Theresa pronounced herself "doable" and wrapped herself in a posh silk kimono she had picked up on a job in Japan several years ago. That was one of the benefits of her job, the travel. Her investigations and undercover work had taken her thus far to sixteen different countries. Her gift for language and guile had protected her so far from any great harm.

Remembering the "harm," she opened her robe and looked closely at the small round scar several inches to the left of her belly button. Still there, she thought, regretfully. That was one occasion when her gift for subterfuge and her breasts had failed her.

She tried to push the unpleasant memory from her mind, but just the sight of the scar brought back, in a rush, the events of five years past. She had been young and a bit foolish. Love had clouded her judgment and she had made a mistake that almost cost her her life. It won't happen again, she thought. Never again.

It was Istanbul. He was tall, dark and, of course, handsome. She was younger and far more naïve in the workings of man and woman. She fell in love. It was the last time that she had ever let herself fall in love; in fact, it was the last time she had made love. Wincing at that thought, she made her way into the kitchen to throw together some dinner.

Just as she was putting the finishing touches on a Greek salad, the doorbell rang. She knew no one in D.C. well enough to have them to her home, so as she passed the couch on her way to the door she leaned over and picked up her gun. It never hurt to be prepared.

Looking out the peephole--she would not repeat the actor's mistake--she spied a tiny elderly woman holding an armful of flowers. Theresa laid her weapon on the table behind the door and opened it. "These are for you, my new neighbor," the woman said in a voice as tiny as she was. "My name is Lilly Beth Derran," she said in a soft, genteel Southern accent. "I live next door. Welcome to the neighborhood. If you need anything, please do not hesitate to ask," she said in an almost studied manner. Probably the building welcome wagon, Theresa thought. Got herself elected to this position and has held it faithfully for the last sixty years.

The woman was so small that Theresa towered over her by at least two feet. She was cute in a powdered, rouged sort of old-lady way. Theresa bent graciously to take the flowers from her, thanking her warmly and promising to pay her a visit on another occasion. "Promise?" the woman called Lilly asked. "Promise," said Theresa. Then she shut the door, thinking, The old bird must be lonely.

Theresa fell into bed like a wet burlap sack, and fell asleep faster than she had in ages. Her radio alarm blared rudely, jerking her awake. She lay in her bed, stretching and listening to the morning news. A late-breaking news bulletin caught her attention. "Senator Rod Billings was found dead in his home early this morning. He had been shot once in the forehead, and was pronounced dead at the scene. There are no immediate suspects and police are investigating. The FBI is certain to be called in due to the sensitive nature of the legislation the late Senator was working on. We will bring you more information as it becomes available to us," the announcer droned. As the reporter returned to the other news of the day, Theresa sat up in bed, stunned.

When I left him he was alive, she thought. No bullet wound, and breathing. He was alive! She wondered what had happened in the hours after she left. Had Thad returned to finish the job? Had his soon-to-be ex-wife stumbled across the unconscious man and decided to take advantage of an excellent opportunity to gain all the Senator's assets? Was there someone else who wanted to see him dead? Good God, she thought, how many people are after Senator Rod Billings?

Theresa nearly jumped out of bed and in a single action threw on some leggings and a sweatshirt. She was almost out the door when a sudden thought jerked her to a standstill. Where the hell was she going?

It was not like she could do anything. No one was supposed to know who she was, and she could hardly turn up at the mansion flashing her badge at this point. A phone call to headquarters would have to suffice. Damn, she thought, now I may never find Toni.

Turning from the door in frustration, she flopped down on the couch with an air of dejection. Might as well get dressed and head to Bender, Fine and Kissler. The prospect of seeing Tom Jenkins again so soon after their "date" did nothing to improve her mood. But if she were going to get anywhere with the "Toni" case she would have to try to solve the Senator's murder, and Tom was the perfect mouthpiece.

She returned to her room to study the contents of her closet. What to wear to a clue gathering, she wondered. She chose a slim knee-length black skirt, Donna Karan of course, and a little red cashmere sweater that skimmed the top of her skirt and had the most delightful little capped sleeves. It was "Wonderbra" time again, a sweater's best friend! A serious pair of black patent mules with three-inch heels were unceremoniously slid onto her well-groomed feet sans hose. As an afterthought she grabbed a hip-length black leather jacket (unlined of course) to top off the look. She giggled as she surveyed herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. She always used to say that she and Tammy Faye Baker did have one thing in common: they both "liked nice things." After running the brush through her hair and throwing on some lipstick (red to match her sweater perfectly) she was ready to run out the door again.

Theresa did not need a lot of time in the bathroom; her natural clean look was very popular, almost as popular as her breasts. Her hand was on the doorknob once again when she noticed her bag. "Shit," she muttered and returned to her bedroom. "Snakeskin does not work with this outfit," she glowered. She thought she would never get out the door. But appearances were important, and she'd been so careful thus far.

Swapping the Mui Mui snakeskin clutch for a simple black Gucci was an easy matter--all she had to move were her gun and a tube of lipstick. "Now I can go," she said, satisfied that all was well.

Remembering all the rules of fashion did not normally come so hard for Theresa. Her dear Grandmother Cleo had taught her all the do's and don'ts when she was a budding teen. "No patent leather after five. The shorter the dress, the higher the heel. And at all costs, the handbag must match the shoes. Unless wearing nude hose, your hose must match your shoes as well as your bag." She sighed with the memory. So many silly rules just to get dressed. Theresa much preferred her madcap days in Istanbul, when she could dash about in men's pasha wear without a care, or don the traditional muslim garb of a woman. "Those were the days," she said aloud to no one in particular. She sighed deeply, and with the full armor of fashion and "Wonderbra" on her side she headed out the door to solve a murder.

Continued—»