PI On A Hot Tin Roof

anyone knew Eddie was her uncle.
    “Eileen, don’t
worry
about it.” Talba said. “We haven’t got much time. Look, call him, okay? Tell him something’s going down in here and not to come back without calling.”
    Having a task seemed to please the girl. “Okay, then. I’m outta here.” And she was.
    “This better be good, Baroness,” Langdon said. “You’re tying up important brass here.” Abasolo was a lieutenant. “Now here’s what we’re gonna do.” And she outlined a plan that was startlingly similar to Talba’s own.
    By eleven-forty-five, Talba had tucked herself into a Kevlar vest, which did nothing for the way her blouse fit, and they had the camera set up, with Skip in the little closet-room to watch the monitor, and Abasolo in Eddie’s office as backup.
    Kristin was early. She strolled in about five after twelve, kitten heels clacking. Talba came out to meet her, noticing that she was carrying a purse and a briefcase. “Hi.” Talba said. “The money in there?”
    “You’re awfully eager, aren’t you?” Kristin was smirking, a new look for her.
    “Come on in my office—in case anyone comes back.”
    “You guaranteed me nobody’d be here.”
    “And nobody will be. Let’s just be safe.” She let the little heels clack ahead of her—one of Skip’s admonitions had been never to turn her back on the woman.
    Once there, she said, “Okay, it’s like that first time. Let me have the two bags.”
    “Why?” Kristin seemed surprised. “Oh. To check for a gun, you mean.” She shrugged and handed over the bags. “Go ahead.” Talba breathed again. An ankle holster wasn’t possible—Kristin’s miniskirt couldn’t hide one. But she was wearing a suit jacket—a shoulder holster was. And the jacket had pockets. “Let me see your jacket.”
    Kristin handed over the garment, which Talba patted after first noting that not only wasn’t Kristin wearing a shoulder holster, her knit top fit too tight to conceal anything but a pair of nipples, and it wasn’t doing such a great job of that. Kristin caught Talba mentally frisking her. “You really don’t trust me, do you?”
    “I know it might come as a shock to you, but a lot of people would do anything to hang onto thirty-five thousand dollars.” Talba opened the small purse, which contained nothing but a Gucci wallet, checkbook, cosmetics, and keys, and then opened the briefcase. It was full of cash, tied in neat bundles, like in the movies.
    “Do you want to count it?”
    “No. It looks all right.”
    “Go ahead, why don’t you?”
    Talba didn’t like that. Why should Kristin want her to count it? Anyway, counting it wasn’t in the plan. This was supposed to be quick and dirty. “No, thanks.” She opened her desk drawer and pulled out an unlabeled (and illegal) tape of
Home Alone
that she’d made for Raisa. “Here’s the tape of the Bacchus party,” she said, identifying it fully for the surveillance tape. “A pleasure doing business with you.”
    “Hold it. How do I know this is really it?” Absolutely as predicted.
    Talba shrugged. “Let’s go watch it.”
    That was the signal. The way the cop plan differed from hers was this: Instead of Talba marching Kristin into the coffee room, it called for Abasolo to step across the hall and Langdon to step down the hall—right behind him—and start asking embarrassing questions. Meanwhile, the camera was still running—Talba didn’t know if it was something you could use in court, but at the very least, it ought to be lots of fun to see Kristin’s reaction to it.
    But it didn’t work that way. What happened was, Talba did indeed hear footsteps in the hall, but they were coming from the wrong direction. Then she heard Abasolo step out of Eddie’s office and say, “Police. Freeze or I’ll blow your head off.”
    There was a fourth person in the office.
    Talba and Kristin both froze, but apparently the intruder didn’t. Someone fired two shots in rapid succession, and someone went down—more than one person from the sound of it.
Skip?
Talba thought.
Abasolo
and
Skip?
    Kristin whirled. Talba started around the desk, but by the time she got there, the other woman had done a three-sixty (or technically, two one-eighties), and she was coming at her, elbows bent, palms out, ready to shove. Talba registered that much before the elbows straightened and she took a blow in the chest, which knocked her backward. She struggled to get her balance. Her adversary kept