September 5th 2008

Friday (actually, it's so late, I imagine it's already Saturday)

Well. After talking to Rosto, on Wednesday, I went home did all the wonderful glorious stuff that we students do. Then Thursday, before class, I rushed my butt to the station house. Tony was waiting for me at the main door with a coffee in his hands. Since he doesn't drink coffee I imagined it was for me. He extended it when I reached the top of the steps.

"Told you so," he said, extending me the coffee, it smelled like vanilla bean blend. Yum. "So what can I help you with?"

"I ran into this guy while I was working a detail for Tunstall and Goodwin," I started telling him as he opened the door for me, "Thanks. Anyway, while I'm trying to get a look at Judge Walters' guest, I got thrown into this blonde man, who just so happens to be Mob-Boss Rosto Flautista. Now, I'm interested in Mr. Flautista, in that I wanna know what the heck he was doing talking to a judge, and I want to know how many pies he's got his fingers in. Catch my drift?" Tony nodded as I talked and escorted me into archives, giving Svetlana and Leticia a small wave hello. Svetlana smiled and Leticia pounded a stapler.

"So we're looking for a mob-boss?" Tony says, again opening a door and doing that thing where he sortof guides you in by placing his hand over the small of your back while not actually touching it. It doesn't bother me, mainly because, for Tony, it's such an ingrained behavior he doesn't even realize he's doing it. Tony walks over to a computer and does some typing. "Well, most of the stuff on him we had to hand over to the FBI. But we've got boxes in here somewhere, and I think there's some digital files."

"Awesome-sauce," I said with a mental fist-pound and saw Tony wasn't moving or typing. "Well, let's go see."

"Well, I'll let you peruse some of the stuff on the computer, but I'd like to know what I get out of it? I mean, the last thing I need is for IA and the FBI to wonder why I'm digging around in a mob-case." He leans against his desk looking very much a lothario. Or a gigolo.

I ponder for a minute. I dare not ask him what he would like in return for this favor because he might ask me something naughty. But right now, I don't know what he wants, so it's the only option I've got.

"What would you like to get out of it?" I asked, not sure what to do with my hands.

He stands up from his leaning position and comes to stand behind me; he puts one hand possessively on my shoulder and very firmly slides it down the bare skin of my arm. I'm in a t-shirt, so it's not too hard to see skin. He puts his mouth very close to my ear. "Let me take you to dinner. Better yet, let me cook for you. I've got a great canolli" he presses his mouth very gently to my cheek-bone.

I can see why, even though he's hornier than a dog in heat, girls fall for Tony. He knows what to say and how to say it so that women, any women, feel that flip-flop in their gut and maybe a twinge behind their knee. I mean, what woman doesn't want a good looking man to cook for her? And if you know the general shape of cannoli, you know he's not talking about the dessert being great. It's his cannoli he wants to show off. And if I was any other woman, I might just twinge and shiver and perhaps lean into the well built chest and relish in the smell of Armani perfume. It's just, I know exactly how many women he's slept with, and in my book, a slut's a slut, no matter what gender they are. And Tony, well, he's a slut. A huge slut. I don't really care how good he is. At least not right now.

"Tony," I whisper carefully, "I don't like cannoli." He tries one more very gentle kiss to my temple, but when he sees I'm not swooning for him, he turns me around with the hand on my arm. He looks down at me, and I can see his mind is calculating how much he could get away. I keep my expression neutral. He leans down and plants one on my mouth.

In all actuality, it wasn't an awful kiss. He knows how to breathe, and he certainly doesn't slobber, nor does he make you gag with his tongue. It was a nice kiss. I don't like nice kisses. There just wasn't any fire. No burning, all-consuming passion. When he steps back, he gives an exasperated sigh.

"Nothing?" he asks. I shake my head. "Damn girl, there goes my ego."

"Damn, nothing. Your ego needed a bit of deflating so it could fit through the door behind your big head." I say with a nasty chuckle.

"Well. Three kisses is more than anyone else in the lab, even if you don't like them. I'm not gonna give up, though. I think I just need to grow on you." He still has his hand on my arm and he runs it up and down one more time.

"You've had a couple years to grow on me. And you just now managed to kiss me. Mind you, if Tunstall hears about this he'll whip your ass into tomorrow, and dad might just haul you into his office and close the blinds so the rest of the squad-room doesn't see you cry." I tell him with a nonchalant tone and I see Tony blanche.

"Well, uh," he stammers and takes his hand off me, like I'm covered with slime, "Let's go find you mob boss."

And I don't think I had any more problems with Tony. He even jumped when Archie walked in to see if we were hungry. I was working on copying files into my hard-disk. When I left around 2pm for my class, I knew I'd won that bet with Rosto. After that I had my class and wrote up yesterday's entry.

Then there was today. At first I was fine, until around 5 in the afternoon, when I remembered where we were eating. He'd said fancy, French, restaurant, presumably downtown. Now, I don't know what other girls would do here, but I freaked, mainly because I don't have anything even remotely that caliber in my closet here at school and it was too late to go shopping and too late to go home and get something.

Damn. I thought, feeling the panic rise in my chest. What was I gonna do? I sorted through my outfits and found nothing. Sorted again. Again nothing. I couldn't ask my room-mates as they weren't home, and I doubt I'd fit in anything they owned anyway, my being so skinny, and not nearly as endowed as Olivia. What to do?

I was looking at Pounce hoping he'd morph into a black dress and heels when he jumped on my table and knocked over a picture frame. I picked it up, scolding him, when I realized the photo was of Lorine.

Fashion emergency. Literally. Call Lorine. I put the picture back and dialed the house.

"BEKA!" squealed Nilo over the phone, so not the person I wanted to talk to.

"Hey, Nilo. Is Lorine home?" I asked, hoping the desperation wasn't completely evident in my voice.

"LORINE!" Nilo screamed up the stairs, the speaker of the phone still near his mouth. "Beka has a fashion emergency!!"

"Hang up, Nilo," Said Lorine's voice. I hadn't even heard her pick up the receiver. Nilo hung up. "Beka, my dear sister, I've felt your soul seeking mine." She said it with all seriousness. Dear God, spare me the dramatics.

"I have a date in a fancy French restaurant with a man who looks very good in Armani." I said, hoping the designer hinted at how glitzy this might just have to be.

"How good?" she asked. Is that even relevant.

