"Mika said that Salazko liked to play gangster," I said. "Maybe he introduced her to some real ones."

Bryson mumbled hello around a mouthful of food. "David, call Dellarocco for a lab report and get it over to Fraud. Tell them they want to pick up Ivan Salazko ASAP."

"What about the FBI?" Bryson said. "And our surveillance setup? You don't like Salazko for this homicide anymore?"

"The FBI can deal with Salazko on their own time," I said. "And don't worry about that, David-you'll still get to peep through binoculars at hapless gangsters."

"On it," he said, sounding considerably more cheerful. "Where you want I should send the Fraud boys?"

I gave him Salazko's address and turned to Lane. "Home, Jeeves. Let's show some inter-task-force cooperation."

Lane frowned. "Pardon?"

"Drive, woman!" I said. "I have something I need to say to Salazko before I cross him off my suspect list."

"Fine," Lane said. "But then you're going to let me get back to work."

"It'll be worth it," I said as we turned into Salazko's neighborhood. "Trust me."

CHAPTER 8.

A plain motor-pool car was parked the other way across the street when we pulled up to Ivan's building, and I went over and knocked on the window. "Hello, there. My good friend Detective Lane and I happened to be driving by and thought you could use the assist." I showed my shield to the two detectives in the car.

"Detective Kilkenny, Detective Bolton," said the guy behind the wheel. Kilkenny was as Irish as his name sounded, with red hair and skin that looked like it would scorch under a lightbulb, while Bolton was a mountain of muscle that would have stopped me in my tracks even fully phased.

"It's your warrant, boys," I said. "I'm just here to help."

Bolton jacked himself out of the passenger seat, running a hand over his shaved head. "Freak squad here to help. Sure."

"Look," I told him. "I'm very useful. I can dazzle the suspect with my feminine wiles and kick down doors and all sorts of skills normally reserved for the cop shows on TV."

Kilkenny snorted a smile. "Salazko. This guy connected?"

"Likes to play that he is," I said. "Probably has a gun."

Kilkenny heaved a sigh. "Great." They went into the lobby and started up the stairs, and Lane and I followed them, guns drawn. Bolton pounded on the door.

"Ivan Salazko. We have a warrant."

The door opened a crack, and Salazko stuck one bleary eye to the space. "You have the wrong apartment. Go away."

"That's him," I said.

I had to give Bolton and Kilkenny credit-for guys who spent most of their time chasing identity theft and white-collar scams, they were a well-oiled machine. Bolton kicked the door in and Kilkenny made a hard entry, shoving Salazko backward onto his ass and covering the room. Bolton covered him, hauling him to his feet.

Johnny was in boxers, an Orthodox cross studded with diamonds hanging in his mat of chest hair. "What the hell is this? You can't just bust in here! This isn't Stalin's Russia."

"Funny you should mention that," I said, hauling him to his feet and pulling out my cuffs. I snapped them on his wrists. "I met one of your countrywomen earlier today."

Salazko met my eyes. "I know you. You were at the OK..."

I hit him in the stomach, the soft spot just below the bone that makes all of your air rush out. He doubled over, and I held him there by the back of the neck, leaning close to his ear. "That girl is sixteen, Ivan. Strung out on pills. She was totally helpless when you beat her."

I drew back my knee and drove it in again, same spot. "Let's hope your cellmate will be a little bit nicer."

"Hey," Bolton said. "What the hell?"

I stepped back from Salazko, spreading my hands. "He just fell over. Maybe he has an inner ear problem."

Bolton smirked at me. "Right."

"You can return the cuffs at the SCS office," I said. "Pleasure doing business with you Fraud gents."

"Likewise," Bolton said. "Take it easy, freak squad."

I turned to Lane. "We can go back to work now. My good deed for the day is done."

When we were in the car, Lane kept looking at me, a small smile on her face. I'd call it smug, if I were being uncharitable. Hex that-it was was smug. "What?" I finally demanded. smug. "What?" I finally demanded.

"You pretend that you don't have a heart," said Lane. "That you're all grit and instinct with that werewolf thing. But you do have a heart-a big one, and you're trying to make sure it doesn't get broken."

