Kirsten clicked her glass to Sherlock’s. “Hear, hear, Suzzie, drink up.”

He’s watching; he’s watching to see what I’ll do. She didn’t want to drink it, didn’t want to, but she drew in a deep breath and took a small sip, then another. She didn’t taste anything different, but she knew bad things were about to happen to her. A guy accidentally hit her arm, and she knew she could have let him knock the glass out of her hand, but what would be the point? She took another small sip.

Kirsten was so close to her now Sherlock could smell her perfume. She smelled like violets. “You know,” Kirsten said, “I was thinking about moving. I’m getting real tired of Baltimore. Where do you live?”

“Two blocks over, off the Inner Harbor.”

“What do you do to keep yourself in gold hoops?” She flicked a finger over one of Sherlock’s earrings.

Sherlock forced herself to take another sip of beer. “I own one of those kitschy little tourist shops in the mall. I’ve got a great view of the boats in the harbor. It’s kind of fun. You?”

“I live only a block away, in that big high-rise off Calvert. Cheap jerks, they haven’t replaced the doorman yet, and he left four months ago. You got security?”

She saw Kirsten was eyeing her drugged beer, saw Bruce Comafield was watching her, and forced herself to drink some more. “No, I haven’t got any security, either. What do you do for a living, Stephani?” Her words slurred a bit, and Sherlock was surprised at how fast the drug was acting, and she’d only drunk a little.

“I was selling art over in the Calliope Gallery. Do you know the place? Most of the paintings are dark, with old barns and graveyards and fluttering ghosts, you know, an Edgar Allan Poe theme, but that didn’t work out.”

“How come?”

Kirsten laughed. “I kept shooting all the freaking ravens off the tombstones. No, I’m kidding. I didn’t like my boss. Now I’m currently assessing my employment situation, since my money’s running pretty low. What do you think? Could I be an artist’s model?” And even in the tight space, Kirsten managed to strike a professional pose.

“If I were an artist, I’d hire you in a minute.”

Sherlock knew her words were frankly slurred now. She knew it was time to get moving, time to rock and roll out of the bar to Dillon waiting outside, before she fell over and puked all over her beautiful black heels.

She slid off the bar stool, staggered a bit, and grabbed the edge of the bar, none of it an act. She hated it, wished she’d managed to figure out how to dump the beer and fake the rest. She felt nausea pumping in her belly, felt her brain clouding over. “What’s this? Three of these wonking Texas Espressos and I’m about ready to fall over?”

“They’re pretty strong. How about I help you home, Suzzie Q? No, it’s okay, you’re on my way. Hey, what about your skunk-brained ex-boyfriend? Do you think he’ll be waiting for you?”

“That fat-fried jerk? He’ll only show up to leave my car. He knows he’d better, or I’ll call the cops on him.”

Sherlock tried to take a step, slammed into a knot of people. Kirsten grabbed her arm, righted her. “Good for you, sweetcakes. Come on, now, Suzzie, let me walk you home. Wow, this crowd is as thick as that BP oil slick.”

Sherlock gave her a sloppy grin she didn’t fake. “Yeah, you’re okay, Stephani with an i.” She took a step and nearly fell over a big-haired woman at a table, but Stephani caught her arm again and pulled her back.

“You sure aren’t much of a beer drinker. I’m glad you don’t want to ride that mechanical bull. Look at all those yahoos hooting and hollering and getting tossed on their butts.”

“No bull. I want to ride in my blue Corvette. I sure hope that dip-brain brought her back safe and sound.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sherlock saw Ruth, Dane right behind her. Good, they were following them. She heard a guy yell “Yahoo!” Then hoots of laughter and boos when he went flying off Ivan. The people at the bar looked like they were slowly moving toward the shows on Ivan. Sherlock saw Bruce Comafield toss a bill on the bar counter, force his way through the crowd toward the bathroom and the back door. Sherlock hoped Ollie and Jack were on him. She saw Mrs. Spicer standing frozen in the middle of the bar, a full tray in her hands, customers flowing around her, staring after Sherlock and Kirsten, her face wild with excitement. Thank God, Kirsten hadn’t noticed Santa.

And then Mrs. Spicer yelled over all the noise, “You have a nice evening, all right?”