"Ummm," I thought for a minute for a comparison she would be able to visualize. "How about 'The-Captain-in-Levi's good." I said, not being able to think of anything else.

"Oh my. Well. That is an emergency. I take it that, because you are calling, you did not open the box I gave you before you went off to school." She asked, and I thought back on the box. It had been a big box with this heinous bow covered in pencils and staplers. Of course I had not opened it, I was too disturbed by the bow. What had I done with that box? Pounce meowed, looking under the bed. Right, I shoved it under the bed, with my shoes.

"Obviously not," Lorine snorted. "Go open the box Beka, and take your long leather boots out of your shoe bag." She waited and I scrambled. I found the box quite quickly and popped the sides, practically ripping off the bow. I moved the tissue paper aside and found an expanse of silky black fabric, embroidered with silver thread and tiny tiny beads.

"Is it a dress?" I asked, crossing my fingers because I was too afraid to touch the material.

"Yes, it is a dress." Lorine said it so patiently, I almost wondered where she was. "Why didn't you open it earlier?"

"The bow scared me." I said digging into the box and pulling out the dress. Lorine had done it again: the dress was fantastic. The material was cut to emphasize the fact that I was so slim, and the material was just a little shiny. This, combined with the silver thread and beads, gave it a slightly haunting, ghostly feel. Not Halloween ghostly, but, lets say, ghost of an old southern manner house, ghostly.

"There's a silk scarf, sortof bluish-gray, in the box. That should make you modest. All you need is black heels and done." She said, and I could imagine her just sortof making that "Tadaa" motion with her hands.

"Didn't bring those with me." I said, wishing I had.

"I packed them for you. In your shoe bag. Next to the knee-high leather boots." She said, carelessly and I scrambled again. My boots were what surprised me, they were so heavy! "There's makeup and nail-polish in the left boot, and Diona's old hair-straightener in the right one. You also have some nice jewelry in the cosmetics bag." Lorine said casually.

"Suggestions?" I said, kind-of annoyed that she'd snuck it all in there, but at the same time really glad. "Quickly, before I go shower. And wipe that smug look off your face."

She squeaked and said quickly, "Straighten your hair, smoke your eyes, go with the weird purply-gray nail-polish, and wear the necklace the captain gave you for your last birthday." She paused for a second. "And leave the dress in the bathroom with you while you shower, the steam will sortof 'iron' it for you. Oh, and don't forget the watch the Captain gave you at graduation."

"I always wear that watch. Any other suggestions?" What she, and the rest of the world didn't know was that the watch was tagged with a tracking dot, accurate to within 10 feet, anywhere on the globe. He gave it to me to protect me, there's some fancy function that kicks in when I stop moving or the watch goes cold and it activates an emergency system with the police. Basically, if I don't take it off, he doesn't know where I am, though I think he could activate the dot from the outside. It's a safety precaution that I submit to, simply because it makes him worry less.

"Crap. Yes. You need a bag, but I didn't pack one for you. Ask one of your room-mates if they can lend you a small clutch in black or silver. Doesn't matter the shape." She said and then went quiet.

"Hey, Lorine." I said, realizing I'd been antsy with her.

"Yes?"

"Thanks. You're a lifesaver." I smiled and I could hear her pause. "I love you, Lorine."

"You better." She said with a laugh. "I love you, too, Beka. Go knock Mr. Armani's loafers off."

"Roger that. Ten-four. Tell Mrs. Todie I'll see you this weekend." I said grabbing everything I'd need and getting ready to hang up.

"Keep me posted," she said happily, hanging up the phone. I was about to enter the bathroom when the phone beeped with a text message. Now what?

"I WANA C HOW U LOOK. SEND ME PIX!" –Lorine.

I'd probably do it, but I didn't tell her. Let her be a bit surprised. Quick shower, lilac bath gel, perfume from cosmetics bag, didn't really pay attention to label, smokey shadow around the eyes, a little smudged liner (which I hate putting on, by the way), mascara which made my kindof brown colored lashes super long and a little darker. Some sort of colored lip-gloss, again, didn't pay attention, just sortof figured Lorine had gotten it right. It took me a few minutes to dry and straighten my hair, but it takes Diona like a half hour to get the straightening done cuz her hair is so curly, which I hate about her. The lucky duck. I just had to straighten the ends which made it pin straight.

I practically dived into the dress, but kept the scarf and shoes off until I had to leave. I stepped back into the living room and knocked on Olivia's door.

"Open," she said and I popped my head in. "Nice."

"Thanks. You wouldn't happen to have a black or silver clutch purse, would you?" I said, repeating what Lorine had described.

"Uh, yeah. Gimme a sec." She said and opened her closet. She looked at my outfit a couple of times and then dug around a bit more. She pulled out a black clutch that was slightly longer and sortof curved instead of square. Perfect. Even my fashion-challenged self could tell that.

"Perfect!" I said, scooting into her room. She went back to her desk and emptied the contents of the bag on her desk. Eyedrops, lipgloss, and some tissues fell out. Even a little moist-towlette in one of those aluminum foil packets.

"Hmm," she muttered, checked the back of the packet. "Yeesh. That's expired." She dumped it in the trash and went to her bedside table and pulled out …..

"Livvy, I don't think I'm gonna need that." I said, shutting the door behind me while she put the tiny foil packet with its lascivious latex contents into the side pocket of the purse.

"Hun," she said looking at me, "In that dress, you're better safe than sorry." She looked again and popped a second foil packet into the purse. "Trust me on this one, Beka. Keep that and 20 bucks in your purse. The former if you get lucky. And the latter if lucky tells you to get your own ride home." She extends the purse to me. Drat you for being right. But I'm not getting lucky. Hell, I'll be lucky if Mr. Mob decides not to throw my carcass off the Ohio Street bridge.

"Thanks, Olivia."

"Dish, tomorrow, and I'll consider it thanks." She said with a smile.

"I'm not getting lucky."

"No, but I wanna know his name. I don't think I've ever seen you so dressed up before." She pushed the purse at me and got back to her computer. "Have fun."