"Thank you, Dr. Phil," I said. "Is it time for my free car yet?"

"That's Oprah," Lane said.

"I am disturbed that we're even having this conversation," I said.

"Fine, deflect," Lane said. "But it's true. You keep this hard shell around your heart so you don't feel the pain of the people around you. That's why you may be a decent cop instead of just a burnout."

"Gee, Lane," I said as we pulled into Justice Plaza. "Any more of this and I'm gonna start to think you like me."

She chuckled under her breath. "Don't get any ideas."

Lane went to her desk, and I said, impulsively, "We could use one more for our stakeout tonight. You like bad coffee and sitting in a small van in close proximity to a few smelly cops?"

"It's what I live for," Lane said, her expression completely serious.

"Great. We're leaving as soon as it gets dark."

I thought about Ivan Salazko while I waited for the shift to end and the sun to set. I was sure someone in the crew he sold to had killed Lily. Which one of them was the question. The bills of lading were still in my pocket. Whatever had gotten Lily's heart cut out was waiting for me at Pier 33.

Surveillance can be as simple or as complicated as you make it. In this case, there were five of us parked in a van, with a microphone. A box of take-out sandwiches sat pressed against Bryson's knees, and Lane ran the recording equipment while Will manned the listening device and I peered through the windshield with binoculars at the pier. Which was completely deserted.

Excitement, Nocturne Citystyle.

"Nothing," Lane yawned. "It's 3:30 A.M. We should call it a night before I have to get up for work."

"Not yet," I said. "This is our one shot before the feds swoop in."

"I'm so tired I think I may legally be a zombie," Will declared. "And these headphones chafe."

"Suck it up for another few hours and if nothing happens, we can shut down," I said. I wasn't inclined to give my compatriots much sympathy-if we didn't catch Lily's killer tonight, I was as good as Hexed.

Batista let out a soft snore, and I reached back and clipped him on the shoulder. "Stay awake!"

He grunted, and glared at me. "Tonight was my date night with Marisol. Last one before the baby comes, most likely. Thanks a lot, LT."

"Your sex life is not really my concern, Javier," I said. "But thanks for sharing, all the same."

"Hey, shut it," Bryson said, peering out the back windows of the van. "Someone's coming."

A silver Jaguar pulled up to the pier, dislodging four guys in various stages of no-neck disease and one tall gent with a goatee and a bald pate that gleamed under the sodium lights.

I dropped the binoculars and grabbed the surveillance camera with the telephoto lens. It was digital, night shots nearly as clear as day. I snapped the four heavies and Goatee Guy, and looked back at Will. "They saying anything?"

"Chatting in Russian," he said. "Two of the fatties are from St. Petersburg, sounds like, and the bearded one sounds almost Chechen. Definitely from down south."

Everyone in the van turned to look at Will and I gave him the eye. The fact that he'd lived long enough to learn every major language several times over if he wanted wasn't exactly broadcast news among my squad.

"I did an exchange program during college," Will said, a little too quickly. Lane still looked at him askance. "They're complaining that the container crane is late. Their port employee is lying down on the job."

Goatee yelled something at one of his heavies. "What do I pay him for?" Will translated. "Only without all the cussing. They have a crane operator paid off to come in here and move their containers?"

"Gotta be," I said. I snapped more pictures, watching one of the thugs grab a ring of keys and start trying them against the U.S. Customs lock on one of the two shipping containers resting on the pier. He got it open and to my great relief, it was empty. I wasn't looking forward to busting five Russian mob tough guys with only myself and Batista, Bryson, Lane and Will.

"If that thing is empty," Lane said, "what the hell are they doing here? They should be moving the girls who come in from here to their brothels around the city."

"Maybe they're loading the crate to send back? Pick up another shipment?" Batista said. "Lieutenant Wilder said all of the bills were for outgoing cargo."

"More arguing," said Will. "Apparently no one in the mob is punctual. They're waiting on a truck."

"A truck of what?" Lane said.

"A truck of unicorns and pink ice cream for all I know," Will snapped. "I'm just translating here."

