I hadn't eaten all day and I was running on fumes. The tank almost empty. I decided pizza and beer were in order. I was also interested to see how Special Agent Nonpareil handled himself with a Parotdog Dogg or a Tuatara IPA. Also, you didn't get to speak to Giordano unless you ordered his food.

  I crossed the dimly lit room to the bar and nodded at the tattoo-wearing barman. At least, Raphael fitted in with his snake eyes and thorny vine motif. I didn't know the barman and had no reason to think he knew me, but there was one way to get Giordano's attention without asking.

  "Two of your Tuataras and a Siciliana to share," I said.

  The barman looked at me for a fraction too long and then grabbed the beers. Uncapping them, he handed them over in exchange for the fifty I gave him.

  Taking the drinks, I turned my back on the guy and searched for a table toward the back. Nonpareil said nothing as we took our seats.

  I took a swig of beer and sat back and studied him.

  "The Siciliana is not on the menu board," he said. "A special order?"

  Observance is essential in law enforcement. But picking up that and the reason for it so quickly was impressive.

  "Giordano will know we're here," I agreed.

  Raphael looked around the bar with a neutral expression. He was good at hiding his emotions, but even the lack of emotion told me something.

  In the dim light of the room, his eyes looked more violet than blue. His lips as they wrapped around the mouth of his beer bottle were plump and sensual. There was a slight five o'clock shadow on his jaw, but because his hair was so freakishly white, it was hard to see it. Straight nose, symmetrical features, weird hair and eyes.

  The guy was so not what I expected from the FBI.

  "Do you come here often?" he asked. I was sure the question was simply a way to fill in the silence, but did he have any idea what he'd just said?

  I smirked into my beer and thought to hell with it.

  "You're pretty good-looking for a cop," I said.

  "I'm a special agent."

  "Just another word for a cop.

  "You think yourself a simple police officer, Catalin?"

  "Cat."

  "I prefer Catalin."

  "I prefer Cat."

  His lips twitched. I had the distinct impression it was an act. My fingers tingled — they'd been doing that a lot since he got here — and I decided the guy was playing me. But why the act?

  "The NCB is cooperating fully with you, Special Agent," I said. "There's no need to flirt."

  "I am not flirting."

  Maybe not the flirting that led to sweaty bodies and twisted bedsheets, but he was chatting me up for something.

  Just then, Giordano emerged from the kitchen, carrying a Siciliana Pizza on a large platter. He glanced around the bar and then put on a broad, welcoming smile for me. Lowering the platter to the table, he said, "I added extra olives; just how you like it, cara."

  "Grazie," I murmured. "Will you join us?"

  "I am a bit hungry," the Italian mobster said.

  He pulled out a chair and sat down. The smell of roasted tomatoes and olive oil wafted off him. He wore an apron, which was covered in flour and grease marks. It was probably genuine. Giordano liked to cook. He certainly liked to eat what he cooked; his generous belly rolled over the top of his pants.

  His gaze finally turned from me to Raphael. Something flared behind Giordano's eyes and Raphael went deadly still. Around us, the bar patrons and staff continued with their day; eating, serving, cleaning, drinking, talking, laughing. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

  But at our table, things had changed.

  I couldn't put into words what it was I was feeling. But my fingers ached and my stomach flipped, and I was conscious of the weight of my concealed weapon.

  The moment stretched, sounds warped, the many different colours of the naked bulbs above us twisted into a disturbing rainbow of colours.

  And then air rushed back into the room, and Giordano and Nonpareil seemed normal again.

  "What the hell was that?" I demanded.

  "Che?" Giordano asked.

  I stared at Raphael.

  Of course, the special agent said nothing.

  But I saw it. He had a tell.

  Cat

  Iwas good at finding a person's tell. I'd made it a habit to do so as soon as I met anybody. The special agent had kept most of his quirks a secret, hiding behind that neutral facade of his and a wall of silence. He'd been trickier than most to break.

