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  “Traitor,” Stacie said to Moe.

  “Do you still talk to Lizzy? She was amazing on that show,” the waitress asked.

  “Her name’s Juliette. Lizzy was the character’s name,” Stacie explained.

  “She was so good on that show. And I just saw her last week in that new one, about the horse ranch that she is trying to save. She was in that one with Robert Redford. It was so great. He plays her dad who’s dying of cancer, but you don’t know that right away, and then she moves back home to help him run the ranch, and she falls in love with that one guy who plays Thor. Have you seen it? She’s amazing in it,” the waitress said.

  “I’m sure she is,” Stacie said.

  “Wow, this is so cool,” the waitress said. “Would you… Would you mind if I took a selfie with you?”

  Stacie sighed.

  “I’ll take it for you,” Moe said.

  Stacie glared.

  “That would be amazing. Thank you so much,” the waitress said, with glee in her eyes. She passed Moe her phone and Moe moved around the table to get a better angle.

  “Say pickle,” Moe said.

  “Pickle!” the waitress said, as Moe snapped the picture.

  She handed the phone back to the waitress, who then knelt next to the table. “So, does Lizzy ever come and visit you here? Do you two ever hang out?” she asked.

  But before she could get an answer, a man placed a hand on her shoulder. The waitress turned to see Mike, the bartender and manager, standing over her. In his other hand, he was supporting a tray of drinks. “Hey, Jamie. Why don’t we give these two women some space to enjoy their meal,” he said. His deep voice had the unique ability to command attention and ease tension at the same time.

  “Oh my gosh,” the waitress said, standing up. “I’m so sorry. I got completely carried away. I’ll go and put your order in right now.”

  “Thanks, Jamie. And I’ve already got their drinks,” Mike said, as the waitress left. Turning to Stacie and Moe, Mike said softly so he wouldn’t be overheard, “I’m so sorry. That was a real pickle.”

  “I was scared we were never going to get out of it,” Moe said, nodding.

  “You two are assholes,” Stacie said, crossing her arms.

  “Alright, another beer for you,” Mike said, placing a heavy glass filled with dark amber liquid in front of Moe. “And for you, Ms. Celebrity, a martini. Clean, wet, straight up, and stirred, with Beefeater,” he said, placing an extra-large martini in front of Stacie.

  Stacie picked it up and took a sip.

  “Am I forgiven for the pickle crack?” Mike asked.

  Stacie took another sip and said, “Maybe.”

  Mike looked at Moe, and she instinctively looked down. Her heart fluttered, and she bit her bottom lip. “You got any good cases you’re working on?” he asked.

  She looked up into his light brown eyes. They contrasted with his dark skin, making their soft color pop. “Nothing I can talk about. How long are you in town?” she asked.

  “Two months. Then I’ve got a climb up the Knife Edge trail on Mount Katahdin scheduled,” he said.

  “Where’s that?” Moe asked.

  “In Maine,” he said.

  “Staying stateside this time?” Stacie asked.

  “I’m heading to England in three months to do Scaffell Pike again. Katahdin is just something to do while I wait,” he said.

  “England? I bet that’s going to be beautiful,” Moe said.

  “The invitation stands,” Mike said. “Anytime you want to come with me, you’re more than welcome.”

  “I can’t leave. Thanks though,” Moe said, looking at her pink laces.

  “It’s an open invitation,” Mike said, and then, rubbing his head he added, “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to dinner. I should check in at the bar.”

  “Thanks, Mike,” Stacie called, as he walked away. Then she looked down her nose at Moneta and raised her left eyebrow.

  “What?” Moe asked defensively.

  Stacie took another sip of her giant martini.

  “I can’t just run off to climb a mountain,” Moe said.

  Stacie looked down her nose at Moe again.

  “Maybe someday, okay,” Moe said. “There’s just too much going on right now.”

  Stacie sipped her martini, again.

  “I mean, this case I’ve got is a real pickle,” Moe said.

  “It’s not funny,” Stacie chastised.

  “It’s a little funny,” Moe said with a devilish grin.

  “So, the case. Give me the details. Where does it rank on the Moneta scale?” Stacie asked.

