“I’m terribly sorry to end everyone’s vacation so quickly, but the current situation warrants it,” Miss Lollipop murmured to the hastily assembled group sitting around the table in the conference room. She nodded to Bubble Gum, who hit a remote; overhead on the big screen came the feed from the local television station, this one raw and unedited. She spoke again, over the images of smoke and ruined building flashing up over her head.



“An explosion has destroyed the greater part of the Las Vegas Police Department crime laboratory this morning. The media is still speculating over the reasons and the perpetrators, but we have the advantage of them in knowing a little bit more about the situation than they do, right down to the most likely instigator.”



“Give us a name,” Mr. Peppermint asked flatly. Miss Lollipop arched an eyebrow.



“An agent in the employment of Bruce Eiger is the most likely suspect—one Conrad Ecklie of the day shift janitorial staff. We’ve been monitoring him for a while as a person of interest, and have some footage that seems to point to him.”



Licorice and Jaw Breaker exchanged disgusted looks.



With a nod to Bubble Gum, Miss Lollipop looked up; the screen shots of the damaged lab had changed to footage of Melanie Grace’s house. Miss Chocolate shot a challenging stare at Miss Lollipop. “That’s taken from my security camera.”



“And very conveniently located it is, too. In this business we don’t succeed by being nice, Miss Chocolate.”



“Asking wouldn’t have hurt.”



“Agree, but had you declined, we would have been forced to use another vantage point that would have cost you your own privacy,” Miss Lollipop pointed out, then shifted her attention back to the screen. There was a shot of a man and a little woman on the porch carrying in groceries. “As you can see, Conrad Ecklie seems to be emotionally involved with this woman here, Melanie Grace. She’s a book keeper for Bruce Eiger.”



“They’ve been seen together a lot,” Jelly Bean nodded, “Nothing suspicious about that.”



“True. However, Ecklie’s employment at the Crime Lab gives him wide access to it, and his clandestine activities have included theft from the Evidence lockers of the police department, along with an ongoing list of other minor crimes and misdemeanors.” Miss Lollipop pointed out.



“Where is he now?” Miss Chocolate asked gently. Miss Lollipop nodded.



“That is an excellent question. The reports indicate that three people are unaccounted for in the explosion, and Ecklie is among them. At the moment none of the hospitals or clinics have reported him there. That means he may be at Miss Grace’s right now.”



“Forgive me, but—why are we even concerned about this? Let the police pick him up and deal with it—seems pretty cut and dried to me,” Jelly Bean murmured.



Miss Lollipop turned to look at him and gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. “Under other circumstances I might agree, but this explosion has destroyed evidence for most of the ongoing cases for the police, including what they’ve gathered on Portia Richmond’s shooter, the few leads we’ve given them on the snuff films made for the senator and the information on Resurrection Gardens. In short, most of their documentation for this last year has gone up in smoke or been disintegrated by water. They’re going to make the manhunt for the bomber a top priority.”



“Bruce Eiger is going to kill Ecklie before the police can get to him,” Mr. Peppermint concluded. “And you want us to get Ecklie before Eiger does.”



“Precisely. We have a head start on the hunt. When he find him, we can offer him protection in exchange for information, and possibly . . . future services.”



“Our own snitch. I’ve always wanted one,” Licorice snorted.



Jaw Breaker chuckled. “Yeah, but Ecklie? The guy’s the walking definition of loser, man. We may not find him because he just may have blown himself up—I wouldn’t put it past him.”



“It’s possible,” Miss Lollipop admitted, wryly. “But if he hasn’t, then he’s going to be worth his weight in gold. I want all of you on the job: Licorice, Jaw Breaker, you take the Grace woman’s residence. Miss Chocolate, I’d like you to check his apartment. Jelly Bean, you need to get down to the latex lab and see what you can do about creating a mold of Ecklie’s face—something that could hold up on videotape. Mr. Peppermint, I need you and Sugar Daddy to watch Eiger.”



The group exchanged confident looks and rose, moving out of the conference room quietly. Miss Lollipop waved to Mr. Peppermint and Sugar Daddy to stay back a moment. When the others had left, she spoke again. “Eiger is moving.”



“I know—to Henderson, next to the Book Hive,” Mr. Peppermint admitted distastefully. “There goes the neighborhood.”



“My condolences,” Sugar Daddy murmured with a straight face. “You may have to grow your beard back.”



Mr. Peppermint winced a bit.



Miss Lollipop looked from one man to the other. “It’s a rare opportunity—think about it. We could have access to his business dealings on an intimate basis.”



“Intimate is right—he wants to open a strip club,” Mr. Peppermint pointed out with exasperation. “What makes you think we’ll learn anything of interest by tapping his phones and bugging his office there?”



