"Hey, I'm starving," I said as we passed my favorite burrito stand. "Let's stop and pick up lunch for the squad."

I cut across traffic, garnering an angry chorus of horns that I returned with a finger. Some people have no respect for the police and their lunch.

Bryson stayed in the passenger seat. "Hey. Get me a churro."

"Do I look like your waitress?" I asked as I climbed out.

"No, but I did give you fifty bucks. Make sure it's fresh. I don't want one that's been sitting out for half an hour."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," I told him before I headed across the sidewalk to the open-air taco truck.

The guys who worked the truck knew me, and I put in an order for one of everything that the squad liked to eat. Lane would just have to fend for herself.

I dug my wallet out and paid in cash-I had more than enough on me to bribe Dakota, but I liked letting Bryson do my dirty work for me. A perk of being a lieutenant.

Turning to head back to the Nova, I found my way blocked by a very tall, very thin gentleman in an all-black suit and aviator sunglasses that reflected my own tired, makeup-free face back at me. "Can I help you?" I asked.

The taco truck driver tapped me on the shoulder. "Miss? You forgot your extra habanero salsa." That was for Andy-he liked his food nuclear, contrary to all outward appearances.

"Thanks," I said, palming the plastic bucket. "And I ask again, sir ... can I help you?"

Skinny looked me over, head to toe. I wasn't unused to the reaction from straight men, but there was something about him that set me off. I opened my nostrils, over the scent of frying beef and chilies. He was a were.

"The Duboises sent me," he said. Just that, no explanation, as if I could read minds.

"How nice for you," I said. "They like the tacos here, too?"

"They sent me to look in on you," he said. "Make sure progress was being made on the case. On Russ Meyer."

I shut my eyes. The Duboises had found out my former suspect's name. Crap. "I'm sorry," I said, smiling mightily at Skinny. "I can't confirm or deny any rumors about an open case, Mr....?"

"Teddy will do for now, Lieutenant."

"Teddy. Is that supposed to be one of those ironic nicknames? Never mind, I don't care. You can tell the Duboises that I'm sorry for their loss, but this case is none of your business, Teddy Teddy, so why don't you toddle on back to 1987, where those shades came from?"

He showed some teeth, fangs at the ready. Great, he was in a bad mood as well as a bad dresser. I gently set down the two paper bags of food on the bench at the trolley stop by the curb. No sense in my lunch getting mangled.

"I'm here to ensure that nothing is overlooked," Teddy said. "And that the police give Russ Meyer the strongest justice possible. If they fail, I'll report that back to the Duboises, too."

"Listen," I said. "I don't know where you're getting your intel from, but it's old. Russ Meyer has an alibi, and I don't like being harassed while I'm just trying to buy a gods-damned beef burrito."

"Well," said Teddy. "If you were doing your job instead of stuffing your face, maybe it wouldn't be necessary for the pack to check up on your progress."

He just had to go there. I grabbed Teddy by his string tie and pulled him down so our faces were even. "You know what else I don't like, Miami Vice? Pack thugs sticking their snouts into my police work."

I heard a click and saw the sheen of a switchblade in Teddy's hand. He was fast, even for a were. "Let go of me," he warned. "You don't, you're going against the pack."

You can tell a lot about a man by how far he's willing to go against a cop, especially a lady cop like myself. If they back off and don't get into trouble, it means they're sane, or at least reasonable. If they pull a weapon without a flinch, they're either a psychopath or they think they're untouchable. I was betting Big Teddy figured on the latter.

Oh, well. He wouldn't be the first to make that mistake.

"Hex you," I told Teddy, "and Hex your pack." I flicked the top off the habanero salsa with my thumb and tossed the contents of the tub into his face. Chilies burn plain humans-in a were's eyes and soft tissue, they're worse than taking a Taser jolt straight up the nose.

Teddy let out a scream and dropped the knife, falling on the sidewalk and clawing at his face in what Ithought, perhaps uncharitably, was an overdramatic and hysterical manner. I pocketed the switchblade, which was black enamel with bone inlay-very James Dean-and turned to the taco truck clerk, who was watching the whole proceeding with interest. "Agua, por favor, " I said. He passed me a bottle and I doused Teddy's head with it, washing away the peppers and specks of cilantro.

"You tell Nate Dubois that I'm doing my job," I said, bending over him.

"Bitch," he moaned. "I'm blind."

"And yet, your mouth still works," I said. "So you can also tell him that I resent being muscled like some cheap gutterwolf whore and if he sends one of his thugs after me again, I'm going to forget that he's just lost his daughter and get real damn pissy."

Bryson came to my elbow, looking down at Teddy. To his credit, he didn't seem the least bit surprised. "You okay, Wilder?" he said, picking up the food from the trolley bench.

