He took a step back, eyes going wide. Either with fear I'd hit him or fear I was crazy, I wasn't sure.

  "Who are you?" I yelled again. "Answer me. I'm trained in Bokator!"

  His big brown eyes blinked behind his lenses. "What is that?"

  "It's an ancient Cambodian martial art based on animal techniques and sheer brutality." Totally true. "And I know every technique." Totally false. I'd sat in on a lecture once about Asian battle styles in the anthropology department. All I knew about Bokator was that it sounded menacing. At least, I hoped it did to the stalker.

  "Look, take it easy, okay, girl?"

  I narrowed my eyes at him and deepened my fighting stance. "Did you just call me girl?"

  "Lady! Woman! Cripes, just back off, okay?"

  "Who are you?" I demanded again.

  He straightened his clothing, restored his hood, and pushed up his glasses. "Look, I'm not here to hurt anyone. My name is Wiggins."

  I froze. Oh no.

  "I'm a reporter for the—"

  "Irregulars," I finished for him.

  "Yeah. The Irregulars." He grinned. "You've heard of us?"

  I gave him a get real look and dropped the fighting stance "Yes, I'm familiar."

  His grin widened, looking absurdly pleased. Great. An egomaniacal stalker.

  "What do you want?" I demanded.

  "Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

  Anger surged through me at the realization that he had been following me. Not only here but at the bakery as well. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do mind."

  He shrugged. "Okay, maybe I can speak with your employer, Sherlock Holmes?"

  Ha! Fat chance of that. "He's out of the country," I said automatically.

  "When will he be back?"

  "Indeterminate."

  "Surely he has a phone wherever he is?"

  "It's hard to catch him. Time difference, you know."

  He paused. "And how much exactly is that time difference?" he asked, clearly fishing for a more exact location.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. No way was I falling into that trap. "What are you doing out here anyway?" I asked, turning the interrogation tables on him. "You scared me half to death. I thought you were a mugger!"

  "Good thing I'm not," he shot back. "Because you're a pretty easy target in a place like this." He pointed at my feet. "How are you supposed to maneuver in shoes like that?"

  If I didn't fear assault charges, I'd have hit him again. "My shoes are none of your business," I snapped. "I can't believe you thought it was okay to follow me. Twice!" I paused. "It was only twice, right?"

  He shrugged instead of answering. "I do what I have to do to get the story. And people seem to enjoy it. The first post in my Disappearing Diva series got over a million hits in twenty-four hours."

  My mind glossed over the staggering number of a million hits and latched on to another important word. Series? He was doing a series? Where did he think he'd get the material? Even if I wanted to, I couldn't provide enough information on Sherlock Holmes to fill a tweet. And I was supposed to actually know the guy.

  I shook my head. "No. No series. This…it's an open case."

  "Making any headway on it?"

  "Some, but I—" I caught myself falling into his conversational tone. "No! No story. No series."

  He shrugged again. It was beginning to get annoying. "I've given your employer a lot of free publicity."

  "Yeah, I wish you'd stop that."

  "You'd think he'd want to help me out. I mean, I could tell the public a lot about the guy."

  I doubted that.

  "Like, how many cases has he closed so far?"

  Bit my lip. "Lots," I lied.

  "Where's he from?"

  "He's from none of your business," I told him.

  Rudeness had no effect on him at all. "Where was he trained?"

  I glanced around, although I was unable to see much of anything, wondering just where Tara was. Standing in the shadows enjoying the show? Had she even bothered to show up? Had something happened to her?

  "I have no idea," I said levelly. "I never asked him."

  "Funny thing." He put a contemplative finger on his chin. "Sherlock's picture isn't anywhere online—not on his website, no social media, zilch. And he's got two babes as his wing men."

  "Women," I said sharply.

  "Okay, wing women," he said.

  "No." I rolled my eyes. "We're not babes. We're women."

  "You can be both." He smiled, looking me up and down in a way that suddenly made me shiver. Or maybe that was just the fog. Granted, when he wasn't shooting off smart remarks, the geek-chic thing he had going on was kind of cute. You know, if you were into the nosy reporter type. Which I so was not.

