Still, she tried to dismiss it as her creative imagination working overtime-until yesterday when she'd seen him at Barnes and Noble. She'd been in the store buying more books on essential oils when she'd looked up and noticed him lurking in the women's health section. With his dark, brooding looks and T-shirt-straining muscles, he just hadn't seemed like the kind of guy sympathetic to the anguish of PMS. That's when she finally accepted that he'd been stalking her like a serial psycho. She'd called the police and had been told that she could come in and fill out a complaint against the "unknown smoking jogger," but since he hadn't done anything, there wasn't a lot she could do. The police had been no help, and she hadn't even bothered to leave her name.

She'd slept very little the night before. Mostly she'd lain awake carefully devising her plan. At the time her strategy had seemed good. She'd lure him into a very public place. The chunk of the park next to the playground, in front of the zoo, and a few hundred yards from the Tootin' Tater train station. She'd take the stalker down and scream like crazy for help. She still thought it was a good plan, but unfortunately she hadn't foreseen two very important details. The weather had closed everything down, and, of course, her stalker wasn't a stalker. He was a cop.

When she'd first seen him standing beneath that tree, it had been like staring at her friend Francie's Hunk Of Burnin' Love calendar. Now as she looked across the table at him, she wondered how she'd ever confused him for a hunk of the month. In the sloppy sweatshirt he still wore and with that red bandanna tied around his head, he looked more like some hell-bound biker.

"I don't know what you want from me," Gabrielle stated, switching her gaze from Shanahan to the other man. "I thought I was brought here because of what happened in the park earlier."

"Have you ever seen this before today?" Shanahan asked as he slid a new photograph toward her.

Gabrielle had seen the same photo in the local newspaper. She'd read about the theft of the Hillard Monet and heard about it on the local and national news.

"You recognize it?"

"I recognize a Monet when I see it." She smiled ruefully and pushed the pictures back across the table. "I've also read about it in the Statesman. That's the painting that was stolen from Mr. Hillard."

"What can you tell me about it?" Shanahan stared at her through his cop's eyes as if he could see the answer to his question written on her brain.

Gabrielle tried not to feel intimidated, but she couldn't help it. She was intimidated. He was such a big man, and she was stuck in such a small room with him. "Only what everyone else has read or heard about the theft." Which was quite a bit, since it was such a hot story. The mayor had publicly stated his outrage. The owner of the painting was beside himself, and the Boise police department had been portrayed as a bunch of backward hicks on the national network news. Which she supposed was an improvement over how Idaho was usually portrayed to the rest of the country, as a state filled with potato-loving, white supremacist gun nuts. The real facts were that not everyone loved potatoes, and ninety-nine percent of the population wasn't associated with the Aryan Nation or affiliated groups. And of those people who were members, most weren't natives of the state anyway.

The gun nut part was probably true, though.

"Do you have an interest in art?" he asked, his deep voice seeming to fill every corner of the room.

"Of course, I'm an artist myself." Well, she was more a person who painted than an actual artist. While she could paint a reasonable likeness, she'd never mastered the intricacies of hands and feet. But she loved it, and that was all that really counted.

"Then you can understand Mr. Hillard is quite anxious to get it back," he said and set the photo to one side.

"I would imagine so." She still didn't understand what any of this had to do with her. At one time Norris Hillard had been a friend of her family, but that had been a long time ago.

"Have you ever seen or met this man?" Shanahan asked as he slid another photograph toward her. "His name is Sal Katzinger."

Gabrielle looked at the photo and shook her head. Not only did this man have the thickest pair of glasses she'd ever seen but his face also appeared sallow and rather sickly. Of course, she might have met the man before and just not recognized him from his photo. It hadn't been taken under the best of circumstances. Her own mug shots were probably just as atrocious.

"No. I don't think I've ever met him," she answered and pushed the mug shot back across the table.

"Have you ever heard his name mentioned by your business partner, Kevin Carter?" the other man in the room asked her.

Gabrielle turned her gaze to the older man with graying black hair. The name on his plastic ID card read Captain Luchetti. She'd seen enough movies and watched enough television to know he was playing the "good cop" to Shanahan's "bad cop"-not that it was that much of a stretch for Shanahan. But of the two, Captain Luchetti seemed genuinely nicer. He kind of reminded her of her uncle Judd, and his aura was less hostile than the detective's. "Kevin? What does Kevin have to do with the man in the picture?"

