28

ALONE IN THE PASKAGANKEE Police Explorer, Sharon casually asked, “So, what was the deal with The Maneater?” She kept her eyes glued to the empty pavement unwinding in front of the vehicle like it was the most fascinating thing she had ever seen.

“The . . . what?”

“Oh, yeah,” she replied, “I forgot you’re new in town. The skinny little vulture with the hair that looks like a lit match who was in your office earlier—she’s known around here as ‘Manheim the Maneater.’”

“Really,” Mike said. “Maneater, huh? Sounds promising,” and ducked as Sharon threw a backhand his way. “You mean she wasn’t really into me?”

“So you saw through her little sexpot act?”

Mike laughed. “I realize I’m extremely young-looking, but I wasn’t born yesterday.” He ignored the snort of derision that came from across the front seat.

“Seriously, though,” Sharon said. “Watch out for her. That chick will play up to you in any way she has to if she smells a story, but she’ll also turn on you in about half a second if it suits her purposes.”

“Thanks for the warning, but I don‘t think she’ll be playing up to me again any time soon. We weren’t compatible on a couple of very important issues, like where she gets her information and how much time she’ll be spending in a holding cell if she ever enters my office again without an invitation.”

“Good,” Sharon sniffed. “Make sure you don’t see eye to eye, or any other body part to body part, with her.”

“Yes, ma’am.”