No lovers, she mused. And Roarke would have found any if they'd existed. Thomas Brennen had been a faithful husband, and now his wife was a widow.

At the sharp rap on her doorjamb, she glanced up, frowned distractedly at the man grinning at her. Mid-twenties, she judged, with a pretty-boy face and a love of fashion.

He barely topped five-eight even in the neon yellow air boots. He wore denim above them, pants that bagged and a jacket that showed frayed cuffs. His hair was a bright new minted gold that flowed into a waist-length ponytail. He had half a dozen small, glinting gold hoops in his left earlobe.

"You took a wrong turn, pal. This is Homicide."

"And you'd be Dallas." His bright, eager grin pinched twin dimples into his cheeks. His eyes were a misty green. "I'd be McNab, with EDD."

She didn't groan. She wanted to, but suppressed it into a quiet sigh as she held out a hand. Good Christ was all she could think, as he took it with fingers twinkling with rings. "You're one of Feeney's."

"Joined his unit six months ago." He glanced around her dim, cramped office. "You guys in Homicide really got squeezed in the budget cuts. We got closets bigger than this in EDD."

He glanced over, then beamed a fresh smile as Peabody stepped up beside him. "Nothing like a woman in uniform."

"Peabody, McNab."

Peabody took a long, critical study, scanning glints and glitters. "This is the EDD dress code?"

"It's Saturday," McNab said easily. "I got the call at home, thought I'd swing in and see what's up. And we're a little loose over at EDD."

"Obviously." Peabody started to squeeze by him, narrowing her eyes when he grinned again.

"With three of us in there, we'll be standing in sin. But I'm game." He shifted enough to let her by, then followed, letting his gaze skim down to judge curves.