A soft meow brought her head up.

"Hey, Boo," she said, wiggling her fingers listlessly. The poor guy had run for cover when she'd come through the door tearing her clothes off and throwing them across the room.

Meowing again, the black cat padded over. His wide green eyes looked worried as he leaped into her lap with grace.

"Sorry about the drama," she murmured, making room for him.

He rubbed his head against her shoulder, purring. His body was warm, his weight grounding. She didn't know how long she sat there stroking his fine, soft fur, but when the phone rang, she jumped.

As she reached for the receiver, she managed to keep pace with the petting. Years of living with Boo had honed her cat/phone coordination skills to perfection.

"Hello?" she said, thinking it was past midnight, which ruled out telemarketers and suggested either work or some sicko crank-calling her.

"Yo, B-lady. Get your dancing shoes on. Some guy's car blew up outside of Screamer's. With him in it."

Beth closed her eyes and wanted to weep. Jose de la Cruz was one of the city's police detectives, but he was also a friend of sorts.

As were most of the men and women in blue, come to think of it. Because she spent so much time at the station, she'd gotten to know them all pretty well, although Jose was one of her favorites

"Hey, you there?"

Tell him. Tell him what happened. Just open your mouth.

Shame and remembered horror tightened her vocal cords.

"I'm here, Jose." She pushed her dark hair out of her face and cleared her throat. "I can't come tonight."

"Yeah, right. When you ever turn down a good tip?" He laughed easily. "Oh, but take it smooth. Hard-ass is on the case."

Hard-ass was Homicide Detective Brian O'Neal, better known as Butch. Or just plain sir.