I scampered back across to my room and looked at my watch then out the window. 15 minutes to d-day. I packed the purse: zip drive, gloss, id, keys, phone, tic-tacs, and 20 bucks. Just in case. Window check—no one. 10 minutes to go. I set the digital camera on top of the dresser and posed once, twice, three times and promptly uploaded and sent pictures to Lorine's email. Shoes on, scarf on. Window check—7 minutes to go. Lights on the street but no car in view. I send Lorine a text to check her email. I check myself in the mirror and am momentarily pissed that I don't have a full length mirror. 3 minutes to go. Window check shows two boys getting into a Honda civic. Phone beeps, txt message from Lorine.

"UR A KNOCKOUT!!"

One minute to go. I pace over to the window and a black limo pulls up. That one is probably my ride. At least he got an address from his digging. I head out and toward the elevator. As I walk past, two guys on my floor stop to gape at me. I press the down-button and wait. A guy carrying laundry gets out and nearly spills the laundry bucket all over the floor. The dress is most certainly a success.

I take the elevator down and out through the common room. One more guy rubs his eyes and sortof floats after me, eyes misty. I pause at the door and check my self in the glass. I look good, I tell myself, trying to really feel like the knockout Lorine says. The black dress is a tight sheaf of material that holds everywhere, delicate sweetheart neckline leads into two off-the shoulder sleeves. The dress holds tightly until about mid-thigh where it flares away just a tiny bit so I can walk. My legs look about 100 miles long, especially in the heels. All the colors, from the almost-my-eyes-colored scarf to the silver stitching, gives me the feel of some otherworldly creature.

Time check. 7:01 pm. I walk out the door and a driver exits the limo and comes around to open the door for me. I can see Rosto inside. I pause, just to inhale and clear my mind. Dangerous, peeps a voice from way back in my mind, he's so dangerous for you. I figure that's the part of my mind that insists I be good. My ID tells my superego to shut it, Oh he's dangerous all right. He'll turn you into a very, very, bad girl. You can just tell it from those hands. I hoped my super-ego and my ID won't be fighting all night in my head. The driver offers his hand as a balance as I slip into the limo. I thank him when he closes the door and he gives me a smile.

If you've ever been in a limo, there's two rows of seats: one that is along the row of windows, and one that is perpendicular to it, following the trunk. Rosto was in the closest long seat to the row adjacent to the trunk. He didn't look up when I got it. I looked out the window to see where the driver had gone. From the tinted windows I could see a great number of people plastered to the common room windows, mainly guys, watching the dark black limousine.

"They're looking at you," Rosto says, noticing the direction of my glance. He's looked up from the stuff in front of him.

"Perhaps," I say, smoothing my dress and adjusting my shawl, "Limo's are exciting, no matter who is in them. I turn my eyes to him, and he gives a smile, recognizing the jab to his person. The car begins to move and I tuck one ankle behind the other and slide them to the side. Rosto's eyes catch the motion.

"Perhaps." He says, still looking at my legs. "You look absolutely lovely," an appraising grin crosses his mouth. "Stunning."

I smile graciously, as though getting the outfit together was nothing. "You did say to dress nicely," I fold my hands over my clutch like a proper lady. Remembering my manners, which were practically beaten into me by Miss Todie, I compliment his appearance as well, "You look very distinguished in that suit. Roguish, but dashing." I feel miss Todie would approve of my manners. She made sure to teach all of us basic behavior, etiquette, and also the sort of high-end rules and manners that are usually taught to debutantes. You'd never believe how many rules there are about how you can eat, dress, speak, sit, even walk, in polite company.

"Thank you, it's one of my favorites," he runs a hand fondly over a black lapel. I look the suit up and down: the shirt is a pale buttery gold color with a bold brass pinstripe in it. The brass pinstripe is picked up by the shiny bronze color of his tie, and the black suit has two buttons that are either gold, or gold colored. Either way, the metallics tie it together nicely. "Are you hungry?" He asks me, leaning back into his seat.

"Famished," I admit.

"Thirsty?" he asks, and points to the mini-bar. "Something to tide you over until we get there?"

"Thank you, but no. I don't drink spirits," I say noting the Grey Goose and Captain Morgan in the bar.

"You wouldn't have to," he says with a murmur, pouring himself abit of the vodka with what must have been tonic-water. "Your eyes seemed to be made of ghosts," he says it and looks directly into my eyes, his dark brown eyes were staring at me in way that unnerved me. Pools of glossy dark-brown, so dark it was almost black, black shadows you could get lost in, a deep still black water. "Forgive me," he says jerking his gaze away from mine, and repositioning himself back into the seat. His coat catches an inch-thick manila folder. Aha, the bet. Well, I've seen that folder before. My social worker, my dean, and even the police have one exactly like it. Nothing new in there. I smile to myself seeing it.

"Yes," he says lifting it up, "I brought the research with me," he hands over the folder and I flip through it quickly. There's nothing new in it. Nothing I haven't already seen. Lazy research.

"Pretty thorough," I tell him, "If a bit, bland." I put the folder down and put my purse on top of it.

"Not really. I find you fascinating. If it hadn't been for a few lucky breaks, you'd have ended up on my radar, and in my world. Besides, this gives me an easy look into your likes and dislikes." He smiles, smug that he's found so much.

"And?"

"And I see you haven't brought much with you," he grins so very wickedly, believing now I'm going to tell him all my hacking secrets. No chance in hell, blondie.

I open up my purse and dig out the zip drive with the information I found on him. I hand it to him. He looks at it. "Only because I didn't want to get a papercut on the 800 page file the CPD has on you. Not to mention the billions upon billions of megabytes of information the FBI has on you."

He looks at the disk. "No."

"Yes. And that's only the stuff that wasn't labeled as 'classified'" I say leaning back into my seat and looking at my nails.

"How did you…." He stammers then shuts his mouth, looking at the disk.

"Spent all day in archives. What an absolute night-mare. Tony's got his work cut out for him. I mean, there's just boxes and boxes of stuff on you and your friends. And it's all copies. The FBI won't let the CPD handle the originals for some reason or another. And Tony, poor guy, spends half his day feeding stuff into the quickie scanner so that they can have a digital copy of all that stuff. Still. I mean, it takes longer to insert videos, pictures, and just hour upon hour of tape transcripts into digital data." I wondered if I should keep listing all the stuff I found and helped Tony sort through. I opted for a different option. "Mind you, this is all non-classified information. I asked Tony if there was a way to look at the classified stuff and he called a buddy of his who works for the FBI, and the absolutely huge records of stuff the FBI has on you was so obscene it made Tony swear. He even lied, made the number smaller. Still, it's a lot. I don't know why they haven't arrested you yet?"

