"I might as well walk in there naked." Dalton patted his jacket where his semi–automatic Glock 17 should have been. He raised his eyebrows as his partner, Foster Mayhew, gave him an exaggerated once–over. "Sorry, mate. I think wearing the tux is a smarter move." Dalton quelled his rising impatience as Fozzie pulled the Blackthorne Ford Town Car into the line of luxury cars and limousines heading up the hill into one of San Francisco's wealthiest neighborhoods. They entered the driveway, nearing the valet checkpoint, and a red–liveried kid with spiked hair jogged toward them. Dalton twisted the rearview mirror and straightened his bow tie. "Whoever invented these monkey suits should be strangled with a cummerbund." "You're the only bloke I know who'd rather hang out in some godforsaken jungle instead of enjoying caviar and champagne while women drool over you." "I'm not after drooling women, Fozzie. Rafael's still out there." "Can you quit jonesing for that drug lord for one bloody night? He's in Colombia. We're here. We'll get him another time. Relax. We're on a civilized assignment for a change. We go in, do what Blackthorne sent us to do, and have some fun." Dalton would rather be up to his eyeballs in rattlesnakes than at a fundraising gala. Gala. Why not call the thing a party? "Right." "Lose the scowl. You know the drill. Play nice." Fozzie laughed. "Think of it as another night of torture, and you'll survive." He caught Dalton's gaze with his own. "You do have the goods, right?" Dalton slapped his pocket. "Yes, sir." He gave a fleeting nod to the young valet who opened the door as soon as Dalton unlocked it. "Enjoy your evening, gentlemen," the valet said. Dalton paused at the base of the sweeping marble staircase and absorbed the imposing edifice Andrew Patterson, patron of the arts, called home. In the perfectly manicured hedges, tiny lights flickered like the fireflies he remembered from Texas summers. At the top of the stairs, a pair of double doors stood open. Classical music drifted down. Two men in black trousers, white shirts, and red jackets greeted guests. Too bad there was a metal detector at the door. Kind of spoiled the image. Fozzie adjusted his jacket and made a futile attempt to tame his unruly mop of brown hair. "You heard the valet. It's Saturday night. I, for one, intend to take his advice and have a good time. And find someone to have it with." Dalton grunted. He shot his cuffs and followed the flow of guests up the stairs. "We look like the damn marching penguins." "Ah, but elegant and well–hung penguins." The two men smiled at the greeters, exchanged gold–edged invitations for dinner seating assignments, then passed through the metal detectors. Engulfed by a fog of expensive perfumes, Dalton waved off a waiter offering flutes of champagne from a silver tray. The beginnings of a headache pinched the base of his neck. He stopped and eyed his partner. "Let's get it over with. I'll go left, you go right." Fozzie snagged a canapé from a buffet table. "No worries, mate. I've already spotted my target for some post–party R and R." "Let me guess. The woman in black." "Not fair. Even odds at a black–and–white ball." Dalton scanned the crowd for Fozzie's likely target. Red fingernails and lipstick on the women, red jackets on the wait staff spattered the room with relief from an endless sea of black and white. "The redhead, right?" Dalton motioned with his chin. "You know my weakness." "Yeah, well once in a while you might try to find one with an IQ bigger than her bra size." Fozzie punched his arm. Dalton grimaced and sidestepped. "Sorry, mate. Arm still sore?" "Only when some idiot punches it." He dodged another hit. "I'll meet you on the west balcony in fifteen minutes." Fozzie wrinkled his nose. "With the smokers? Don't you know secondhand smoke can kill you?" The twinkle in his eyes belied his dead serious expression. Dalton rubbed his arm. "As opposed to bullets, right?" Fozzie joined the crowd. Dalton moved in the opposite direction, searching for a glimpse of their host. It didn't take long. Andrew Patterson commanded an immediate presence. He stood well under Dalton's six–two, but he projected the illusion of a much taller man. His hair hung in glossy black waves, with the exception of a snowy white streak in front. The ideal showcase for his black–and–white affair. Patterson whisked from group to group, a wide smile revealing perfect teeth. Rarely did the smile reach his pale blue eyes. Although he considered tonight's assignment trivial, Dalton regarded the room as if it were any