  But I had him in my sights now.

  Raphael Nonpareil had a tic in his jaw when he didn't like something. And right then, the guy did not like this bar, this conversation, and most interestingly, Don Giordano.

  Now, it could have been an instant dislike for the type of person Giordano represented. A criminal who got away with things because he ratted to the police. I could hardly blame him for that.

  But he'd seemed open to coming here and he understood from the start just what sort of lowlife we would be dealing with. Giordano wasn't anything he shouldn't have seen or used in the past.

  No, this type of dislike was personal. And there should be absolutely no reason for FBI Agent Raphael Nonpareil to have a personal connection to Don Giordano

  So, what was this?

  The more time I spent with the man, the less I trusted him. His appearance, his strange behaviour, and now this. Plus what the ever-loving hell that was when they made eye contact. Had I imagined it?

  I didn't think so. I'm not the fantastical type of person. Black is black to me. And anything that gets my respirations up enough to make my fingers tingle like that is worrying. That usually only happens when the shit's about to hit the fan.

  I'd long gotten used to how my body did that. I liked to think I was a cool cucumber, but obviously, I hyperventilated when faced with uncertainty. I didn't even know it was happening until my fingers tingled. But every time, the tingling either saved me, made me see things I'd missed, or pointed me in a promising direction during a case. So, I wasn't complaining. More often than not, I could trust that gut instinct. My subconscious telling me something was up.

  And right now, something was definitely up between Giordano and Raphael.

  "You have questions for me, cara?" Gio asked.

  Oh, I know what you're doing, buddy.

  "You're both gonna pretend that was nothing?" I accused.

  "What did you see?" Raphael asked in a concerned tone of voice.

  I didn't trust that tone either.

  "Okay," I said. "Fine. It's not why we're here anyway." I looked at Giordano. "Trafficking. Kids. Recently arrived in the country. If I had a bunch of minors I wished to offload, who would I hit?"

  "Not even going to try to sugarcoat it, Cat?" Gio asked.

  "My patience is wearing thin," I said between gritted teeth.

  "I got nothing, cara."

  "Really? Because the look you just gave Special Agent Nonpareil of the FBI makes me think you know something is up."

  "Nonpareil," Giordano said, looking at the special agent again. "Interesting name. French?"

  "Middle English," Raphael replied silkily. "Although, it has its origins in Latin, prior to French."

  "Old then."

  "Very."

  I stared at them. More was being said here than I understood.

  Clearing my throat, I said, "Give me something to go on here, Gio. Have you heard anything?"

  He looked around the bar. It had got busier as we'd been talking. Outside, night had fallen. The streetlights were lit, the buildings casting intriguing shadows. The city had a different pulse now than it had earlier.

  "I steer clear of such dealings, Cat," he finally said. "You know that. There are lines you won't let me cross."

  He was right, of course. As useful as he was to us, there were limits.

  "But that doesn't mean you weren't approached," I pressed.

  "I turned them away."

  "Don't play coy with me, Gio. You got something out of it. Nothing is for free. I believe you told me that once."

  He scowled at me and then glanced around the bar again. "Why is it that the night always seems to be so much darker?" he murmured.

  "The sun's gone down?" I offered. I noted Raphael had stilled again.

  "Not the light, Cat," Gio gently scolded. "The mood. More crimes are committed in the dark."

  "What are you getting at, Old Man?"

  "Take care, cara. The night harbours more than you think."

  Alright, this conversation had officially taken a strange turn. Not that it hadn't already been bizarre.

  "Where did you send them?" Nonpareil asked.

  Giordano smirked at the special agent.

  "Gio?" I pressed.

  It took longer than it should have for the Italian to turn his attention back to me.

  "They knew what they were doing, Cat," he said. "They were very careful. I saw no faces, heard no sounds other than a digitised voice."

  Gio only dealt with face-to-face. This was something different.

  "How did they contact you?"

  "After hours, when I left the bar to go home."

