"The note was shoved under my office door this morning," I say as I settle into the driver's seat of the car and pull out my compact to check my lipstick. He slams his door, of course, and I wince and snap the mirror shut. "Are you sure there's nothing else you'd like to know?"

He's too busy poking around in the glove box to answer. I idly notice that he needs a haircut, but my impatience – and yes, fear, not to stress it too much – is growing with each second.

"Detective?" I prompt as gently as I can. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I like your car," he says, flashing a grin in my direction. Well, the typists and secretaries may melt away at tricks like that, but I merely tick my annoyance level up to Severe. "What is this, a 1932 Rolls?"

"'33," I reply. "Are you capable of focusing, or is this an act you pull on all prospective clients to weed out the weak?"

"Why, are you thinking of running?" he asks as he begins inspecting the upholstery.

"I'm the youngest attorney in this county, not to mention the only woman." My voice is clipped, but I smile slightly at the pride of it. "I have handled more cases in the past year than most junior partners hope to see in a decade. Not to mention that a vicious murderer that I put behind bars has escaped from a mental institution and is sending me threatening notes. Do I seem like the running type?"

"Derek," he says in reply.

I blink, but I seem to be catching on to his leaps of logic. "Derek Hale, Peter's nephew and only surviving relative," I say, but I can't help clutching the steering wheel more tightly. "You think he might know something about his uncle's whereabouts?"

"I know Derek slightly," Stiles says. "He and my buddy Scott were in the same unit in the war. He's a decent enough guy, if a bit surly and intractable. If he knows something that could save your life, I'm sure he'd help."

"Very well, then, detective," I say, turning the key and listening to the car purr to life. "Where can we find Derek Hale?"

"I told you to call me Stiles," he says. "Do you know where the Loft is?"

In reply, I press on the accelerator. Stiles grabs for his hat as we roar away down the street.

Beacon Hills is still a small town, tucked away in the low hills of inland California. There are a few seedy areas in the old downtown, and the seediest street of all is Silver Lane, where The Loft resides. The Loft is a combination lounge, bar, and gambling den, and I have to suppress a twinge of nerves as we pull up beside it.

"If you don't want to come in," Stiles begins, but swallows whatever comes next as I wither him with my best glare. He jumps out of the car and I suffer him to run around and open my door, as it gives him such obvious pleasure.

"The Hales used to be such a good family," I say as I survey the garish neon lights and honky-tonk atmosphere that spills out of the place whenever a drunk or a giggling couple exits. "What would Derek be doing here?"

"Actually, he owns the entire building," Stiles says, smiling broadly as he holds open the door for me.

He practically breathes down my neck as we thread our way through unsteady crowds of bourbon-reeking, cigarette-dragging dregs of humanity. "It won't be easy to see him," Stiles warns. "We'll need someone to give us an in." His face brightens as he cranes his neck to see over the crowd. "Good – B is singing tonight. She loves me."

I feel my eyebrows raising at that remark, but I decide not to comment. He seems to be talking about the girl onstage, whose curves are draped in clinging fabric to the general approval of the audience. She's cooing into a microphone, fluttering her dark eyelashes, and gyrating in a way that makes my eyebrows climb a level higher.

Stiles certainly doesn't seem to mind, and when she finishes her song he waves her over enthusiastically. She struts over and leans on our table, giving me the once-over before speaking to him. "Haven't seen you in here lately, Stiles. Who's the broad?"

I open my mouth to object to the word, but Stiles interjects hastily. "I'm working, B. Is Derek around?"

She nods slowly, dragging on a Lucky Strike and tapping the ashes into our tray. "Sure, but something's rattled him lately. He's been snappish – not at all like himself. You got an idea what's up?"

"You heard about Peter?" Stiles asks.

Her gaze sharpens, and her hand rises to touch her throat, where for the first time I notice a livid scar drawn almost from ear to ear. "I heard," she whispers. "I'll make sure Derek sees you." Her eyes flick over to me. "In private."

Stiles mutters a few words of apology (which I ignore) before she leads him away, leaving me to the press of the crowd. I take the opportunity to flip open my compact and check my lipstick and hair. A girl never knows when she needs to look her best.