  "What is your point exactly?" I demanded of him, ignoring the way my body responded to his appraising gaze.

  "My point," he said, "is that every time I call the number on his website, I get a recording. And he never returns my calls. Why is that?"

  "Maybe he doesn't like reporters." I knew I, for one, didn't like where this was going. Wiggins asked questions as if he knew the answers. Even if he didn't, he was much too curious for comfort. "Listen, I don't want to catch you following me again," I added, as if I had actually caught him the first time. "I have connections to law enforcement, you know."

  "Who, that ME, Watson?"

  My anger swelled again. "You followed me on my…" I paused, searching for the right word. Un-date didn't seem very dignified.

  "Date?" Wiggins grinned.

  "Business dinner."

  "Right. At a jazz club."

  I stabbed my finger at his chest. "Just leave me alone. You've been warned." Sure, it sounded good, but it had no teeth, and we both knew it. Still, I knew a good exit line when I said it, so I turned and stormed off, hoping the darkness would conceal me from him. I didn't want to be followed by anyone, let alone a reporter. It felt like a gross invasion of privacy. Besides that, I had no answers for him.

  A few minutes later, I realized the night had hidden me, and I realized something else. Wiggins had the stubbornness of a toddler and the night vision of an owl, because I heard him scuffling along behind me. At least it seemed like behind me, although the darkness was disorienting. It was possible he was just keeping his distance as he left the park along with me. It was also possible he was still on the story and hoping to follow me to his next breaking news.

  Well, I wasn't going to stand for that. I wheeled around to confront him.

  But before I could say a word, something struck my temple.

  Caught completely off guard and unable to gain my equilibrium on the stilettos, I immediately went down, with just enough time to realize I'd fallen face first into mud before everything went black.

  CHAPTER TEN

  "Marty? Can you hear me?"

  I cracked open an eye to discover two things. First, I was no longer facedown in mud but lying faceup staring into the lacy mist, my head cushioned by something soft. Second, Watson knelt beside me, lightly stroking my hair, concern etched on his face.

  "Thank God," he muttered.

  I opened the other eye and tried to smile, but it hurt, so I gave up. "Watson?" I managed.

  "Just relax. Do you know where you are?" He was staring intently at my eyes, checking my pupils for signs of a concussion if I had to guess.

  "I'm at the park," I croaked out. I paused. "What are you doing here?"

  "I followed you here. How many fingers am I holding up?"

  "Three. Wait—you followed me?"

  He nodded. "Your story was shaky at the club. I was worried, so I followed you."

  Honestly, if anyone else followed me, I'd have to hire a marching band and some floats. I sat up, touching my head gingerly. "It wasn't a story. I really was meeting an informant."

  "An informant who did this to you?"

  I shook my head. Ouch. Bad idea. I took a deep breath, waiting for the world to stop spinning. "No, she never showed."

  "She?"

  I moved to nod but thought better of it. "Yeah. Women have information too, you know," I muttered. What was with men today?

  Watson's jaw clenched. "I'm aware. I was just surprised that two women would choose a dark, deserted park to meet in."

  Oh. Right.

  "Whose idea was it to meet here?"

  "Hers," I admitted.

  "It was a bad one."

  "No argument here," I said, running a hand along my cheek and feeling mud begin to cake there. "Do you have a tissue or something?" I couldn't imagine how I must look. Even my hair felt stringy with mud. Irene's dress needed an emergency dry-cleaning intervention. I was afraid to look at the shoes.

  Watson found some tissues in his pocket and handed them over. "So you and your partner never saw the informant?"

  I froze, tissue midway to my face. "Partner?"

  "The man you were with. I saw him bending over you on the ground. Only, when I called out to him, he took off toward the parking lot. I assumed he works for Sherlock as well." He paused, suddenly looking embarrassed. "Or perhaps he was a social acquaintance."

  I snorted. Which coupled with my mud-caked appearance must have been highly attractive. "You mean Wiggins? You think I'm dating Wiggins?"