  "Outside?"

  "Yes. As I unlocked my vehicle."

  "They stood behind you. Kept to the shadows," I guessed.

  "They weren't even there, Catalin. Only a speaker and a microphone. I conversed with a radio box."

  "Do you still have the radio?" Raphael asked.

  "It was rigged to self-destruct when the conversation was over."

  "Mission Impossible," I muttered.

  "It is not impossible yet," Raphael said, making me laugh. He stared at me as if I was losing it. Gio huffed out an amused breath.

  "Interesting what the night drags in," the Italian observed. Raphael's jaw ticked.

  Getting them both back on track, I asked, "What was said?"

  "'Who would be interested in live merchandise?'"

  "Your answer?"

  "I asked how fresh the merchandise was. They said it was the freshest." Meaning kids.

  "You knew straight away what they were referring to," I accused.

  "In my line of business, cara, one must know these things."

  "Why did you even entertain them?" I asked, not commenting on his line of business. "You could have climbed into your car and driven off."

  "No one goes to those extremes to converse without having a backup plan."

  "Such as?"

  "The red dot on the front of my chest helped to convince me they meant business."

  "A sniper?"

  "Sì," he said.

  Interesting or just a coincidence? Contrary to popular belief, there weren't that many well-trained snipers out there. And now I'd been confronted with two in as many days.

  "What did you tell them?" I asked.

  "I told them I was not the man they were looking for."

  "Still, red dot to the chest, you must have given them something. You're alive, aren't you?"

  His lips twitched. "I am not so unprotected, cara."

  "Sniper of your own?" I asked.

  "Something like that."

  "Come on, Gio. You're committed now. Just wrap it up."

  "I like you, Catalin. You call — how do you say it? — a spade a spade. Refreshing." His eyes danced across the table to Raphael again. "A lesson to be learned there, no?"

  The special agent said nothing. Naturally.

  "Very well, Chief Operative Aguirre," Giordano said, turning back to me. Now we were getting somewhere. Gio was invoking our deal by using my rank. "I told them to try The White Rose."

  "The May Tree Lounge," I said. Gio nodded.

  The White Rose was the nickname given to the May Tree Lounge's owner. Her hair was almost as white as Nonpareil's. But the May Tree Lounge was the last place I thought a trafficking ring would go to offload their cargo.

  "Anything else?" I pressed.

  He stared at me, a softening to his features. "Watch your neck, cara."

  English was a second language to Giordano, so I thought nothing of the misspoken metaphor. That is until Raphael abruptly stood up; the sound of his metal stool screeching as it crossed the concrete floor drew everyone's attention. A rookie move. The move had to have been instinctive. It was the first time I was sure he'd done something that wasn't an act.

  But I couldn't see the connection. Gio was warning me to be careful, so why should the special agent react to that?

  Shaking the disquiet off, I said my farewells to Gio and headed for the door, knowing Raphael would follow me. I hadn't eaten any pizza, and just managed a couple of mouthfuls of beer. I always tended to forget to eat when on a case, and this one was shaping up to be unusual.

  Despite the crime — trafficking kids normally meant we were working against the clock — there was a distinct possibility that this case would drag on. It takes time to set up a buyer for your human cargo, and as the FBI had cut off their intended market in Papua New Guinea, they had landed on our shores, looking for a new one.

  But we weren't well known for our slave market. The traffickers were hiding, but they were testing the local waters while they did it. If they found a buyer, great. If not, then they'd leave again for bigger waters.

  This case was still very much international in nature. Just up the NCB's alley.

  The sounds of the city at night met my ears as we exited the building. I couldn't see any stars overhead; Te Aro, where Gio's was located, was next to the CBD. There was too much ambient light. Strangely enough, the May Tree Lounge was only a couple of blocks away in the same suburb.

  All the good nightlife could be found around here.

  "We go to this lounge next?" Raphael asked.

  I spun to face him and crossed my arms over my chest.