I looked at Teddy. "Are we?"

After a long moment he glared at me, and nodded once. "Fine. But you can't find the killer, we find you."

"Don't threaten me while you're lying on the ground with salsa all over your face," I said. "It's not effective." I turned and left him there. Once I was in the car, my hands started to shake, a delayed reaction from my body letting me know how close to bleeding I'd come.

The Duboises were leaning hard, and I knew that if I didn't produce results soon, their pack would take its pound of flesh out of me first and the killer second. I really hoped this Johnny Boy was good for it.

I parked in the employee lot at the Plaza and let Bryson take lunch to the SCS while I went into Pete's office. "What do you know about fake IDs?" I said, passing him an enchilada and extra cheese.

"I know that I got kicked out of a bar in college using one my buddy and I made with Photoshop," he said. "Never had much use for them since."

"You got kicked out of a bar in this city?" I said, raising my eyebrows. I didn't know there were any college taverns that actually enforced ID laws in my town.

"Not here," Pete said. "I was at Stanford for my undergrad."

I sat down on his rolling stool, fishing Lily's bogus license out of my pocket. "Don't take this the wrong way, Pete, but if that's the case, then what the hell are you doing working for the police?"

"I like the work and the coffee is better than at a research lab," Pete said, solemn. "What've you got there?"

"Lily Dubois's fake ID," I said. "I was hoping we could find out who made it, trace her descent into the tawdry nightlife, that sort of thing."

"I can't," Pete said. "But I'm sure one of my buddies from the ID Bureau can. I keep in touch with those guys."

"Great," I said, taking it back. "Come on." I walked us down to the fire door and through a dank stairwell into the lower floor of the old bomb shelter, a tunnel that ran between the morgue and Justice Plaza. It was a handy shortcut, but I didn't come down here if I could help it.

Not fifty yards away, I'd shot Annemarie Marceaux to death. They'd washed away the blood and the chalk outline from the Internal Affairs investigation, but the memory was as strong as ever. I swore I could still smell the gunpowder from my .38 revolver, hear the hollow boom boom of my holdout weapon, my last resort after Annemarie took my Sig. of my holdout weapon, my last resort after Annemarie took my Sig.

"Spooky down here," Pete commented. "I'd rather walk aboveground, even when the weather is crap."

"You aren't the only one," I murmured, breathing again, finally, as we climbed the stairs to the emergency entrance in the morgue.

Annemarie's ghost stayed where it was, just breathing a cold sigh onto the back of my neck as the door swung shut. If I believed in ghosts. These days, I tried as hard as I could not to.

Pete and I rode the elevator to the ID division, which handled fingerprinting and dental identifications as well as ID fraud. A guy with a bushy Moses beard hiding a young face jumped up and pumped Pete's hand. "How the hell are you, Anderson?"

"Fine, fine," Pete said. "CSU keeps me busy."

The tech grinned approvingly. "You look slick, Anderson. What brings you back here to slum with the lab rats?"

Pete jerked his thumb at me. "She does. This is Lieutenant Wilder."

The tech eyed me. "We've met."

I checked his nametag, since he didn't sound happy. His badge read D. Dellarocco. Oh, shit Oh, shit. I remembered the guy, and I'd been rude to him the single time we'd met. Maybe I could blame it on bad shellfish ...

"Hi," I said with a large smile. Dellarocco crossed his arms.

"What can I help you with, ma'am? Or do you just want to yell and threaten me again?"

People were looking now, techs turning away from their light tables and their AFIS computers to watch. I felt my cheeks turning pink. "Listen," I said to Dellarocco, low, "you don't be a dick and make a big deal out of this and I will apologize by buying you and Pete a very, very good meal at some future date. Deal?"

Dellarocco pursed his lips and considered for a whole two seconds. When it comes to lab geeks and free food, food wins every time. "Fine, deal. What've you got for me?"

I handed over Lily's ID. "Fake license for a fourteen-year-old murder victim. I need to know who made it."

Dellarocco took it and whistled. "Nice work. Usually the fakes have frayed edges and a grainy scan of the state seal under some shitty Photoshopping. This was professionally laminated."

He rolled a stool over to a tubular light and flicked it on. "You see the hologram? It's old. They changed it to the state seal surrounded by the state motto a few years ago, and this license is brand new. So they not only have a laminating machine, they got their hands on surplus equipment from the Department of Licensing, which is theoretically destroyed when it becomes obsolete. The felonies are racking up." Dellarocco sounded pleased.

"Okay, so any idea who made this with their fancy machines?" I said.

