“I asked Deb his name, but she couldn’t remember.” She listened for a response. “Are you there?”

“I’m here,” I said. “Look, everything will be fine. They can’t put Stewart’s death on me. I didn’t kill him.”

“That’s faulty logic and you know it,” she said.

“Let me handle it,” I said. “Promise me you won’t worry.”

“I can’t promise that. This is-”

“Gen,” I said, “I’m really not going to discuss this anymore.”

The silence on the other end of the line suggested something repressed, a sigh or a sharp word. Finally she yielded. “You sound hoarse,” she said. “You’re not getting a cold, are you?”

“I’m never sick,” I told her. “I’m probably hoarse because I just woke- oh, wait.”

I was thinking back to a day ago, the time I’d spent shivering in the cool early-morning air, soaking wet.

“What?” Gen prompted.

I explained to her about the boys and drainage canal.

When I was finished, she chided me. “What is it with you? You’re like a dog. Always this headfirst impulse to rescue people.”

I smiled, because she sounded like the older sister and teacher she’d been in the days of our partnership. I, too, fell into my role. “Not true,” I said. “I went in feetfirst.”

“Go back to sleep,” Genevieve said gently. “Call me sometime when you’ve got a day off.”

“I will,” I said.

That evening I made a very convincing streetwalker, wan and surly. My throat felt raw and wet, and I knew Gen’s words, You’re not getting a cold, are you? were true. But my sullenness seemed to have an aphrodisiac effect on the men on the street. I would have beaten my record for busts in one night if I hadn’t taken a half-hour break for a prearranged meeting with Ghislaine Morris.

On the way there, I tried to recall what it was that Shiloh had said about her. I did remember that he’d hesitated before handing off Ghislaine’s number.