“Because, gentlemen . . . .” she motioned for the two men to lean closer, and smiled. “ . . . There might be another bombing.”



For a second no one spoke, and then all three of them glanced at each other in dawning understanding. Sugar Daddy whistled softly.



“You really think we can pull it off?”



“I know we can. But we need to find Ecklie first,” she replied calmly. “And if he’s not with the Grace woman, he may be trying to get to Eiger’s place. We need to move.”

Sara tugged her wig a bit and glanced around the sidewalk in front of Conrad Ecklie’s apartment. He had the bottom end unit on a sad row that looked out over a railroad track stretching out into the distant desert. She could hear Yankee Daddy wailing on someone’s radio, drifting out an open window on the second floor, and felt a few disinterested eyes on her as she checked the semi-closed blinds of the apartment.



She pretended to write something on her clipboard, then stepped up to the door and fitted the master key into the lock. It opened and Sara peered in, making a quick assessment.



He was gone, and hadn’t been back in a while. There were no dishes in the sink, but the answering machine light was blinking. Sara strode in, hoping for a few precious minutes before someone came to check on her. She glanced in the bedroom—the closet specifically, looking for a suitcase—and found it.



So he hadn’t planned to run.



Sara swiftly moved to the answering machine. It was an older model, and she popped the tape out, then fished in her right hand pocket looking through the selection for one that would fit. She put the new tape in and tucked Ecklie’s into her breast pocket, then looked at the pile of mail next to the phone.



Mostly bills, a few local flyers, and a notepad with a phone number. Sara took the top page and the next three under it, pocketed those and moved to the door of the apartment. She relocked it behind her and pretended to note something else on her pad, then moved to the apartment next door and rang the bell. A tired looking woman came out and peered up at her suspiciously, blinking in the sunlight.



“Yeah?”



“Hi there. I’m checking to see if anyone here has reported smelling gas in the last day or so?” Sara commented softly, in a heavy southern accent. “We got us a little ol’ call from the landlord so we’ve been checking around to see if there’s a problem?“



The woman shook her head. “No. No gas. Drains, yeah, but lousy maintenance man won’t do anything more than snake them—“



“Sorry to hear that, bless your heart,” Sara nodded, and pretended to make another note. She sighed. “Well, shoot! I sure am sorry to disturb you, honey. Thanks for your time.”



Moving deliberately, she went down the line of apartments, then left the complex and went down the block to where the Miata was parked in a Waffle World lot. She climbed in, pulled on a headset, and headed back for the Shop. As she drove, she spoke softly into the mic near her left ear.



“Nobody at home. Suitcase was there, so it looks like he planned on coming back. I have a tape and note to be processed, thought.”



“Good—bring them in to Gum Drop and we’ll see if there’s anything useful on them,” Miss Lollipop replied. There was a little pause and she added, “I’m sorry you missed Paris.”



“Um, me too,” Sara replied warily. “But you know . . . these things happen.”



“They do,” Miss Lollipop replied gently. “Just don’t let me forget that we owe you a trip. See you in the Shop soon.”

“So?”



“So.”



“Costa Rica good?”



“Yeah. Egypt?”



“Good.”



“Good.”



The two men sat huddled in front of a dumpster against the side of the payday loan building, passing a bottle between them and occasionally spitting in loud hawking coughs. Grissom conceded that Sugar Daddy was louder, but he got better distance. Across the busy intersection stood the glass doors of the main lobby of Eiger Enterprises, glinting in the late afternoon light.



So far, several people had come in and out through those doors, but none of them fit Ecklie’s description. Grissom sighed silently and glanced over at his drinking buddy.



Sugar Daddy was nearly lost in a ratty, torn wool plaid sports coat with a slashed sleeve and several suspicious stains along the lapels. He had a wool watch cap on, pulled low, and a pair of broken sunglasses with duct tape along the nosepiece. The artfully applied gray stubble along his face looked properly grizzled, and the heavy odor of Night Train, sweat and dirt lingered in the air between them.



“Nice jacket,” Grissom muttered, managing a small grin. Sugar Daddy lifted his arms and pretended to shoot his cuffs.



“Yeah, GQ’s coming out for my photo layout later . . . we might get a few nice shots along the curb.”



“I’m sure—the Bum’s Rush in Vegas?”



“More like The Gutter Life—“ Sugar Daddy murmured back, passing the bottle to him.



Grissom looked at it thoughtfully; there was only an inch left in it. “You realize the sugar content in this is enough to eat the enamel off your teeth in one sitting.”



“Hey, most of us front line recyclers don’t have teeth, remember?”