"Well," Rosto coughed, finally catching up with me and putting the zip-drive down, "I take it I can keep this?"

"If you want," I tell him and toss him the folder as well, "Keep that too," I tell him and he lays both down on the seat next to him.

"I see I've been bested. Pizza, movie, and ice-cream, without cronies it is." There was silence for a moment and I looked out the window. A car switched lanes when we did, following us onto the expressway ramp. It switched lanes whenever we did. On the das, visible through the glass, was a police siren, turned off, but still there. Being tailed. Just in Case. Grr.

"May I ask you a question?" Rosto said, taking a sip of his drink.

"You may ask me whatever you like," I said politely.

"How much did you read?"

"Everything." I said, sweetly. The FBI and the CPD are both really thorough. I know everything down to the amount of girlfriends he's had, heck, I even know what he likes on his pizza. (6 and meat-lovers special).

"And the classified material?" he asked.

"What about it?" I noticed the car again. They really need to back off. Or at least be less obvious. I'm not wired, that much is visible because of the dress, but they don't have to make me look suspicious.

"Did you read any of the classified material?"

"Maybe yes, maybe no." I say simply and with a smile. "It is, after all, classified. I might not have the security clearance to look at it, and even if I did, I wouldn't be allowed to tell you." The truth was I'd seen some stuff that had once been classified, but it wasn't really recent. I cannot wait for the freedom of information act to go through. It gives the government agency's some sortof unified system, so the FBI knows about CPD cases, and the CPD, if they get an FBI suspect, won't be too surprised when the feds show up at their guard house, and can arrest the perp for all crimes, not just CPD crimes. But alas, that's not for another few years.

"You are truly, very skilled." Rosto said, taking a much larger drink from his glass. "I've never seen quite so extra-ordinary a hacker. Not one with such clout with the local law enforcement." The limo crossed lanes, getting ready to exit Lake shore drive (or LSD as we locals called it). I felt myself stiffen at the hacker comment.

I didn't say anything, mainly because there was nothing to really comment on. I couldn't very well say 'thank-you' at being called a hacker.

"I take it most people don't know about your skills?" Rosto asked as he reached over and put a hand on my bare knee. I ignored the hand and looked at him.

"Dad knows. Some of my friends. A few of the officers with whom I worked with." I said quietly, realizing that what I do is just as illegal as some of the stuff Rosto does. I hide it: it's my dirty little secret. "Miss Todie and my siblings only know that I'm good with computers."

"Your file says your father is a chief of police. Does he accept your hackerness?" he asks it and I can see he wants to double-check the file, but doesn't.

"It's practically why he adopted me. It's my job now." I said, noticing Rosto's eyebrow pop up, regal-looking as all heck.

"But you aren't a cop yourself," he clarified.

"Nope. No badge. No gun—though I am registered to use a firearm. No tax-cuts. I work, un-officially, with their crime lab and their criminalists and forensic techs. My work is, for now, volunteer stuff. Checking up on dead-beat dads, internet or kiddie porn, and all that other 'small crime' that doesn't get handled by the police until the last moment." I looked back at him, and saw he was surprised.

"You aren't paid? You don't officially work there. If evidence you found is ever brought up," he let the question hang.

"It's not. It's registered as either Archie's or Leon's findings. I tell them what I did, they throw in some technical jargon which throws off even the most techno-savvy judge. Simplify and it matches my report: easy to digest and no-one's the wiser." It was wrong to do, but for now it had to be done. Most of the people I nabbed were headed for the slammer, and no judge or jury was going to let them go on the technicality that I had done the work and not Archie. How would they know?

"Why not just hire you and pay you?" he asked, too interested for my liking. I imagine if I'd gotten onto his radar, I'd probably be one of the best paid and best taken care of hackers in the city, if not the country.

"They can't. I have little work history, no degree, no license as a criminalist, nothing. No credentials. My only link is that the captain's my dad. He cannot hire me when there are people with a degree looking for the same job. So, for now, he keeps Archie and Leon, and me as a 'volunteer.'"

"And you can do basically everything they do?"

"Not everything. But, enough," I couldn't explain it in detail. Mainly because, I don't know what is 'everything.'

"What about warrants? To do your job, would you need to be claimed as executor of the warrant?" I was unsurprised when Rosto threw in the legalese, I mean, clout with a judge, of course he knows legal-jargon.

"No. Technically." I said, knowing I was about to get a lot more questions.

"No?" he asked, surprised, "Define, 'technically.'"

"I'm not a cop. I'm a civilian. Civilians don't execute warrants. Cops do. Because I hack, I usually work without one. On the off occasion that I do need a police program, I run with Archie's or Leon's login and password and simply let them know what I've done" I tell him. What I don't tell him is that I often erase all evidence that I'd done anything, so no-one would know I'd even touched the computer.

Silence.

"That is illegal." He says with a laugh, sipping his drink.

"Says the mob-boss." I say boldly, and he looks at me. It's the first I've called him a mob-boss to his face. He nods, accepting the title.

"Who would know better?" he says with a smile.

"Cops are pretty up on what's illegal. So are lawyers. Sometimes more than mob-bosses." I point out and he acquiesces with a nod. We turn onto Michigan Avenue and slow because traffic is thick with cars and cabs and people. Downtown is an expensive mess of people at night.

"This restaurant is very good," he says pointing to it through the window, "Typically, French haute cuisine comes in very heavy sauces, tiny portions, and huge price tags. They don't do the sauces and tiny portions, but the price is enough to make most people squirm." He chuckled, thinking of something to himself.

"I hate to say this feet from the restaurant door, but you didn't have to do this. I would've been okay with Venetto's or the Olive Garden." I say quietly as the car makes its way to a parking strip up the street and stops. I look out the back-window and see the cop car.

"So you noticed it, too." Rosto says with a smile.

"They've been following us since my dorm," I say, feeling ice pool into my gut. Will he get mad?

"I feel sorry for them. Wasting gas and time to watch us drive and eat. They'll learn nothing new." Rosto tosses back the last of his vodka-tonic as the driver come around to open the door. I step out, again very careful and smooth. I step sideways to check my scarf and Rosto exits. He offers me his elbow and I slip my hand through it and we walk the half block to the restaurant door.

People pause.