  Watson's eyes shot up to meet mine. "Wiggins? The reporter?"

  I nodded (with slightly less pain this time). "He followed me here." I glanced at him. "You know, before you did."

  "Did he do this to you?" Watson had gone from looking adorably jealous to angry in seconds flat.

  I thought about that for a moment. Had he? It was possible. In fact, I'd thought it was Wiggins following me a second time just before I'd blacked out. Only I couldn't come up with a reason the reporter would want to harm me. Hound me for a story—yes. Bash me over the head—doubtful.

  "I don't think so," I said slowly. "He doesn't seem the type."

  "You know him well?"

  Did I detect that jealousy edging into his voice again? "Not really," I admitted. "But he didn't strike me as the violent kind. Plus, why would he knock me out?"

  Watson shrugged. "Why would anyone waste time reading his blog drivel, but a thousand hits later, there you have it. People do odd things."

  "Million," I corrected, still marveling at the number. "But no, I don't think it was Wiggins."

  "Then your informant?"

  I pursed my lips together. I could feel the next question forming in his mind even before he voiced it.

  "Who is she?"

  I thought about lying. But I just didn't have the energy at the moment. "Tara Tarnowski," I told him.

  His blank face told me the name meant nothing to him.

  "She was Rebecca Lowery's understudy. Currently the lead in Ethereal Love."

  "And you're thinking her change in career status might have something to do with the missing Rebecca?"

  "Possibly even her death."

  "Her accidental death?"

  I worded the next bit carefully. "You know, a fall and a push would look a lot alike."

  Watson shook his head. "Look, maybe you better start at the beginning," he said, helping me up off the ground and grabbing the folded and now muddy jacket he'd placed beneath my head.

  Against my better judgment and Irene's screaming voice in my head, I did. I laid out the details of how Rebecca's body had been taken and not just lost, our theory that it had been done to cover up evidence of a crime, and the few suspects we'd cobbled together so far. I even told him about Fluffy Bunny, though I might have glossed over a few felonious details of my own purchase.

  The more I said, the more granite-like Watson's jaw became, grinding and clenching until I was pretty sure he could create diamonds with his back molars.

  "…and that's why I was meeting Tara here. I wanted to know what the argument was about," I finished.

  He was silent, eyes staring me down with some unidentifiable emotion behind them.

  I cleared my throat. "But the meeting didn't go quite as planned. Clearly."

  "Clearly."

  I bit my lip. "But, I'm fine, so…"

  "Fine? You were knocked out cold!"

  "Just for a second…" I mumbled, not sure why I was suddenly defending myself.

  "You could have a concussion. You could have been killed!"

  "But I wasn't?" Only it sounded more like a question.

  "This is completely irresponsible of him."

  I blinked, wondering if it was the bump on the head making me slow. "Him?"

  "Sherlock Holmes," he spat out.

  Right. That him.

  "I can handle myself just fine," I said, sounding a lot more confident than I felt.

  "No, you can't."

  I felt my spine straighten.

  But before I could respond, Watson continued. "Marty, if drugs played any role in Rebecca's death, you need to let the authorities handle it. Synthetics are big business, and these aren't the kind of people who just let things go. If they have a problem, they eliminate it."

  I swallowed hard, feeling the night send a chill down my spine. "I'll talk to Lestrade in the morning," I promised, only slightly mentally crossing my fingers behind my back.

  But it seemed to placate him, as his jaw finally softened. "Come on. Let me take you home."

  Since I was muddy, tired, and broke, I agreed.

  It was a quiet ride back to my apartment, the silence between us filled with questions I didn't want to answer and he probably didn't want the answers to anyway. I occupied myself with wiping the remaining mud from my face and exploring the lump on my head with tentative fingers. Watson spent the time seething on my behalf. I could tell by his white-knuckled grip on the wheel.

  When we reached my apartment building, I turned to face him. "Thanks for the ride—"

  "I'll walk you in."

  He was out of the car before I could protest. Not that I wanted to. Truth was, I was feeling a little shaky, and having Watson next to me was much more comforting than I wanted to admit.

