Charlene was in her little front yard, walking Blackie around in circles, trying to get him to tinkle.

"Maybe he needs a fire hydrant or a tree," I said.

"That's the problem," Charlene said. "He can't put any weight on his front leg, so he falls over if he lifts his back leg."

"How did dinner go last night?"

"Hard to tell. Junior spilled his milk as soon as we sat down to the table, and it made a flood, and we all got dripped on. And when we were trying to mop up the milk, Blackie got the pot roast and ran away with it. So we had peanut butter and jelly for dinner. And while we were eating our sandwiches, Fluffy got loose and ate Gary's shoelaces and left jelly beans under the table.

"I had gotten a movie for when the kids went to bed, but Gary was sort of soaked with milk, so he left early. He looked like he was thinking about kissing me good night at the door, but the kids were all standing there watching, so he shook my hand and left."

"Wow."

"Yeah, it was a night to remember. Maybe we should go to plan B and find me a housewife."

"But he must like you if he was thinking about kissing you when he left."

"I guess."

"Do you like him?"

"Sure. What's not to like? He's nice to the kids and the animals. And he's even nice to me. And he's cute and cud-dly. And he seems very stable. I just can't imagine anyone wanting to take on the chaos."

I was used to having dinner with a kid who thought she was a horse, a grandmother who set the tablecloth on fire on a regular basis, and a future brother-in-law who fainted and farted at the mention of marriage. I didn't see where Charlene had more than the normal amount of chaos.

Ralph had been standing in the doorway, taking it all in. "Maybe we should set the cat on fire again," he said. "Just a little."

I told Charlene to hold off on the cat, and I got back into my car and searched through Gary Martin's file for his phone number. I called his home phone and got his ma-chine. I tried his cell and got his message service. The message service said he was in emergency surgery, so I headed for his clinic. Twenty minutes later, I pulled into his lot, looked in my rearview mirror, and saw Diesel pull in behind me.

I got out of the Escape and went back to Diesel. "How do you always know where to find me?"

Diesel shrugged. "I can tune in to you."

"You have my car bugged, don't you?"

Again, the smile with the dimples. Most guys look cute with dimples. Diesel got dimples, and the temperature went up ten degrees.

"Don't you dare dimple me," I said to him.

"Can't help it. It just happens. Do you have Annie's file with you? I need to see it."

I got the file from my car and slid onto the passenger seat, next to Diesel. "Not a lot in this. Just the usual bond agreement and personal information."

Diesel scanned the paperwork. "Annie's lawyer secured her bond from Vinnie. Standard procedure. The lawyer is one of us. She went back to her house in Hamilton Town-ship, and two days later Bernie started harassing her. I was called in, and we moved her out to the safe house. I find it hard to believe someone discovered the safe house. I think Annie must have left voluntarily."

"Have you been back to her house? Maybe she just wanted to go home."

"I sent Flash. He said the house was locked and dark, but I think we should see for ourselves."

I shelved Gary Martin, rammed myself back into the Escape, and followed Diesel across town to Annie's house. It was exactly what I would have expected. A tidy cape with two front dormers. White siding and black shutters. Very traditional. White picket fence around the small yard. A red heart on the mailbox. We parked in the driveway and walked to the front door.

"There's bad energy here," Diesel said.

I took a step back. I didn't want to walk in and find An-nie dead on her living room floor. "How bad are we talking about? Do I want to wait out here?"

"Not that bad. Disrupted would be a better word."

Diesel opened the door, and we walked into the dark, silent foyer. He flipped a light on, we worked our way through the house, and it was clear that the house had been tossed. Couch cushions were scattered, drawers were left open, beds were torn apart, toilet-tank tops were on the floor. No stone unturned. We checked all the closets, the basement, and the crawl spaces. No bodies found.

We left Annie's house exactly as we found it, Diesel locked the door behind us, and we angled ourselves into his Vette to talk.

"Someone was looking for something," I said to Diesel.

"Yeah, and there might have been a struggle in the foyer. The vase was knocked off the sideboard onto the floor."

"The obvious person is Bernie, but I don't know why he'd have reason to search the house. Do you suppose the police did this, searching for the supposedly stolen prop-erty?"

