthdays. Remember Classy Companions?”
    My lips pressed together, forming a tight line. “I remember.”
    Herb must have noted my expression. “Sorry, Jack. Didn’t know that was still a sore spot. I’m sure this birthday will turn out a lot better.”
    “Can’t be any worse than the last twenty.”
    Herb checked the clip on his Sig. “Okay. Let’s go do it.”
    “Now? Backup will be here in a minute.”
    “I bet you dinner the only thing he’s got in his jacket is a magazine.”
    I nodded at Herb. “You’re on.”
    We headed for the entrance, and I was feeling pretty optimistic. Maybe I’d finally have a decent birthday for a change. My fiancé was out of town on business, but closing a hundred unsolved homicides was definitely the way I wanted to spend my forty-seventh.
    Besides, I was more than a little curious about what he was keeping in that storage locker.

Present day

    2010, August 10

    T he man known as Mr. K holds up the iPhone and stares at the soft, green image on the touch screen. Jack Daniels rubs her