It's unusual. Rosto has an air of regalness about him. Like you can tell he's important and people should want to know who he's with and what he's wearing. I half-expected to see paparazzi to come out from behind a car or shrub or something screaming, "Rosto! Rosto! Who's this!?! Who are the two of you wearing!?" But they didn't; still people wanted to slow down and watch as we passed.

We walked into the restaurant and were immediately escorted to a table with the most perfect view of the park. Millennium Park, complete with high-tech fountain, listening area, stage, and the ever unusual silver "bean" officially called 'Cloudgate.' It all twinkled with lights, people, and the reflections of the city. While Rosto spoke with a waiter about drinks, I sent Ersken a text message.

"SO FAR SO GOOD. COPS FOLLOWED US. RESTAURANT ON MAG MILE. GR8 VIEW."

No text back. I put my phone back in the bag and in my lap where I could feel it vibe is someone did call.

"And for the mademoiselle?" asked the waiter and I looked up. "What would you like to drink?"

"She'll have the same as me," Rosto said, giving me a half wink with one eye. I nodded.

"Yes. And if you could bring a bottle of sparkling water," I said, accepting the menu the waiter offered me. There were no prices on the menu which meant it was probably really expensive. The waiter still stood there.

"Would you like to order now, or after I come back?" the waiter asked.

"We can order now," Rosto said, and I felt myself panic a bit. I hadn't even read the first line of text in the menu!

Rosto ordered a shank of lamb that had stewed and simmered for several hours and some sort of salad. The waiter looked at me.

"What's the house specialty?" I asked, putting the menu down, "Everything looks so good I can't decide." That was a trick Miss Todie had taught me, 'When you don't know what to order, or don't have enough time, pretend you can't decide then go with whatever sounds good from the house.'

"Well, for the vegetarienne," he said it with an accent, "our ratatouille is unrivaled, except perhaps by the french. If you are not ze vegeterienne, we also have a beautiful coq au van, made in the traditional style, and a bouillabaisse that would make a French mama cry. And of course, escargot." I nodded, smiling as I listened. If I remembered my food network correctly, escargot is snails. Yuck. Bouillabaisse is fish-stew-pudding. Double yuck. And Coq au van is some sort of rooster dish, traditionally made with two parts wine and two parts chicken blood. Gack.

"Ratatouille" I said, deciding that a healthy serving of vegetables served in a rustic sauce would go quite nicely. The waiter nods and jots it down. He disappears. When he's gone I lean over to Rosto, "What are we drinking?"

"Watered wine," he says, pulling the napkin out of it's ring and onto his lap. I follow suit. "A lovely red from the Bordeux region."

"I'm underage, and you know that."

"Tell me you've never had any wine and I'll tell the waiter to come back with something non-alcoholic for you." He pauses and looks at me. Very well, I tell him with my expression. "They don't know you're age, and the tannins in the wine are good for you. It won't kill you."

You've had watered wine before, Beka. Even a beer or two. The captain let you try it earlier so you could know your limits. One glass of wine certainly won't kill you and if it's watered down and served with food, it'll slow the intake of the alcohol. Think back to chemistry. Most wine is 40-proof, that's 20% alcohol. One, eight ounce glass of wine contains about 1 ½ ounces of alcohol. A watered glass will have half that much. That much alcohol absorbs in the blood at a rate of about .02 per hour. That means that with two glasses of wine, your BAC should be about .04 if even that much. Alcohol removes from the body at .015 an hour, judging by sex, height, and weight. Which means that even with two glasses you should be sober by oh, let's say, 10 o'clock. Rough estimate. I think.

"Beka?" Rosto asks, waving a hand before my eyes, "Where did you go?"

"Hmm? Sorry, my scientist brain took over," I say, hiding my behavioral flub by fixing my napkin. "Calculating the BAC of two glasses of watered wine."

"You should be sober again by 10 o'clock or so," Rosto says quietly and looks at my surprised face with a smile. Most people don't know the math or won't do the math. He continues. "Men absorb alcohol differently, even with the vodka-tonic and two glasses of wine, I should be sober just a little after you. But that doesn't matter, because you aren't driving. You're surprised?"

"Most people won't do the math, or don't know it," I stammered, still surprised.

"I did it a long time ago. I had to know exactly how much I can drink during dinner and still keep my wits about me. When I'm working, however, I don't drink. Period. Or I pretend to, putting apple juice or iced tea into a glass for white wine." He winks at me. I've done that.

"Clever," I say, looking at him over the centerpiece. The red carnations are garish and inappropriate for the season. I look around and notice none of the other tables have red carnations. They don't match the table linens of the dining room. Why do we have red? I thought, looking around again.

Because bugs may have a red light, which would be visible amongst the white, yellow and peach colored flowers on the other tables. Buggers. I look inside the flowers and fine the bug. It hasn't been turned on yet. Good. I break off the antennae and pull the little mic out.

"Something wrong with the flower arrangement?" he asks and I show him the microphone. Rosto frowns and waves for a waiter. "Remove these," he tells the man, "The scent is overpowering and the color is absolutely heinous for the tone of the evening."

"A different centerpiece, sir?" asks the new waiter.

"No, I like looking at my company, without obstructions in the way. Just leave the candles," he says very seriously and the man darts away with the floral arrangement. "I am sorry," he says to me. "Do you know if it was on?"

"No, they hadn't turned it on yet. They don't know your secret about the drinks." I wink at him. "Would you like me to drop my napkin to check under the table?"

"No, that won't be necessary, I've already felt under the table," he winks back and our original waiter returns with a tray of food.

"I apologize, monsieur, our decorator has no idea why the flowers were red. These appetizers are on the house," he placed the plate of appetizers down between us and disappeared again.

"I hadn't noticed the flowers," Rosto admits to me, "But I see you like your privacy as much as I do."

"It's not just that," I say, fiddling with my watch, "I like my privacy. But I'd also like it if people would trust my judgment. That mic was a purely FBI plant." I scoffed and rubbed my palms on my napkin.

"Would the CPD have used the right flowers?"

"The CPD would have trusted their agent to their job. But since it's not a job, they wouldn't have bothered." I say looking up at Rosto and he smiles genuinely at me, as though thankful for someone with sense.

"I just might keep you," Rosto says, looking quickly down at the appetizers, "Let's see what we've got here," he pulls a few of the bread and something appetizers onto his plate.

