If I told you more about that night with Trudy, you’d wet your pants.

I certainly did.

I’d tell you anyway, but Callie Carpenter just entered the room. Callie’s an assassin, part of my Sensory Resources team. For years she and I—and a dozen other crazies—killed terrorists for Uncle Sam. These days I devise terrorist scenarios for Homeland Security and she and I perform the occasional freelance hit for organized crime. Not for the money, but to stay sharp because…well, that’s what we do. We kill people, and we’re damn good at it, and smart enough to know if we’re not killing people, somewhere in the world someone else is. And when we eventually meet them, Callie and I will either be ready, or we’ll be dead.

She’s here to deliver some big secret about Miranda Rodriguez. Arrived an hour ago, said she wanted to deliver the news in person to see the look on my face when she tells me. I played it cool, told her to relax; unpack her suitcase, get cleaned up for lunch.

She did, and now she’s here, in the den of my fortress saying, “You’re looking well, Donovan.”

What she really means is I look a helluva lot better than the last time she saw me, which was at my daughter Kimberly’s funeral last year. Of course, Callie looks just as you’d expect: amazing.

No, better than that.

I’ll risk accusations of hyperbole and tell you flat-out that Callie’s looks are unrivaled on the planet Earth. Go ahead: roll your eyes. But if you were standing beside me right now, checking her out, you’d not only agree, but you’d add the entire universe for good measure: all contents of intergalactic space, from the smallest subatomic particle to the largest reservoir of matter and energy.

“You look good too,” I say, demonstrating my capacity for understatement.

She says, “Are you seeing anyone?”

“I am.”

She arches a perfect brow. “Is it someone I know?”

“I hope not!”

Last year my romantic relationship with Callie went toxic faster than David Lee Roth’s radio show, sending us death-spiraling into madness. One reason? She murdered my former fiancée. I toss a couple ice cubes in her drink and say, “Tell me your news.”

 

 

 

2.


 

“YOU REMEMBER MIRANDA,” Callie says, slyly.

I show her a thin smile. As Callie is acutely aware, Miranda Rodriguez had been my favorite hooker from date number one till the day she got her master’s in counseling psychology, at which point she quit whoring. Callie also knows I offered Miranda a fortune to work for us at Sensory Resources as a facilitator. Miranda agreed, but asked me to wait a year so she could travel the world.

The year came and went and so did Miranda, and I never heard from her again.

“Callie?”

“Yeah?”

“How long have we known each other?”

She studies my face. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re holding your drink unusually high.”

“I thought it wise, under the circumstances.”

“I also notice your knees are slightly bent.”

“So?”

“Your torso’s angled to present a smaller target.”

“Anything else?”

“Your core is perfectly balanced.”

“Thank you. Your point?”

“Are you expecting an attack?”

“I considered it one of several possible reactions you might have.”

“To the news about Miranda?”

She nods.

“I had the impression you were bringing me good news.”

“I think it’s good,” she says. “But you might take exception.”

“To what?”

“My delay in sharing it.”

“How long have you been sitting on this information?”

“A year, give or take.”

She waits for me to say something. When I don’t, she says, “Remember when we were in Manhattan last year and you met Gideon and Kathleen for dinner at the Four Seasons?”

I do, and motion her to continue.

She says, “You stationed me in front of the restaurant and had me monitor your conversation on my cell phone.”

“And?”

“I happened to see Miranda crossing Park Avenue at East 52nd with your witchy friend, Rose. Uh…” She thinks a moment. “I can’t recall Rose’s last name.”

“Stout.”

She cocks her head. “Stout? You’re sure?”

I nod.

“Thanks. That would have bothered me all night and I never would have gotten it.”

“Miranda and Rose were together? You’re certain?”

“Yes.” She locks her eyes on mine and says, “Miranda was pregnant.”

She pauses in case I want to do the math.

“This was a year ago?”

“Approximately.”

“And how pregnant was she at the time?”

“Picture Kim Kardashian’s ass on my stomach.”

“I’d rather not.”

Callie frowns. “Me either. But since we’ve broached the Gates of Gross, I’ll ask how could you possibly have had sex with that woman?”

“Why not? She’s brilliant, funny, gorgeous….”

“She’s fucked half the men in New York!”

“Exaggerate much?”

“My bad. Half the wealthy men. So how stretched out was she? I mean, could you even feel her when you fucked her? Or was it like heaving a hotdog into Mammoth Cave?”

“How about we get back on track? Why didn’t you tell me you saw Miranda that day? Or any time during the past year?”

“It was a tough call. Every day I wanted to tell you, and every week I asked myself why I hadn’t.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“Are you kidding? I asked why more times than Nancy Kerrigan, when that guy smashed her leg with a pipe.”

“Police baton.”

“Whatever.”

“Look, I knew you had a right to know, but we were in the early stages of our relationship and I didn’t want to lose you.”

“And why would that have happened?”

“Because I knew you were the father.”

 

 

 

3.


 

“LIKE YOU SAID, Miranda was a hooker.