"I’m telling ya," Renaldi began as he shoved the remnants of a cherished ancient

delicacy from the old world into his mouth with one hand and steered the airborne

police cruiser with the other. The hot dog was a fat rolled strip of pressed pork or beef

nestled between two pieces of cooked wheat and then slathered with onions, butter and

a thick golden liquid with a tangy bite. "This guy is playing you like a violin."

"Yeah? Well it takes one to know one."

"Aw, c’mon Monterey. Gimme a break, will ya?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Why? Because I’m tired of you giving me the gears every time I turn around. It’s

been over a year and…"

"No, about the suspect. Why would you say he’s playing me?"

Renaldi raced into the far right air lane without signaling, the high-speed illegal

maneuver drawing an auto-warning from the overhead street intercom.

Renaldi reached over and punching a sequence of numbers into the dashboard

ticket monitor, effectively reversed the recently issue ticket. With a sharp exhale, he

finally answered her question.

"Oh gee, let me think. Well for starters, the guy’s a paid-for-hire ho. He knows how

to play the game and probably, in his own defense, does it so unconsciously by now

that he himself doesn’t even know that he’s doing it."

"I don’t know about that, but go on."

"Secondly, he’s in one hell of a pickle. Chances are he just flatlined his last paying

customer and now he’s prepared to do whatever it takes—including making you fall for

him—to get away with it."

"Maybe. But it doesn’t really matter what he’s prepared to do because whatever

he’s selling, I ain’t buying."

"Yeah right," Renaldi cackled in his horrendously gauche way. "He’s a disgusting

specimen of a pig and you wouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole."

"No," Tess replied eyeing the tall black marble portico of the coroner’s office as they

pulled up to the air dock. "That’s you."