I try a little bit of everything, including what I think is caviar. Rosto eats his, but I can't swallow more than a half-bite of anything on the plate. I try not to let my obvious displeasure with the food show on my face.

"You're very polite," Rosto says carefully, picking up another crouton-caviar combo.

"The Captain's Wife," I explain, giving up on the food. "She got me when I was around ten. And although I was polite, I wasn't 'refined' enough for her. So I had to take a crash course in refinement, etiquette, and manners. I hated it, by dad promised I wouldn't have to be a debutante and said I could go to camp over the summer. So I learned." I watched as he bit into the caviar with gusto.

"How come the Captain is 'dad' but your foster mother is 'The Captain's Wife' or Miss Teodorie?" he asked, licking the very tips of his fingers. I wouldn't call him the kind of man who had a strong pout of a mouth. In fact, the lower lip was somewhere along average, and the upper was a bit thin. But his lips were pretty fascinating at that moment. They looked like they were really soft, especially with the little slick of oil from the caviar.

"Because, I had a mother," I say, and hope that it ends the discussion topic. My mom died. It sucks and it's sad, but she was and will always be my mom. The captain is the only father I know. Miss Todie is a nice lady, and clearly cares about us all, but she's more like a fussy aunt or older cousin. Not my mom.

"I apologize. Clearly you love the captain as your own father. He saved you, and he covers for you. You are inclined to return his protection with love and the devotion of a true daughter." He's quoting my reports. And he's psychoanalyzing. I hate psycho-analysis mainly because it attempts to rationalize behaviors which are generally irrational or illogical. Like love.

"Let's get something straight," I say, putting my hand down a bit forcefully on the table, "I was perfectly safe with the Librarian. Gershom Haryse didn't have to 'save' me from her. What he did was see brilliance and offered it a more advantageous place to grow." And that sounds a bit arrogant, I told myself and continued, glaring at Rosto. "He gave me a chance when no one else believed a kid in the system could amount to anything. He didn't 'save' me. As for the other thing: my dad does not 'cover' for me. He expects me to be cautious, to be logical and rational and reasonable. If I'm going to do something, like hack, for example, he expects me to know how to do that and leave no evidence that I'd done so. That way, he'll never have to risk his job, his income, and the livelihood of his family—my family—to bail my ass out of trouble. He trusts me not to mess up like that. Don't psychoanalyze me, or quote my shrinks. They have no idea why I do the things I do. I love the Captain because he's the only man who was ever a father to me. That's why I call him dad. That's what matters. The deep psychological why my shrinks try to get at, is all a load of bull. The fact that I call him dad is enough." I turn my eyes out the window, and focus on the bright moving lights outside.

Silence on Rosto's end. Good Job, Beka. You've scared the living daylights out of him. Freak that you are.

"You are absolutely right," Rosto says quietly, "I apologize for the psycho-babble. I don't like being analyzed either." We're quiet for a moment. I take a bite of some Pâté en croute, and practically spit it out.

"This tastes like the liverwurst we used to train our Goldendoodle." I mutter and force the mouthful down and leave the bread on my plate.

"You have a goldendoodle?" he asks, trying to hold back a laugh. He's failing miserably. "Try the bruschetta." And I take the darn thing and put it on my plate.

"No. Dad has a goldendoodle. I have a cat. Remember?" I say, trying a bit of what looks like tomatoes. It's not half bad so I wolf it down.

"Makes sense. They are quiet, clean, and keep to themselves," he trails off and thinks about something. He looks at me suspiciously and checks his pocket and pulls out the zip-drive. He looks at me. "You doctored it. Not this, but your file. All the information in there is information anyone could find. In fact, I'll bet that there isn't a single bit of information on you that you haven't already cleared. You knew exactly how much was out there on you. That's cheating."

Oh is that what's got your boxers in a twist. Hehe, I was wondering how long it might take you to figure that out.

"Not really," I say, barely holding back a laugh at the look on his face. "Because I didn't know how much information was available on you. The bet was still good. When I looked you up the first time, there was only one page. I didn't know there'd be an 800+ page file on you."

"I'm a mob-boss. It was certainly going to be bigger than yours. You knew exactly how big your file would be. All you had to do was find one page more on me and you'd have won. Not fair." He said, the lower lip extending in a bit of a pout.

"That file is lazy searching. You could've found out more if you tried. I mean really tried." I say and he looks away, sulky, which was sexy as all get-out. "You aren't going to tell me you found that info by yourself?"

"Well, no. I have help. Buy my info didn't come from a centralized data-base. You just had to hit print." Obviously Rosto didn't like losing.

"You had help. I had to walk into a lab and dig through boxes of hard-copy evidence because I didn't have the clearance to pull the digital copies from the FBI. Do you know how much scanning I had to do to fill that disk? I won, sugar, whether it was fair isn't the object up for debate. It's still pizza, no cronies, and a movie." When I see his mouth twitch, I fight the urge to smack him.

Silence. I could see him fight the smile.

"You want to have pizza, don't you?" I ask, realizing the reason he's smiling.

"I do. I just wanted to make sure you did too," he gestures for the waiter. "These appetizers are unappetizing. Bring us our dinner, please." He says and the waiter whisks the plates away mumbling apologies.

About halfway through our food, and around my second glass of the watered wine, my phone buzzed. I pulled it out of the purse and saw it had registered a text message. Dad.

"WHERE ARE YOU?"

I texted back quickly: "DINNER-DATE. EVERYTHING GOOD XCEPT THE FOOD. I'M DOWNTOWN." I hit send then put the phone back in the bag.

"Room-mate?" Rosto asked, putting his fork and knife down.

"My dad. Ersken texted earlier," I tell him, putting the bag down in my lap. "I have to check in or they get twitchy. Ersken and I have been friends forever, so whenever one of us goes out, we're each others check-in. Just to be safe. When your dad's a cop, like mine is, you know all the bad stuff that can happen just out on a regular date."

"Very smart. Both of them are just showing they care," Rosto moves his food around on his plate.

"You're phone has been oddly quiet," I comment, picking up a zucchini with my fork.

"I'm ignoring it. There are undoubtedly about 100 messages in there from Aniki and Brian telling me that you're wired, or you have explosives in your bag, or some sort of weapon-dart-blow-gun type thingy. I'll go through their messages later." He says, looking up with a wistful smile. No one checking in because they care about him, but because they care about the business.

