One hundred and two. That's how many people they called, wrote, or visited looking for her. Nobody fit her description and no one said they had loaned their car to a young redhead that day.

Joe chuckled softly to himself, recalling the night an exasperated Steve observed, "Damn, Bellacera. I have never seen you do the chasing before."

And wasn't that the truth?

But, with Steve's help, chase he did, with nothing to show for it. She was out there somewhere, though. He knew she'd been driving one of the 102 cars. He hadn't imagined her. She'd been real. She'd been hot and sweet and funny, and right before Christmas he'd been sitting in the dentist's chair about to let Dr. Lavin of the Quantico Dental Clinic put a cap on that tooth.

But he just couldn't go through with it.

Joe had gotten used to the little chip at the juncture of his two incisors. He'd become attached to the only proof that she'd ever been his. And if he fixed it, it would feel final, like he'd given up on ever finding her.

Joe laughed again to himself in the dark, then heard the sound of his laughter die away. He flipped over onto his stomach and turned a cheek into the pillow.

Life had swept him away that winter. He and Steve got their first assignments with the Administration. They went to El Paso together, four years of gritty border cases. Then there was Houston and Mexico City and it became clear that he'd picked the kind of work that would forever leave him drained and needing his space. The women he'd managed to hook up with all had the same complaint-his job left no room for a relationship. And they were damn right.

No wonder DEA agents had a divorce rate of about 75 percent.

Somehow, Steve had managed it better. Maybe he was just a more laid-back guy, or maybe Reba was such a wonderful woman that it made it worth the effort. But Steve found a way to balance a wife and kid with his job, a way to mix his work with a real life.