The dress Sam bought was black as a cat burglar's conscience, cut low enough to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window. We had an invitation to Don Carlos Ramirez's weekend party, courtesy of Rodriguez's connections. The Don's clifftop mansion was where our ghost was supposedly hiding, though walking in the front door felt about as smart as bringing a knife to a gunfight.
"Dance with me, Jack." Sam's whisper carried across the mansion's marble ballroom. "That nervous fellow by the fountain keeps checking his watch. Third time in five minutes."
I took her hand, pulled her close. The band was playing something slow and sultry, giving us cover to survey the room. "Morrison?"
"No." Her lips barely moved. "But he's got that jumpy look of someone waiting for orders. Second floor balcony - see the man in the white dinner jacket?"
I turned us slowly, catching a glimpse. Tall, lean, with that peculiar grace that comes from a lifetime of stepping carefully. The Ghost himself.
"He's good," Sam murmured against my neck. "Watch how he moves. Always keeping his back to the security cameras."
"Noticed something else. Don Carlos has four guards watching him instead of the party guests. Our host doesn't trust his special guest."
Sam's hand tightened on my shoulder. "Or he's making sure Morrison doesn't leave before the sale."
The pieces clicked. The diamonds weren't just hot ice - they were leverage. Morrison had stolen them to buy protection from the cartel. But men like Don Carlos don't protect thieves - they eliminate potential threats.
"Back garden. Ten minutes," Sam breathed, then slipped away into the crowd like smoke through fingers.
I made my way to the bar, ordered bourbon I wouldn't drink. The Ghost was talking to a silver-haired woman, but his eyes kept drifting to the massive clock above the fireplace. Whatever was going down would happen soon.
The garden was black velvet darkness cut by swimming pool lights. Sam emerged from the shadows, dress swapped for black tactical gear that hugged her curves like a second skin.
"He's got the diamonds in a false bottom briefcase," she said. "Planning to make the exchange at midnight."
"How'd you-"
"Lifted this from his room while you were playing drunk at the bar." She held up a small notebook. "The Ghost keeps meticulous records. Sale price, security rotations, escape routes - everything."
"You always did have sticky fingers."
"Among my many charms." Her smile was quick, dangerous. "Found something else. Don Carlos is planning to kill him after the exchange. Morrison's got a backup plan though - secondary escape route through the wine cellar."
A burst of automatic gunfire cut through the night. So much for midnight.
We moved fast, staying low. More shots from inside, screams, breaking glass. The party was officially over.
The wine cellar door was already open. Inside, Morrison was wrestling with one of Don Carlos's men. The briefcase lay open on the floor, diamonds scattered like stars on the stone.
I took the guard with a right cross that would've made my boxing coach proud. Morrison spun, a small revolver appearing in his hand.
"I wouldn't," Sam's .32 pressed against the back of his skull. "Down on your knees, hands where we can see them."
"Marlowe?" Morrison's laugh was hollow. "Should've known Rodriguez would send you. Man's got a taste for poetic justice."
"Speaking of justice..." I snapped handcuffs on his hands. "Those diamonds belong to some people who want them back."
"Along with your head," Sam added, scooping the diamonds into her bag.
Footsteps on the cellar stairs. Don Carlos's voice barking orders in Spanish.
"Time to go." I grabbed Morrison. "Sam?"
She pulled a remote from her pocket, clicked it once. An explosion rocked the mansion above us - the little surprise she'd left in Morrison's room.
"You always did know how to end a party," I said.
"Learned from the best, sugar."
We took Morrison out through the tunnels his own notebook had revealed, emerging on the beach half a mile down the coast. Rodriguez's men were waiting with a boat.
"Efficient work," the Inspector said, taking custody of our ghost. "Though perhaps with more property damage than necessary?"
Sam shrugged, handed him the diamonds. "Send Don Carlos our apologies. And our bill for the dress."
Later, in our hotel room, Sam stood at the window watching the sunrise paint the ocean shades of gold. She'd changed back into that white swimsuit, but there was still soot on her cheek from the explosion.
"We work pretty well together," she said. "For retired people."
I moved behind her, wiped the soot away with my thumb. "Maybe retirement's overrated."
She turned, and suddenly we were close enough to share a breath. "Maybe a lot of things are overrated."
"Like playing it safe?"
Her kiss tasted like danger and promise, gunpowder and paradise. Outside, the Mexican sun was rising on a new day, but for once, I didn't mind the heat.
Sometimes the best cases don't end with catching the bad guy. Sometimes they end with realizing what you've been chasing was right beside you all along.
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