“You didn’t backwash in this, did you?” Grissom pretended to whine, then took a big gulp. He was dressed in a grimy pair of gray slacks and a bedraggled blue, striped hospital bathrobe with grape juice and spots of mustard down the front. His red undershirt, faded to a soft pink and two sizes too big, read ‘I (heart) the Tangiers’ in peeling iron on letters. Grissom had gelled his hair wildly enough to give it the unsavory shine of unwashed grease, and the charcoal smears along his cheeks added to his pallor. A little soap in his eyes helped make them bloodshot.



“You should be so lucky,” came Sugar Daddy’s murmur. “French Riviera starlets fight for my dirty socks, you know.”



“I think—“ Grissom coughed noisily, “—You’ve had enough Night Train for now, Jimbo—“



“You’re right,” Sugar Daddy sighed. “We should switch to Thunderbird.”



Carefully he stood, and rummaged around in the shopping cart at his side, keeping watch up and down the street. A few pedestrians took a wide berth around them, eyes carefully averted.



Grissom gave a loud belch, mildly pleased at the resonant rolling sound of it. Sugar Daddy looked over, eyes twinkling over the rims of his sunglasses. “Geez, nice manners, Gil—were you brought up in a barn?” he muttered.



“I was brought up in an elevator—“



“--Har dee har har. Swill a bottle of Gallo’s finest and suddenly you’re a comedian.”



“Better eructation than flatulation,” Grissom responded loftily. Sugar Daddy paused and shot a weary glare at him.



“You know, I hate being intellectually dissed by a guy with mismatched sneakers and breath that could ignite my hair.”



“What hair?”



Before Sugar Daddy could shoot back, Grissom coughed loudly and spoke again, “Goon alert; Lexus pulling up to the curb—“



Sugar Daddy shifted, pretending to dig deeper into the shopping cart as he watched, aware that Grissom was sitting up and doing the same while pretending to scratch his armpit. Both of them saw the driver get out and shoot a look their way, then dismiss them with a sneer. The passenger side opened, and another man herded a woman out.



A tiny woman. Grissom frowned; Sugar Daddy caught it out of the corner of his eye.



“Melanie Grace?”



“Yes—if they’ve got her, then Ecklie’s still out there,” Grissom replied absently. “Not good.”



Melanie wasn’t going along easily; she struggled a bit, but one of the men at her side reached out and gripped her shoulder, squeezing it hard as he steered her through the glass doors of the building. Sugar Daddy tensed. “She looks pregnant.”



“That--” Grissom sighed, “--cranks things up a notch. Let me go plant a tracer while you talk to the Shop.”



Sugar Daddy nodded. He waited until Grissom had lurched his way across the intersection, talking loudly to himself , pretending to pick things off the asphalt and sidewalk, then tapped the earpiece hidden under his watch cap.



“Hey Wino Daddy, how goes it?” Came the cheery voice of Bubble Gum in the earpiece.



Sugar Daddy winced a little. “Okay, let’s get one thing straight--I kill people for a living.”



“Uh, yeah. Okay, sorry about that—“ came the chastened reply.



Sugar Daddy smiled fractionally. “Good. Just passing on that Peppermint and I spotted Eiger’s goons bringing up Melanie Grace to the downtown office. No sightings of our man.”



“Noted. Actions?” came Bubble Gum’s question.



Sugar Daddy paused. ”Hang on a moment—“



Across the street, Grissom had reached the Lexus, and was wobbling and singing ‘La Cucaracha’ loudly, spinning and drawing a few pitying stares. He stumbled against the car, setting off the alarm as he disappeared from sight on the other side of it. A few moments later, one of the goons came out the doors again, moving with heavy-footed menace towards the car, hitting some remote to make the whooping siren stop.



Sugar Daddy winced as the man yanked Grissom up and shook him, clearly getting into his face. After a few hard shakes though, the man jerked back, letting go of him and backing up. Grissom lurched away, and even at this distance, Sugar Daddy could see the vomit splattered over his partner’s chin and tee shirt. The goon moved after him, thought better of it, and turned back to the building.



Sugar Daddy sighed. “Bug planted. We’ll talk later.”



When Grissom slowly worked his way back to Sugar Daddy’s side, the other man sighed. “Smooth. Really smooth.”



Grissom settled down on the sidewalk, wiping a hand over his cheek, looking smug. “A squeeze bag of ground up Dinty Moore beef stew liberally laced with vinegar and sulphur—instant vomit.”



“And here I am, wondering why a charmer like you hasn’t been snapped up,” Sugar Daddy smirked.



Grissom gave a sad little shake of his head. “Especially by those French Rivera starlets.”



Sugar Daddy reached for another bottle of wine and sighed heavily. “Yeah, well it’s hard out here for a bum.”