  "In a minute," I said. He looked at me, his expression guarded. "What aren't you telling me?" I demanded.

  "Many things, but none of them are relevant."

  "So, you're smart ass," I said. "Good to know. But something's not right here, and I will get to the bottom of it."

  "Are you always this inquisitive?"

  "Are you kidding? I'm a cop. Interpol remember? We're meant to be curious."

  "But I'm not the case, Catalin. I'm your partner for the time it takes to solve it."

  "There's more to you than meets the eye, buddy," I snapped.

  "Really?" he asked and took a step closer. "Just what do you see when you look at me?"

  I stood my ground, but part of me felt like running. The tingle in my fingertips told me that was a bad idea.

  "I thought we established that flirting would get you nowhere, Special Agent Nonpareil."

  "I'm not flirting."

  "Then what are you doing?" He was so close to me now. I could see that pale stubble on his jaw. I could smell his cologne; a mix of something musky, earthy, and downright sexy if I were honest.

  "Testing the boundaries," the agent said.

  "That sounds decidedly like flirting to me."

  "Is that how you flirt here?"

  "It's how you flirt everywhere."

  He studied my face, his eyes scanning me, searching. He took a step back and the chill night air seeped in through my jacket.

  "Then forgive me," he murmured. "I do not wish to overstep."

  Oh, he overstepped, alright. But I got the feeling, that was normal for him. Raphael Nonpareil was a strange man who I suspected had strange desires. How the fuck was he an FBI agent?

  "Tell me about this lounge," he said.

  I stared hard at him for a moment longer and then started toward the car.

  "Think 1930s film noir gentleman's club with a penchant for crazy cocktails."

  "I'm not sure that's my scene."

  A burst of laughter surprised me. When I looked over my shoulder as I unlocked the car, Raphael was studying me intently. He'd donned his neutral facade again, but there was a light behind his eyes that called.

  Damn, but he was a fine-looking mountain of a man.

  I slid into the car before I got myself in any trouble.

  Nonpareil was dangerous, I realised. And I suddenly wondered if Giordano had sensed that danger and it was Raphael he was warning me to watch.

  My tingling fingers reached up of their own accord and touched my neck. I fisted my hand, shaking the disturbing thoughts off, and started the car.

  The special agent said nothing. But he was watching. Of course.

  Cat

  The May Tree was located upstairs at 82 Tory Street. The 'speakeasy' claimed to be founded on old-fashioned chivalric values, which they reminded you of at the door. A gold plaque greeted you as you climbed the stairs with suggestions such as, 'It is both considerate and encouraged that gentlemen stand for a lady and assist her with her chair.'

  A throwback to a forgotten era, for sure, but they did it well.

  Inside the dimly lit and surprisingly quiet bar was everything you'd expect a gentleman's club to be; minus the steep admittance price and designer clothing. Strategically placed green banker's lamps dotted the scenery, and dark wooden furniture and bookshelves added to the theme. There was a stone fireplace — currently unlit — surrounded by brown leather Chesterfield couches. A couple were playing Scrabble of all things at a low-lying table. Behind the long bar was an illuminated mirrored splashback with every top shelf liqueur you could imagine stacked in front of it. The colourful bottles contrasted with the dark and mysterious ambience of the locale.

  As the night was still young, there weren't that many customers yet. But the number of staff on duty made me think they expected them to come. I could see the lounge being an ideal place to meet someone illicitly, have a quiet conversation, and fade into the dark.

  That's why many politicians were said to come here.

  Of course, the piece de resistance for the May Tree was its cocktails. They came in a variety of well-known mixes and some that no bartender had a right to invent.

  I mean, blue cheese and chocolate? Are you kidding me? I supposed I could go for the Long John Da Silver Spider in a pinch. A pirate-inspired, gunpowder rum-based drink, accompanied by Tuatara porter and Kapiti Gingernut ice cream. Yep, they did alcoholic soda floats here.