  “It’s only a two,” Moe said. She took a drink of the fresh beer Mike had brought. It was heavier than her first one, but sweet. She liked it.

  “I’m sorry. I could tell you were hoping for more this morning,” Stacie said. Her compassion seemed genuine, but it was hard to tell with her.

  “It’s alright,” Moe said.

  Jamie the waitress quietly arrived with their plates of food and placed them down on the table. She wouldn’t even make eye contact, which Stacie seemed to revel in. Moe assumed the waitress’s attempts to be unobtrusive meant Mike had said something to her.

  “Thanks,” Moe said, as the waitress stepped away.

  “So, what are we working on?” Stacie said. She took the dressing she’d asked to be put on the side and dumped it on the salad, which made Moe smile.

  “The client demanded absolute secrecy, so I need you to fill out this paperwork before I can tell you,” Moe said, sliding a file folder across the table and picking at her French Fries.

  Stacie signed the document inside without reading it. “I don’t know why I have to sign this. Who am I going to tell? You’re my only friend,” Stacie said.

  “That’s not true,” Moe said.

  “Please. You know you’re the only person in the world I can stand,” Stacie said. She took a big bite of her salad and then said, as she chewed, “So am I like, your partner? Do I get a badge that I can pin to the inside of a jacket?” Stacie pretended to open a blazer and flash a badge at an invisible perp. “You better start talking, punk,” she said in a husky voice.

  “No,” Moe said, taking a sip of her beer.

  “Okay, fine. No badge. But seriously though. What’s my job?”

  Moe flashed a sly smile. “Let’s call you my intern,” she said. “You have to do everything I say. And I pay you in experience.”

  Stacie pursed her lips and thought. Then she said, “I’ll take it.”

  “And we start at eight in the morning, and you’ll have to be on time,” Moe said.

  “God. Eight? Fine. So what’s the case?” Stacie said, sipping her martini.

  “Catch a cheating husband with his mistress,” Moe said.

  Stacie clapped her hands with glee. “Oh. I’m so happy. This is going to be fabulous.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Moneta and Stacie sat on an old brown wooden bench. The slats behind them had printed on them in white letters, “Baltimore. The Greatest City in America.” The bench was a leftover from the Martin O’Malley Mayoral era, during which, it felt as if City Hall pronounced a new slogan for the city every year. Historically, the Baltimore had been known as Mob Town and then, Charm City. During the O’Malley years, it also became The City that Reads, The Believe City, The Star Spangled City, The Greatest City in America, and finally, without question the worst nickname of them all, the Get In On It City.

  Stacie sat with her legs crossed, bounced her foot, and sipped her coffee that was more cream and sugar than anything else. She was dressed in a black Under Amour tracksuit and black sunglasses. She was either going to work out at an emo gym or rob a bank. The outfit made Moneta smile. She was happy her friend had dressed for the occasion. Moe, in contrast, has chosen a comfortable pair of jeans and a black t-shirt that read, in simple white letters, “They call me Mister Tibbs!”

  The bouncing of Stacie’s foot increased. “How much longer do y
ou think we’re going to have to wait?” she asked, deliberately looking away from the rowhome a block-and-a-half to their left. It was a double-wide, four-story home – huge by downtown standards. The large floor to ceiling windows on the first floor indicated that it likely used to be some sort of storefront. Now it was home to Martha Kingsington-Ring, her husband Giuliano Ring, and their two daughters, Emerald and Sapphire.

  “He should be out any minute, if the agenda they gave me is real,” Moneta said.

  “So, give me all the juicy details. Who is this guy? Is he good looking?” Stacie asked, still refusing to look in the direction of the house.

  Moneta had spent the vast majority of her day yesterday researching her new client. If there was something online to read about Mrs. Kingsington-Ring and her trophy husband, Moneta had committed it to memory. “Well,” Moneta said, trying to decide which tidbit of information Stacie would relish most. “At thirty, he’s fifteen years younger than she is.”

  “You go, girl,” Stacie said, offering cheers to a nonexistent person with her paper cup.