I open the purse and quickly show him the contents, "Keys, ID, gloss, phone, mints, and 20 bucks," I say leaving out the contents of the side pocket. "No incendiary devices here." He doesn't look in the bag, just glances at it.

"Don't forget the condom in the pocket," he says with a straight face. I know he didn't look that long, or that closely. My shock must register on my face because he says, "you thought I couldn't see it? That ring shape is a dead give-away." A smile twitches in the corner of his mouth but he manages to keep a straight face, "I though you said you wouldn't sleep with me."

"The purse belongs to my room-mate. She insisted on the latex as a precaution. Better safe than sorry. You're lucky it's my room-mates purse and not Goodwin's. She'd have stuck a revolver in there." I say, feeling my cheeks burn pink. How the heck did he see that from just a glance in my purse! "And I'm not sleeping with you."

"Yet," he says over his wine.

"You're that sure of yourself?" I ask, leaning back in my chair, surprised by his ego. The nerve of him. Sortof.

"I'm hard to resist," he says with a cocky smile. "Except for virgins. They tend to have nerves of steel around me. It's rather annoying, actually. You aren't a virgin are you?" he asks, very quickly and slyly, hoping to irk me into a response.

"I'm not answering that," I say, having a sip of water to clear my head. Way in the back of my own head, my ID says, Beka's no virgin. And you, Mr. Mob-Boss, look very yummy indeed. We could have some serious fun. The kind of fun she didn't get to have with Parker Ames. Mmmmmm. I tell my ID to zip it.

"Very well," he says and his eyes take on a gloss, as though he's thinking something really naughty as well. Well at least your ID is as bad as mine.

"I'm done," pushing my plate out, "I couldn't eat another bite." There's a few bites left, but I cannot for the life of me eat them. If Pounce was here, I'd give it to him. Rosto pushes his own plate forward as well, only there's not much left on his plate.

"Care for a walk?" he wipes his mouth with his napkin and puts it next to his plate. A sign to the very carefully trained waiter that Rosto is done and would like the check soon. "To help this digest. Once up and down the Mag-mile?"

"Sounds good to me," actually, it doesn't, considering high heels make for really slow walking, but that's okay because I can always take the shoes off. Rosto pays the check and refuses to let me see it and we left the restaurant. We were on the street and about to start walking when I think Rosto noticed my shoes and opted for leading me across the street to Millenium Park instead. Once past the fountain, and the Bean, we got to the expanse of grass bordered by big cement walls, which could be used as a bench. Lovely.

"Those shoes must hurt," he said, perching himself on the wall-bench.

"Actually," I tell him, sliding the shoes off, "During graduation and stuff, I learned to walk in them, to the point where they didn't hurt. Ten parties later, I could practically run in these. I'm out of practice, what with summer." I say and stand in the grass.

"You know, what you just did is a misdemeanor. Removing your clothes in a public park. Just full of illegal behavior aren't you?" He takes the shoes and puts them on the wall-bench next to him.

"Considering how high those shoes are, and that they torture my poor feet, their removal is an act of mercy. Not a misdemeanor." I squish my toes in the grass and look up to the sky and the city and lights.

Rosto picks up one shoe and runs a finger down the heel. "These should be illegal." He picks up the other one. "Apart from the fact that they inflict torture on women's feet, which is against the Geneva conventions, these spikes could be weapons." He shudders and puts them back down on the wall next to him.

"Yup," I say and relish in the grass. "Oh, Rosto, listen!" I say and run over to the wall where he's sitting. He smiles goes quiet.

"Music. It must be the last of the summer music festivals. Or perhaps a semi-public concert. What is that? Greek music?" he asks, listening a little harder, and tilting his head like a bird.

"No, not Greek. I think it's middle eastern. Could be Indian," I say and listen as well.

"Judging by those pipes, I'd agree with the former. And those drum rolls are certainly not Indian." He stands up on the wall-bench and looks over toward the stage area. "They've got a belly-dancer. Several, in fact. I think I recognize one of them, we should go over there." He says and looks down at me. The smile says he's joking.

"Get down," I tug on his suit and he comes down. "I've always thought belly-dancing was really cool. I always wanted to learn it, but decided mixed martial arts was more useful."

"Belly dancing is very useful," Rosto says seriously, and gives me a wink. "Very useful. At least to women," he says and fakes a shoulder shimmy. It looks ridiculous and I laugh out loud.

"Were you trying to do this?" I ask, and roll one shoulder so that the sleeve falls a little lower. "Or perhaps you could show me how you party in the club," I say, and give a shake of my hips trying really hard to imitate Shakira. I think I failed, miserably.

"I fully believe all women are born knowing how to belly-dance. They just need to remember how to do it," Rosto says, hopping off the bench and lifting my hand up, above my head, "bring it down," he orders and I let my hand come down, very slowly. About halfway, he stops it, and orders, "now do that shoulder roll." I indulge him, and give him a snake hands.

"Like that?" I ask, and do the same thing with the other hand.

"Beautiful. See. All women know it. It's natural." He hops back onto the bench and lets me skip through the grass, occasionally swaying on the spot to the music. I listen closely, listening for the pipes and drums. The drums are too fast and I can't move to them, but the pipe almost slinks upward, like tendrils of smoke or burning incense.

"It probably is," I tell him, leaning on the bench next to him. "Dancing that involves shoes, especially special shoes like ballet, aren't natural at all. Did you know, that ballet forces the anatomy to line up in ways which aren't organic? Especially in the foot. I spoke with a coroner once, when I was 15 or 16. She said ballet leaves structural damage on the bones, especially if you've been in toe-shoes. There's often damage to the supinary spine and stress fractures on the lower leg-bones and in the Acetabulum in the Ilium.

"Do you speak to medical examiners regularly?" he asked, passing a knuckle on my shoulder. "It would appear that, if a ballerina was in toe shoes, the majority of the damage would be in her feet."

"I do and it is. I saw the bones in an x-ray. You should see the stress fractures in the proximal and distal phalanges of the first toe. It would make you shudder. Plus that stuff is visible like, a hundred years from now, even if you only danced for a short while." I look at the knuckle that is passing over my shoulder and down my arm.

"Do you know what all those words mean? Supinary spine, distal and proximal phalanges, and what was that other word? Ilya…" he asks, and looks me in the eye, very sweet confusion playing all over his features.