"No," Diesel said. "This doesn't feel like a police search. And I doubt the police would go to this trouble for a charge I can almost guarantee will be dismissed. Annie's wanted for armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. A guy named Stanley Cramp claims Annie walked into his pawnshop, robbed him, and shot him in the foot. No weapon was found, but two witnesses can place Annie at the scene. Neither of them saw the robbery or assault happen."

Diesel was turned toward me in the small car. His arm was resting on my seat back, and he was absentmindedly stroking my neck with his fingertip while he was talking. It was soothing and disturbingly erotic, all at the same time, and I was working hard to pay attention to the conversa-tion and not to the warm fingertip.

"Why was Annie in a pawnshop?" I asked Diesel.

"Annie said she went into the pawnshop on a whim. She said she saw a necklace in the window that intrigued her. The two witnesses were in the shop when she went in. The witnesses left. Annie left shortly after that without the neck-lace. And minutes later the call went in to 911."

"How was she identified?"

"She'd parked in front of the shop, and Stanley Cramp took her plate down."

"What is she accused of taking?" I asked Diesel.

"The necklace. Nothing else."

"Have you talked to Stanley Cramp?"

"Not yet, but I think it's time. I'd like you to do it. See if you can charm something out of him. If that doesn't work, feel free to shoot him in the other foot."

"That would be tough," I told him, "since I haven't got a gun."

Diesel reached under his seat and pulled out a Glock.

"I'm not going to take that!" I said.

"Why not?"

"I hate guns."

"You can't hate guns. You're a bounty hunter."

"Yes, but I almost never shoot people. Bounty hunters only shoot people on television."

Diesel raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, so maybe I shot a couple guys, but it wasn't my fault."

"Just take the friggin' gun," Diesel said. "Stanley Cramp isn't a nice person."

"Where am I going to find this guy?"

"He lives in an apartment over the pawnshop, but at this time of day he'll be working. The pawnshop is a one-man operation, open seven days a week."

I got out of Diesel's 'vette and into my Escape. I drove into the center of the city and took the side street that led to the pawnshop. I parked two doors down on the oppo-site side of the street. I left my car, crossed the street, and glanced at Diesel parked one store down. I rang the bell next to the front door and got buzzed in. High security.

Stanley Cramp looked like life had pretty much been sucked out of him. He was about five foot nine and scrawny. Mid-fifties with thinning oily black hair that was badly in need of a cut. His clothes were a size too large. His teeth were tobacco-stained. He had bloodhound bags under his eyes and skin the color and texture of wet cement. He looked like he'd be better placed in a body bag than stand-ing behind the counter in a pawnshop.

I approached the counter and sent Cramp a flirty smile, and Cramp turned to see if someone was standing behind him.

"I hope you don't mind," I said to him. "I was freezing out there, and your shop looked cozy and warm. And I saw you in here all by yourself."

"You aren't looking to… you know, make money, are you? Because I think you're real cute, but I don't have any money. I bet on the wrong horse yesterday, and I got cleaned out."

Oh great, he thought I was a hooker. Not exactly a flat-tering appraisal, but I could get some mileage out of it. "Do you bet on the wrong horse a lot?"

"Yeah, unfortunately. I used to always win, and then my luck turned, and now I keep getting deeper and deeper in the crapper."

"Jeez, that's too bad. Still, you're lucky you have this pawnshop. Is it yours?"

"Yeah, sort of. I owe some people money, but I'll take care of that as soon as my luck changes."

I wandered around, looking in the cases. "You used to have a real pretty necklace in the window, but I haven't seen it lately."

"The one with the red stone? It got stolen. Some lady came in and robbed me and shot me in the foot."

"Get out!"

"Honest to God. I still can't get a shoe on that foot."

"That's horrible. Did she get arrested?"

"Yeah, but the cops didn't recover the necklace."

"Wow."

"I got a bottle of real good hooch behind the counter," Cramp said. "You want some to help get you warmed up?"

"Sure."

Cramp pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel's and set it on the display case. "Help yourself."

"Do you have a glass?"

"I have glasses up............