other covert operation, noting entrances, exits, places affording cover. A waiter offered a tray of canapés. As Dalton reached for a sliver of toast topped with smoked salmon, he imagined one of Rafael's henchmen in the man's Hispanic features. The waiter smiled, and the image disappeared. Dalton chided himself for being so eager to get back in the field that he saw hostiles everywhere. He counted his blessings that Blackie hadn't suspended him after what he'd done in Colombia. He popped the morsel into his mouth and continued his surveillance. At the fifteen–minute mark, he worked his way to the balcony. An elderly couple sat on a polished wooden bench, more intent on their cigarettes than each other. Fozzie stood at the balcony's edge, gazing into the distance. An infinitesimal shoulder twitch told Dalton his partner noted his arrival. He stepped beside Fozzie and rested his hands on the stone railing. Below them, the city lights sparkled like the jewels in the room behind them. "Great view, isn't it, love," Fozzie said. He put his arm around Dalton's shoulders, leaned his head into his chest. "I'm so glad we came." The couple stubbed their cigarettes into the sand–filled container and hastened inside through the open French doors. "It's okay, Fozz. They're gone. No need to kiss me." "Thank God for that. What did you find?" "Nothing unexpected. Blackthorne's floor plans are reliable. Everything's happening on this floor. I counted six guards dressed like the caterers, but they're more like traffic cops, keeping people where they belong. Patterson obviously doesn't want his guests to feel there could be a security problem." "Well, that's one thing in our favor," Fozzie said. "What's bugging me is that the guard at the stairs let one of the waitresses go up with a tray. Means someone's probably up there." "Also means if we have a tray, we might get up there, too." "Means scamming a red jacket." "You're the pro scammer, mate. Think we should try that route? Kitchen access seems liberal, and no guards in there." "As a last resort." Dalton cocked an eyebrow. "You know—you don't look so hot." Fozzie flashed a cockeyed grin in return. He clutched his stomach. "Yep. Must have eaten a bad shrimp." A fanfare blared from inside. The background undercurrent of voices quieted. Dalton and Fozzie hovered in the doorway as people gravitated toward the center of the floor. Andrew Patterson's voice resonated over the sound system. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I may direct your attention to the far side of the ballroom, please." Fozzie and Dalton exchanged glances. Dalton nodded. Without a word, they inched inside, staying close to the walls, skirting the outside of the crowd. The lights dimmed, and a large screen descended from the ceiling. Satisfied that Red Jacket from the stairs was focused on Patterson's speech, Dalton snaked his arm under Fozzie's. "Show time." Fozzie put his hand on Dalton's shoulder, and they staggered toward the staircase. At the bottom step, Red Jacket put out his hand. "Sorry. The party's restricted to the first floor." Fozzie lurched and groaned. "Oh, man, I'm sick." He clapped a hand over his mouth. His shoulders heaved. Dalton put one foot on the first step. "No way to the downstairs johns through the crowd. Mr. Patterson won't appreciate a guest puking all over his floor." The guard shrugged. "Second door on the left." Dalton thanked the man as he hurried Fozzie upstairs. Once out of sight, Dalton released his hold on his partner and found the bathroom. He darted inside to turn on the water. When he came out and closed the door behind him, Fozzie waited down the hall, poised at what the floor plan indicated was Patterson's study. Dalton joined him, and they slipped inside. Dalton locked the door. "I figure we've got until Patterson stops talking before the guard notices we haven't come back. Let's hope Patterson's typical of the fundraising breed—give 'em a microphone and time loses all meaning." He clicked on a small penlight. Fozzie pulled out a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. Snapping his fingers into them, he muttered, "This isn't the kind of glove I wanted to be wearing tonight. Did you see the hooters on that redhead?" "Shut up and get going. You might salvage your date yet." Fozzie clicked on his penlight and slid into the chair behind the desk while Dalton moved toward the file cabinets on the adjacent wall. "Um . . . mate?" Dalton froze at Fozzie's whisper. He jerked his head around. "The chair's warm. I'm thinking we're not alone in here."