She examined it, took a deep breath, then drank. She waited. Thought about it. Took another drink. Thought about it again.

“You’re killing me, Smalls,” I said.

“I like it.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” I said, adding a grunt. “You’ll give me a complex.”

“As if.” She took another drink. Thought about it. Took another.

I cleaned up my mess and started on a new order before looking down at the file folder in her hand.

“So what’s up?”

Her fingers tightened around the file. It was old, its edges frayed, but it wore its coffee stains like a champion. Clearly, it had been read and reread dozens of times. “Remember my telling you I had a few cold cases I wanted you to look at?”

I put out a tray of mixed drinks for Sylvia to deliver, although she hated when I called her that. “I sure do. I thought you were talking about beer,” I said, teasing her.

“Well, this is the main one I would love to see solved. It wasn’t even my case. It was my father’s, and it haunted him until the day he died.”

“Uh-oh, now I’m intrigued.” I opened the file for a quick look.

“Kidnapping case,” she continued, “about thirty years ago. Nothing added up, from the parents’ testimony to the suspects to the kid himself. It was just a bizarre case from day one.”

“The kid himself?” I asked, even more intrigued. What would be odd about the kid?

“A ten-month-old baby was taken out of his crib while his mother napped.”

I perused the file. “No pictures?”

“That’s just it. One of the oddities of the case. All photographs of the child were stolen as well.”

I eyed her doubtfully.

“Tell me about it,” she said, taking another sip. “Nothing made sense. At first they thought a neighbor took him. She kept stalking the family, watching their every move, sending them threatening notes accusing the mother of witchcraft, of all the bizarre things.”

“Witchcraft? That was very medieval of her.”

“Preaching to the choir. But that still isn’t the most unusual part. Even odder were the markings on the baby’s body.”

“Markings?” I asked, suspicion needling the back of my neck.

“Yes, according to the baby’s doctor, there’s a rare syndrome that can happen when the mother is pregnant with twins but one of them dies very early in the pregnancy. The surviving twin absorbs the cells of the other and basically has two sets of DNA running through his body.”

“Okay, and the markings?”

“Well, sometimes when that happens, the twin’s body will have light marks like stripes on his body. But supposedly they can be seen only in a certain light. I don’t know. That’s the only explanation the doctors could come up with to explain the marks on him.”

“They looked like stripes?” I asked.

“Not sure. My dad said they looked more like tattoos.”

My lungs seized. After all this time, surely the very case I’d been wondering about for years did not just land in my lap. I had another explanation for those marks, one that involved the son of Satan and maps to navigate the gates of hell, but I wasn’t going to tell Agent Carson that. I liked that she thought I was only a little crazy. Bona fide lunatic could drive a wedge between us, and I valued our friendship too much for that. And the fact that she was my only contact at the FBI.

I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Reyes wasn’t listening in. “I would love to take a look at this case. Can I keep the folder awhile?”

“If I can keep this drink for a while.”

“It’s all yours,” I said. “Would you like another?”

“Let me make sure I can walk after this one. I’ll get back to you.” She searched for an empty table. “I was going to eat. I’ve been hearing nothing but rave reviews about the food here.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure it’s the food everyone is raving about.” When she raised a questioning brow, I added, “We got a new cook. He’s like a supermodel on steroids.”

“Reeeeeally?” she purred, looking toward the kitchen. “You know, the FBI has certain liberties when it comes to kitchen inspections.”

Trying to subdue a sudden case of the giggles, I said, “And you can eat at the bar.”

“That’s true. Can I eat in the kitchen?”

“Charley!”

I jumped and looked over as Uncle Bob charged toward me. What the hell did I do now?

“Why aren’t you in bed? Oh,” he said, spotting Agent Carson, “hi.”

“Detective,” she said. “How’s business?”

He leaned forward, as though sharing a secret. “Pretty good, if you know what I mean.” He indicated me with a nod and winked at her.

She grinned. “I do indeed. We need more of her.”

He gasped theatrically, tossing in a hand over his heart and an expression of horror. “Bite your tongue. I can barely handle this one. Speaking of which —” He stabbed me with the scariest, most feared glower in his arsenal. The legendary one that set criminals on edge and made his colleagues giggle behind closed fists while they pretended to cough. It was a thing of beauty. “— what the hell are you doing out of bed?”

“Working.”

“Why?”

“It’s Dad’s fault. He went to my apartment, grabbed me by the hair, and dragged me over here kicking and screaming.” I turned to the man who’d just walked up to stand beside me. “Oh, hey, Dad. We were just talking about you.”