I jander in, give the slag behind the big espresso machine the old stare-down, and sashay toward the back of the place. I see my contact at once. She’s at the bar, sitting on one of those retro-nuevo chairs that must have been designed by a frustrated proctologist. She used to be a chummer (and more than that for one weekend at the Mayflower Plaza Hotel that I’d like never to forget, thank you) when we were both back in Milwaukee, going through the local Lone Star Academy together, and then again while I was learning the streets and how to work them. Ever since we both got transferred out west, I know she’s carved out a niche for herself in the data management side of the Organized Crime division of the Star. Her name’s Catherine Ashburton, likes to be called Cat, and she’s drop-dead gorgeous, always was, always will be. Petite’s the word, I guess: stands not much more than a meter and a half, weighs about fifty and most of that’s in her rockets. Straight, short, copper-colored hair, the kind of color that makes you think she’d look hot in emerald green. But instead she always wears cranberry or certain shades of pink, and looks like she just stepped out of a fashion-trid title sequence. Today her eyes are a deep violet.