"Hmm," said Dellarocco. "Something this state-of-the-art is usually organized crime. The Chinese are big into fake IDs for the workers the snakeheads bring over, and the various other mobs-Vietnamese, Russian, the Colombians ... it's a profitable sideline for them."

"If I'm a poor little rich girl," I said, "where am I gonna go to get a decent ID?"

Dellarocco spread his hands. "Guys who sell IDs usually hang out at clubs, troll on college campuses. The pro outfits use stringers to insulate themselves from the cops."

"Like drug dealers," Pete said.

"Don't kid yourself," said Dellarocco. "A fake ID that will pass muster can be worth two or three grand to the right customer. Five times that for a fake passport, especially after 9/11."

"Can you put together a list of names and email it to my desk?" I asked. "Your usual suspects?"

Dellarocco cocked his eyebrow. "You buy us food and and a round of beers." a round of beers."

Demanding little nerd. "Done. Soon as you can."

Dellarocco threw me a salute and rolled over to his computer, pulling up the department database.

"Now what?" Pete said.

I sighed. "Now I go home, put on a skimpy outfit and drag my boyfriend out to a titty bar."

"Damn, LT." Pete whistled. "Your home life is sure different from mine. I'm lucky if we get to cuddle on the couch while the lady watches her CSI CSI. "

"She makes you watch CSI CSI?"

"Yeah." Pete grimaced. "I got in trouble for yelling at the TV."

I patted him on the shoulder. "Good luck, Pete. Don't wake your neighbors."

"Sometimes I wish I were still a geek with no social life," he muttered before we parted.

Sometimes I wished I were still an overworked homicide detective, hiding the fact that I was a were from everyone except my old lieutenant. Things seemed easier back then, even though my personal life was in the toilet and I lived in constant fear of exposure.

We don't always get what we want. I'd lost my anonymity but I'd gotten Will, and I'd done something to actually help my city by heading up the SCS.

At least, that was what I told myself as I drove home.

My apartment was in an old building at the edge of Waterfront, the neighborhood bad enough to be cheap and good enough that me being a cop kept the worst of the street kids and home-grown pot dealers out of my immediate eyeline. I used to have a cottage-secluded, run-down and homey, but the Thelemites had burned it down in an attempt to burn me right along with it.

The apartment wasn't ideal for when the phase came-if I broke out of my self-imposed cage, which was currently taking up most of the closet space in my handkerchief-sized bedroom, it would be a straight shot through the flimsy wall into my next-door neighbor's apartment.

Running through my workout with the heavy bag in the corner of my living room, I tried to clear my mind of the day's unpleasantness. I needed to find out what pack the Duboises ran and what their pull in the city was like. I'd reacted on instinct when the thug had grabbed me in the street, and I had to find out how bad of a hole I'd dug.

But first, I had a date with Johnny Boy.

I called Will and got him on his cell. "Hey, beautiful. You feel like Chinese?"

"Actually," I said, sifting through my closet, "how do you feel about line dancing?"

"It's freakish and unnatural and should be banned from the civilized world?"

"What if a bunch of drunk college girls in cowboy hats are doing it on a bar?" I used to have a collection of vintage clothes worth more than my yearly salary, but they had burned up along with my cottage. I was replacing it, but slowly. I pulled a stretchy black alligator-skin tank out of the closet and decided it would do.

"I'm listening," Will said. "You're getting my attention."

"I need to stake out a witness and I'm looking for astrong, silent Eastwood type to do it with," I said, pairing the tank with the trashiest skirt I own, a flippy red plaid schoolgirl number.

"Ah, I see how it is," Will said. "You only want me for my body."

"Pretty much." I threw in thigh-highs and my motorcycle boots and called the undercover outfit complete. Sure, I was closer to thirty-one than twenty-one, but if the lights were dim and Johnny Boy was a few beers in, I could pass.

"I can't say I've ever turned down an offer like that," Will said. "Meet you when and where? And should I bring my .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world?"

"The OK Corral, off of Devere, around nine. And no, I think we're going to get more out of Johnny Boy with breasts than bullets."

"Your breasts, I hope. I have a hard time filling out my training bra."

"I'm hanging up," I said, and did so, but not without a smile. Will could usually make me smile. Another unique quality that he possessed, unlike all of my former boyfriends.

I dressed myself in my trampy outfit and shoved my .38 holdout pistol into the waistband of my skirt, puffing the tank over it. I wasn't planning for things to get messy, but you never know when you're dealing with men, their egos and booze.

Driving from my respectable, if seedy, neighborhood into the dangerous territory behind the university caused a shiver down my spine from the cool, misty air. The were in me thrived on danger, ate adrenaline, but the human in me was getting more and more cautious. I had a good life, for the first time-I had Will, I had the job. I had stability.