He put down the paper and took another bite of his burger. “I do, but it will be tricky.”

I shimmied down in my seat. “I like tricky. Tricky is my middle name. No, wait, that’s trouble. Trouble’s my middle name. My bad.”

“Do you remember the woman I told you about?”

I knew we would get back around to this. I’d been dying to know more. “The one who used your body then threw you away like a toothbrush you had to use to clean the toilet because you couldn’t find your scrub brush?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And then you saw her out a year later and she’d had a baby who just happened to have your eyes?”

“That’s the one.”

“No. I don’t remember you mentioning her. You should go order a sweet roll. Those are to die for. And a carne adovada burrito.”

His mouth thinned. “Should I order something else to drink?”

“Yes! A diet whatever. No! A mocha latte. No!” I held up my hand to put him in pause so I could think. “Yes. No. Yes, a mocha latte.”

“Are you finished?” he asked, rising to go place his order. He was really hungry.

“Yes. No! Yes. I’m good with that. I have a busy afternoon ahead of me, and I need all the energy I can get. And I need you to be my wingman.”

“This should be interesting,” he said, sauntering off like he owned the place.

By the time he got back, his fries had disappeared. It was weird.

“So, what about her?” I asked.

“Marika,” he said, scooting into the booth. “That’s the sticky condition.”

I leaned in and did my best Italian accent. “You want I should off her?” I slid my index finger across my throat in the universal gesture for murder.

“Not exactly.”

“Wait!” I said, holding up my hand before he continued. “What’s your number? I’ll keep watch for you so your food doesn’t get cold.”

He checked the receipt. “Fifty-four.”

“Got it. Okay, hit me with the sticky.”

“I need you to get samples of both Marika’s and the boy’s DNA.”

I took a long moment to stare in disbelief. He stared back, but his stare was more matter-of-fact.

“Are you insane?” I asked him at last, considering it a real possibility. “How the bloody hell am I supposed to get DNA samples from them?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Not my problem.”

Making a mental note to ask my therapist how I got myself into these situations and accuse her of sucking at her job because I was clearly not getting better, I said, “Have you put any thought into how it could be done?”

“Not really. Why do you need a wingman?”

“I have to go talk to a notorious crime lord and accuse him of sending men after me and trying to put a hit out on his ex-girlfriend, who is the only witness to a murder he committed.”

“Do I have time to finish my burger?”

“I guess. But why are they called crime lords? Why not crime douche bags? Or crime asswipes? Why do they have to sound so cool?” I glanced up at the marquee. “Oh, your number’s up.”

He scooted out of the booth again. It was kind of charming.

“And hurry up before your food gets cold.”

He turned the corner and flipped me off at the same time. See? Men could multitask. I was so proud of him. Since I sat there with nothing better to do than watch the man in the next booth argue with his ketchup, I summoned Angel. I told him about my latest dilemma, gave him some rather explicit orders, then listened to him curse in Spanish before he asked if he could see me naked. When I said, “Only if you can navigate time and watch my perilous journey through my mother’s birth canal,” he vanished to do my bidding.

“Why me?” Garrett asked when he sat back down with his food.

I took a bite of his burrito. “Wow,” I said, rolling my eyes in ecstasy, “excellent choice. And why you what?”

“Why not get your boyfriend to be your wingman?”

“He’s cooking this afternoon. Sammy had to go get his cast off.” The regular cook had broken his leg trying to ski off his roof. Tequila often gave people the desire to tackle the impossible. It did not, however, make the impossible possible.

“Who’s the crime lord?”

“Phillip Brinkman.”

“The car salesman? He’s a crime lord?”

“Apparently.” I stopped and gaped at him. “Did you just take a bite of your sweet roll?”

“I paid for it.”

“And?” I took the plate and slid it out of his reach. Not really, though, because he had a ridiculous reach, which he demonstrated when he stole another bite with effortless ease. Thankfully, their sweet rolls were big enough to feed a small country.

“If Mr. Car Salesman of the Year was going to send men to my apartment carrying suppressed Glocks, the least he can do is offer me a discount on a new Porsche.”

“Should we, I don’t know, devise a plan?”

“Do you think that’s wise? I’ve always just kind of winged it.”

“No,” he said, his faux surprise chafing.

* * *

I strolled into the dealership wearing the wire Garrett had pinned to my bra between Danger and Will. Thankfully, Reyes never had to know that little fact. After pretending to browse a few minutes, and turning down a very enthusiastic salesperson, I made my way back to Phillip Brinkman’s office. The man was facing murder charges, and yet there he was at work, nary a care in the world. He was a cool one. And he looked about as much like a crime lord as my great-aunt Lillian. He looked more like an accountant with dark hair, pale skin, and eyes too large for his face.