  “Before becoming the kept man of Martha Kingsington-Ring, Giuliano was a professional soccer player. Good enough for the States, but not good enough to cut it overseas. They met seven years ago at some Hollywood party”

  “Ooo! Which one,” Stacie said, sitting up.

  “A post-premiere party for The Adventure of the Marzin Stone,” Moneta said.

  “That awful Rosie Decatur was the star of that one. She’s such a bitch. I met her once at an audition. We were going for the same part. She got it, of course. She can’t act for shit, but she’s got great tits,” Stacie said, leaning back on the bench again.

  That made Moneta chuckle. “Well, Giuliano was there as the date of some actress way too young for him and Martha was there as the date of the director. They hit it off and were married six months later. Then, came the kids. Emerald is five-and-a-half and Sapphire turns four in a month.”

  “They didn’t waste any time,” Stacie said.

  “All the money is Martha’s. Giuliano has a title and office at Kingsington Life, but, it doesn’t appear he’s actually responsible for anything. His profile on their corporate website describes his love of soccer and his marriage to Martha,” Moneta explained.

  It was Stacie’s turn to chuckle. “So, who do you think he’s banging?” she said.

  “No clue,” Moneta said honestly. “Outside of working out and going to fancy dinners with his wife, he doesn’t seem to have any interests or hobbies. He doesn’t even play pick-up soccer. But Mrs. Kingsington-Ring is certain that he is cheating and that he is going to try and hook-up with his mistress while she is out of town.”

  “Is that on the itinerary they gave you? Ten o’clock, brunch. Eleven-thirty, screw mistress,” Stacie teased.

  “According to his calendar, he should have left five minutes ago for the gym. His schedule claims he walks there every morning at nine,” Moneta said.

  “Well, looks like he is going off book. Momma leaves town, and he sleeps in. She must have him on a tight leash,” Stacie said, as she sipped her coffee. Moe liked that she was having fun.

  “My bet is she keeps everyone on a tight leash. I absolutely felt like I was on one when I met her,” Moe said.

  “You wouldn’t look good in a collar,” Stacie said. “You’re more a natural innocent beauty.”

  “Why thank you,” Moe said, tipping her coffee to Stacie. “I meant to tell you. I like the outfit. Very James Bond sporty.”

  “And get a look at this,” Stacie said, as she lifted her right foot to the bench. Pulling up her pant leg, she revealed a pistol in a small ankle holster.

  Fear rushed through Moe’s chest. “What in the hell?” she demanded.

  “I’m dressed to kill,” Stacie said, like she was delivering a line from a movie promo.

  Moe reached over and pulled her pants leg down. “I have a hard no guns rule! You’ve got to get rid of it,” she said. She couldn’t believe Stacie would be so reckless.

  “What? Why? What if we need it?” Stacie said, putting her leg down. She looked wounded.

  “Need it for what?” Moe challenged.

  “I don’t know. In case we have to protect ourselves or something.” Stacie crossed her arms in a pout.

  Moe waved her cell phone. “This is the only thing we need. We follow people. We take pictures. We help our clients figure things out. We leave the whole killing people in the street to the cops,” Moe said.

  “Back off, okay. I was just trying to help,” Stacie said.

  Moe wouldn’t back off. She’d seen too many dead bodies. She’d relieved too many last moments for the cops trying to figure out who the shooter was. She wanted nothing to do with guns. “Are you prepared to kill somebody? Are you going to shoot Giuliano Ring? Because if you are carrying one of those, you better be ready to take a life,” she lectured.

  “I know how to use it, okay,” Stacie said, defensively.

  “Yeah, right,” Moe laughed, as she took a drink from her coffee.

  “After The Sweet Adventures of Lizzy and Kim ended, my dad decided I needed to try and be an action star, so he went and got me all kinds of tutors. I had shooting lessons with a Marine sniper, swimming lessons with a Navy Seal, and tumbling lessons with a clown from Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus,” Stacie said, still frowning. There was a catch in her voice, like she might cry.

  Moe softened at the idea of teenage Stacie Howe being forced by her ambitious father to take weird lessons with strange men. “You took lessons with a clown?” she said with a suppressed giggle.

  “And running lessons with the USA Olympic track coach and dancing lessons from a fabulously gay choreographer who wore a yellow leotard,” Stacie said with a grin.

