THE PHONE WAS RINGING. Again. I turned my attention from the rearview mirror and glared at the cellular phone that lay jangling in my passenger seat next to a bag of Fritos and one of Gilly’s coloring books. It had been less than ten minutes since the last time it rang, and since there were only three people who had the number, I was pretty sure I knew who it was. I’d only had the damn thing for a month, and it was already complicating my life.

“These things will never catch on,” I muttered, hitting the flashing call button. “Toby Daye Investigations, Toby Daye speaking, what is it now, Cliff?”

There was a long, embarrassed pause before my live-in fiancé asked, “How did you know it was me?”

“Because the only other people who use this number are Uncle Sylvester and Ms. Winters, and they know I’m on a stakeout, which means they’re not calling.” I’ve never been good at being mad at Cliff; the words might be irritated, but the tone was purely affectionate. Call me a sucker for a man with a great ass who knows how to bake a macaroni casserole and can tolerate six hours of Sesame Street a day. Shifting the phone to my left hand, I reached up and adjusted the mirror to keep the front of the restaurant in view. “What is it this time?”