"Acetabulum in the Ilium. It means your hip socket. And the phelanges just means the outer bones in the fingers and toes, followed by the metatarsals or metacarpals." I'm showing off, but the confusion in his face is sweet. "I could discuss a lot about osteology and the study of bones, mainly because I listen to or explain lectures for my dad." It's true, but I don't think Rosto cares, the look on his face is one of keep talking, please.

"And does your dad listen so intently?" Rosto says, and his knuckle changes to his fingertip and goes back up my arm.

"Yes, but there is different intent in his eyes," I whispered and leaned toward him and his finger traces circles in my collarbone.

"No," he whispers in my ear, "It is what we see. He sees his good daughter. Undoubtedly he sits through these lectures so he doesn't look absolutely confounded when the coroner talks to him. But I," he whispers it like it hurts him, "I see a wind sprite, with eyes like ghosts and skin like tendrils of fog. I see a creature who embodies the air. A cool wind, a warm breeze, and a fiery storm. I imagine you can see everything, touch everything, go wherever the wind takes you; you can squeeze into the tiniest crack and cool a soul enflamed," it's so poetic, so perfectly, spontaneously, poetic, I can hear myself gasp. "But, you are a spirit of the wind, and does the wind not terrify as well? Do you have the powers of the cyclone, to wreak havoc and devastation wherever you go? Because you've destroyed my sanity since the moment I laid eyes on you." His hand flattens on my neck and pulls me toward him. I'm inches from his skin, a breath from his mouth, and I feel like I'm in a play. Like I'm Juliet, and oh god if he's not Romeo I'll hurt someone.

"Perhaps," I whisper, because I know, in that moment, words really didn't matter, "I am a wind-sprite. My gift is the air gift, where there is air, there am I. Every whisper is caught by me, and only I can truly know it," I wave my hand as though casting a spell in the air by him, and he catches it, holding it, and I feel the tug of war playing between us. Enemies, lovers, friends, foes, cat and mouse, dog and cat, terrier and rat. The complexities rage between us.

Rosto, with his blonde hair, pale skin; he is light and brightness. Laughter and fun. But with those eyes and that dear low dangerous rumble, he is darkness and shadow. Not so much the absence of light, but that which hides behind the light. That shadow is mysterious, deep, and above all, wild. It is cool, unmerciless, power. He's standing so close, and I can tell he's going to kiss me. But will it be blinding and bright or dark and sultry or something else altogether. My mouth is open and I'm breathing just a little bit harder, because I want that kiss.

I can see his eyes spark and flare and then his mouth is suddenly on mine; cool and calculated. The first touch of our lips is shockingly cold, almost like he's stealing the air from my lungs. He is. The coldness makes me gasp even more so than his sneaky hands, which have tugged me so close and have yet to wrap around me. But I let him take the kiss and I fall into it. His mouth is so precise, each movement cutting through me and I fall into the darkness, feeling the snare of his mouth, like he's trying to catch me, hunt me, each movement is a fierce and rushing nip and bite, like he's trying to keep me there, lure me to him.

Just when I can't think I can fall any further into his darkness, when I feel like he's swallowed me completely, his hands move to my neck and chin, a gentle tug which pulls me upward and toward him. Like he's hungry and wants more. The mouth which is biting and cold, warms and I can taste the wine on his breath, and each pause for air is like a sip, a warm spicey sip, an although his teeth still nip at my lips, it's more like a bit into pie, than the tearing bites from earlier. If there was a color for this kiss it would be something between wine, and cider.

I grab at his lapels as the kiss changes yet a second time. This time the heat becomes unbearable and sears through me. My hands are at his waist, and at his neck, practically clutching his throat. I can't let go. I have to see this kiss through to the end. And I do, for in the end, after falling through darkness, and blood-red wine, I'm blinded by the brightness of the kiss, and I gasp again, because it is so bright, and it's like someone has stoked a fire to fever pitch. And the warmth that floods my veins isn't red, isn't even a sunny gold, but it's white bright moonlight flooding my veins and I never thought the moon could be warm but it is, and I know it is because Rosto's kiss proves it.

And just like moonlight fades, just like clouds cover and veil the moon's brilliant silvery white, Rosto's kiss loses it's intensity and his mouth detaches from mine. And I can see in his eyes, pupils wide, eyes dark as sin, the faint glitter of surprise. He wasn't expecting this kiss. Maybe he'd done it to seduce me, to get me on his side, but this, this was one of those moments where the feeling is just too raw, too pure, to be fake, or planned. He's breathing hard and I can tell he's processing, but like me, he's fallen into something neither of us can really explain.

"It's like falling," he whispers, this time his voice is hoarse, and the pupils are so wide, if I were a doctor I'd worry. The moonlight, and the light of the city shone on our skin and where a moment ago it was warm, it's cooling now, because our skin was warm. "If this was what it felt like, to fall away from grace," he presses a half kiss to my mouth and to each of my eyes, "I should probably thank them."

"Who?" I ask, kissing him back.

"Adam and Eve," he says, pulling back. He looks at me very intently, "I never though falling could feel so good." He shook his head, fixed his hair and his tie and readjusted my shawl. He was reining himself in. He handed me my shoes, but when my hands touched his, I saw the fire blaze behind his eyes. Not quite done, are we?

"That car ride is going to be agony for you, isn't it?" I ask, slipping my hand around his waist as we walk. He put one arm around my shoulders.

"Care to put me out of my misery?" he asks, pecking kisses into my hairline.

"Not just yet. Or whatever will we do on our next date?" I ask, quite playfully. Rosto's driver is drinking coffee at the edge of the park. He motions with a nod of his head toward the limo.

"Let's get you home, before the devil takes us both." He whispers and opens the door for me. We play footsie in the car, mainly him reaching over and running long expert hands up my legs to my knees, then back down to my ankles.

When he dropped me off, I practically ran to my room so I could type this up. And now I'm going to sleep, and dream of Rosto. And petal soft-lips, and clever hands, and dark eyes, and hair like gold, and if I sin in my dreams, then it's okay.

EIGHTEEN PAGES LATER.....I'M REALLY SORRY IT TOOK A WHILE TO POST. I WAS READING BLOODHOUND (THE ORIGINAL) AND PONDERING.....BUT PLEASE ENJOY!!

LADY WOLF!