  “How much of that do you actually remember?” Moe asked with genuine curiosity.

  “Well, I remember how to fall into a big fluffy mat, and I bet I can still swim under fake fire, and I can look like an amazing runner for about fifty yards, and my jazz hands are spectacular,” Stacie said, setting down her coffee and demonstrating her jazz hands.

  Moe laughed and lovingly leaned into her friend. “I’m sorry I got bent out of shape,” she said.

  Stacie picked her coffee back up and took a final sip. “You hurt my feelings a little,” she said.

  “I know. I just really don’t like guns,” Moe said.

  “I didn’t know,” Stacie said with a shrug.

  “It’s okay. Just, when you get home, leave it there. And don’t bring it with you again, okay?” Moe said.

  “Yes, boss,” Stacie said with mock submission.

  “You do know you need a license to carry that, right?” Moe said.

  “I’ve got a wear-and-carry license. I got it when I turned eighteen,” Stacie said, defensively.

  Moe could sense there was a story hiding there, but as she was getting ready to ask, something caught her attention. “Oo! Look! We’re on the move,” Moe said, nodding toward Giuliano Ring’s house. An attractive man dressed in a plaid button-down and jeans stepped out the front door.

  “Sweet Baby Jesus, he’s good-looking,” Stacie said. “But he doesn’t look like he’s going to work out.”

  “Let’s move, Howe! The game is afoot,” Moe said with mock drama, standing to follow her target down the street.

  Stacie sighed and stood to follow her friend.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  They tailed Giuliano Ring for nine blocks, always staying at least a block behind him, until finally, he stopped outside a small coffeehouse. Moe and Stacie pulled up at a corner market twenty feet from him. The market fortuitously had bins of various fruits and vegetables set up on the sidewalk and four other shoppers perusing the selections, which allowed Stacie and Moe to blend in with the crowd.

  Moe examined an avocado, as she watched Giuliano out of the corner of her eye. He was waiting in front of the shop, to the left of the front door. His hands were jammed in his pockets. He shi
fted his weight from one foot to the other, anxiously waiting for something.

  “Who do you think he’s looking for?” Stacie asked, as she awkwardly held a banana up to the sunlight.

  Moe laughed at her and asked, “You don’t do much grocery shopping, do you?”

  Stacie weighed the banana in her hand. “If you must know, I have my food delivered by a service. Or, I eat out.”

  “Must be nice,” Moe said. She put the avocado back, picked up another one, and stole a glance at Giuliano. He had taken his hands out of his pockets and was absent-mindedly checking his phone. He jumped each time the door to the coffee house opened and a patron exited.

  “You think he’s waiting for the Mistress?” Stacie asked.

  Moe took out her phone and pretended to look at something on it as she snapped pictures of him. “He looks like he’s going to pick a fight, not meet a secret lover,” she said.

  The coffeehouse door swung open and an impossibly thin woman in a blue skirt stepped out. Giuliano leaped forward and grabbed her by the arm. “Bingo,” Stacie said.

  “I don’t think so,” Moe said, as she watched the woman jerk away from Giuliano, almost spilling her coffee trying to escape his grasp. “That’s Caroline. His wife’s assistant,” Moe said.

  “Banging the secretary,” Stacie said, nodding.

  Caroline said something scolding to Giuliano and he withered. Moe wished she were close enough to hear. She snapped more pictures. “I don’t think she’s happy to see him,” Moe said.

  Stacie and Moe watched, as Caroline stepped away from Giuliano and toward them. He darted after her, grabbing her by the arm again. She, again, pulled away. Stomping her foot, she scolded him. Moe slyly drifted down the fruit display toward her subject, hoping she could get close enough to hear them. They were arguing about something, but they were keeping their voices down. Over the morning traffic, Moe couldn’t quite make it out.

  Caroline held her hand up to him in a motion of aggressive dismissal. She said something that looked threatening and turned her back to him. For a third time, Giuliano reached out and grabbed her arm. This time she whirled and smacked his hand. He recoiled. “Back off!” Caroline barked, this time loud enough for everyone to hear.