  I used his ready arm for support as we climbed the stairs to my apartment, moving awkwardly because the front of my dress was stiff with dried mud. No sign of 2B. No scent of Mr. Bitterman.

  Mrs. Frist, however, was hunched at my door, trying to peer through the keyhole. Not an uncommon position for Mrs. Frist, although she usually did it in the other direction, at her own place. I couldn't imagine what she hoped to see in mine. Or how she hoped to see it.

  Clearly she didn't hear us coming, because she didn't budge even when I cleared my throat gently from the last step. Her concentration was complete and impressive and misdirected, unless she and Toby had something weird going on.

  I tapped her on the shoulder, hoping I didn't startle her into a coronary. "Can I help you find something, Mrs. Frist?"

  "Oh!" She straightened up. "I didn't hear you coming."

  I would have been mortified if I'd been caught in her position, but not Mrs. Frist. She was shameless enough to look annoyed at the interruption. "Is he in there?"

  I glanced at Watson. "Is who in there?" I asked, puzzled. "Toby?"

  She sniffed at me. "Is that what he wants you to call him? Toby?"

  I rested my hand on the doorknob. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Frist, I'm tired and cold—"

  "And dirty," she said, staring at me. Since her glasses were hanging on a chain around her neck, it was possible she was trying to focus on me. "No wonder you're not married, if that's the way you look when you go on a date."

  "I wasn't on a date," I said wearily.

  She pointed at Watson. "Isn't that a man?"

  His neutral expression melted away into a bemused smile.

  "That's a man," I agreed. "Excuse me."

  "Men want a lady to look like a lady," she informed me. "Hair that's combed, clothes that are clean. Not…" Her gesture swept the length of my body. "That."

  "I'll make a note." I unlocked the door, and Toby came scrambling out of the bedroom to conduct his routine inspection, devoting extra time to the mélange of scents I'd brought home in my clothing, before trotting off to the kitchen to await his bedtime snack.

  Mrs. Frist crowded in behind me, trying to see over my shoulder. "Is Isaac in there?"

  "Mr. Bitterman? Is that who you were looking for?" I dropped my purse on the occasional table by the door. "Why would he be in my apartment?"

  "Because the old coot is hiding from me. That's why. He knew I was cooking him dinner."

  Her mistake. Mr. Bitterman didn't eat anyone else's cooking, and he didn't date. Marriage had cured him of that.

  Mrs. Frist turned to Watson. "If you're not a date, you must be the landlord. Can you open his door for me?"

  My cheeks did a slow burn. "He's not the landlord, Mrs. Frist. He's the medical examiner."

  "The medical examiner!" She pressed a hand to her chest. "Am I dead?"

  Watson chuckled. "No, ma'am, you're not dead. You're still a beautiful woman in her sixties."

  I'd never heard Mrs. Frist giggle before, and I silently thanked Watson for the experience. Mrs. Frist wasn't a day under eighty-five.

  She edged up beside him, leading with her bony little shoulder, batting her lashes, a regular femme fatale in support hose. "Are you hungry, young man?"

  "Thank you, but we had dinner earlier," he told her, only bending the truth a little. We'd been at dinner, but the one lonely glass of wine I'd ingested rolled in my empty stomach, which was crying for a gooey slice of pizza to go with it.

  "The two of you?" Mrs. Frist asked with disappointment.

  "It was a business dinner," he added quickly.

  Right. Just business, I reminded myself.

  Mrs. Frist looked at me. "You took her out with that dirty face?"

  Oops. I'd thought I'd taken care of that in the car. "I had a little accident," I said.

  "In fact," Watson added, "I'm just about to examine her, and then she'll need to get some rest." He smiled down at her. "You'll excuse us?"

  She practically swooned. Granted, Watson's smile had that effect on me as well.

  "Keep me in mind if you're ever in the mood for pickled pigs' feet, young man."

  "I promise you'll be the first one I think of," he assured her, guiding her out into the hall with a gentle but firm hand on her arm. He closed the door behind her and turned to me with a wry smile "Pickled pigs' feet?"