"It's fine, Will," I said. "They're waiting, we can wait."

I watched the five Russians mill around, light cigarettes, check their phones for text messages. "Come on, comrades," I muttered. "I haven't got all freaking night."

An engine rumbled, and a panel truck pulled up to the pier. I snapped a picture of the logo on the side, ameatpacking warehouse. "Subtle," I said. Bryson chuckled.

"No one accused the mob of having a sense of irony," he said. "What's going on out there?"

"They're unloading the truck," Lane said. I stared through the lens of the camera.

A thug stamped out his cigarette and opened the back of the truck, illuminating the contents, and I let out a small gasp. Will muttered something under his breath and Lane exhaled sharply. "Is that what I think it is?"

I put the camera back to my eye and twisted the focus. The back of the van revealed rows of sitting figures, some of them slumped over, some clutching their knees to their chests.

Goatee clapped his hands and shouted in English with a heavy accent that would have done a cheap extra from an eighties action movie proud. "Everybody out! Don't make me move your skinny asses!"

The women stumbled up, alone or in pairs, and practically fell out of the back of the truck. I've had enough experience with people who are fucked up on one substance or another to recognize the gait of a person stoned out of her mind. Maybe fifteen of them, all in rumpled clothes, some in pajamas, all with the vacant, dopey expressions of trusting livestock walking into a slaughterhouse.

The Russians herded the girls into the container, shoving them when they didn't move quickly enough. One girl, a small redhead who looked like she taught school, nursed sick animals or something equally wholesome, fell, twisting her ankle. Goatee grabbed her up and slapped her. "You think this is a joke?" he snarled. She fought him, feebly, and he slapped her again. "Move, bitch!"

I stopped snapping frame-by-frame shots of the encounter and tossed the camera into the passenger seat. "I'm going out there."

"No, you're not," said Will.

I shot him a look, my eyes flickering to gold. "Excuse me?"

"It's my op," he said coolly. "And they haven't done anything illegal yet."

"Um ... they're loading women into a cargo container," said Lane. "He's hurting her!"

"It's a simple assault at best," said Will. "The girls aren't restrained. None of them are protesting. What we've got here is a large case of trespassing and a whole lot of circumstantial evidence."

"He's right," Bryson said.

My face heated up and before I could exercise my cop judgment, my were spoke for me. "Are you fucking kidding me? They're doing something to these women and if we don't work fast, they'll be gone."

"There's no ship docked here," Batista said, in what sounded like infuriating logic. "We've got a couple of hours before they can move them, at least, if that's even what they're doing."

I put my hand on the door. I had to do something. Had to stop more Lilys ... I swore she was staring back at me against my pale reflection in the glass, her milky eyes accusing me of something I couldn't undo.

"Luna." Bryson was the one to hold me back. "I can't believe I'm the one sayin' this, but don't you think we should have some hard evidence before we go rushing in there?"

I snarled at him, lips pulling back over my teeth. My gums stung and I tasted blood as my were fangs grew. "Don't touch me. They're moving girls out out, not in, don't you get it? Something worse is going on here than sex slaves and mob money."

"They're just going to walk straight back out on our arrest once their mob lawyer comes into the mix," Will said quietly. "I know this isn't ideal but we need to take what we've gotten here and use it to build a real case, one the FBI and the U.S. attorney can't step on."

"And we still don't know which one of them killed Lily," Lane put in. They were all trying to talk me out of doing something stupid, and they were all right. I was the one putting my case in jeopardy. If I even had a case.

I shut my eyes, tried to push back the monster that lived in my hindbrain. It was a useful monster, to be sure-it shared my life and my blood, my fears and desires. It was the dark half of me, the side that ran on all of the impulses I fought in a given day of one of the worst jobs the civilized world has to offer.

I lost.

The door was open before I realized my feet were on the pavement, the salt air on my face and stinging my eyes.

"Luna!" Will bellowed. "Luna, goddammit!"

A body chugged up beside me, and I recognized Bryson. Lane was just behind him, her gun already out. Huh. Maybe I'd misjudged her Girl Scout act.