"Mr. Katzinger is a professional thief. He's very good and steals only the best. A little over a week ago he was arrested for the theft of over twenty-five thousand dollars' worth of stolen antiques. While in custody, he indicated that he might know who has Mr. Hillard's painting," Captain Luchetti informed her as he waved a hand at a pile of photographs. "He told us that he'd been offered the job of stealing the Monet, but he turned it down."

Gabrielle crossed her arms beneath her breasts and sat back. "Why are you talking to me about this? It sounds like you should talk to him." She pointed to the mug shot across the table.

"We have, and during his confession he turned over on his fence." Luchetti paused, looking at her as if he expected some sort of reaction.

She supposed he meant a fence as in a person who received and sold stolen property, as opposed to someone rolling around on chain-link. But she didn't know what that had to do with her. "Perhaps you should tell me exactly what you mean." She nodded in Shanahan's direction. "And why have I been followed by the archangel of doom for the past few days?"

Shanahan's scowl remained embedded in his forehead, while the captain's face remained impassive. "According to Mr. Katzinger, your partner knowingly buys and sells stolen antiques." Captain Luchetti paused before he added, "He is also suspected of being the middleman in the Hillard theft. That makes him guilty of a lot of things, including grand theft."

She gasped. "Kevin? No way. That Mr. Katzinger person is lying!"

"Now, why would he do that?" Luchetti asked. "He's been promised leniency in exchange for his cooperation."

"Kevin would never do anything like that," she assured them. Her heart pounded, and no amount of deep breathing calmed her spirit or cleared her mind.

"How do you know?"

"I just do. I know he would never become involved in anything illegal."

"Yeah?" The expression in Shanahan's eyes told her he was as exasperated as he sounded. "Why's that?"

Gabrielle glanced briefly at Shanahan. Several rich brown curls fell from beneath the bandanna and touched his forehead. He reached for a small notebook and began to scribble inside. Negative energy surrounded him like a black cloud and permeated the air. He obviously had anger-control issues. "Well," she began and switched her gaze between both men, "for one thing, I've known him for several years. I would certainly know if he were selling stolen antiques. We work together almost every day, and I could tell if he were hiding a secret like that."

"How?" Captain Luchetti asked.

He didn't look like the sort of man who believed in auras, so she didn't mention that she hadn't felt any black spots surrounding Kevin lately. "I just would."

"Any other reasons?" Shanahan asked.

"Yes, he's an Aquarius."

The pen flew straight up into the air, somersaulted several times, then landed somewhere behind the detective. "Sweet baby Jesus," he groaned as if in pain.

Gabrielle glared at him. "Well, he is. Aquarians despise lying and cheating. They hate hypocrisy and double-dealing. Abraham Lincoln was an Aquarian, you know."

"No. I didn't know that," Captain Luchetti answered and reached for the notebook. He placed it in front of him and took a silver pen from his breast pocket. "But I really don't think you realize the seriousness of this situation. The charge of aggravated assault on a police officer carries a maximum of fifteen years."

"Fifteen years! I never would have assaulted him if he hadn't been stalking me. And it wasn't a real assault anyway. I'm a pacifist."

"Pacifists don't carry guns," Shanahan reminded her.

Gabrielle purposely ignored the surly detective.

"Ms. Breedlove," the captain continued, "on top of the assault charge, you've got an added charge of felony grand theft. You're looking at thirty years in the state pen. That's a whole heap of trouble, Ms. Breedlove."

"Grand theft-ME?" She raised a hand to her heart. "For what?"

"The Hillard Monet."

"You think I had something to do with Mr. Hillard's stolen painting?"

"You're implicated."

"Wait," she ordered and placed her palms flat on the table before her. "You think I stole Mr. Hillard's Monet?" She would have laughed if the situation weren't so singularly unfunny. "I've never ever stolen anything in my life." Her cosmic conscience chose that moment to disagree with her. "Well, unless you count the Chiko Stix when I was seven years old, but I felt so bad I didn't really enjoy it all that much."