“You haven’t seen the headlines?” he asked.

“You might recall waking me up,” she said, lifting the sheet to cover her breast. “I came straight here, because I apparently have no self-control around you.”

His heart leapfrogged joyfully. He dropped a kiss on her nose and sat up to fetch the newspaper from the cart. “There were five raids at five hotels last night,” he said, pointing out the Chronicle’s headline. “All of them were executed within minutes of one another. The Feds were tipped off that this man would be personally delivering a big shipment to one of the hotels.”

Aida skimmed the article, reading aloud under her breath. Her fingernail traced the caption below the old man’s photo. “Adrian St. Laurent. He looks like a nice old grandfather.”

Winter snorted. “I’ve known him for years. His operation is smaller than mine, though he used to be part of the Big Three in the Bay Area—and before you ask, yes, I’m one of them.”

“Oh, I seriously doubt any of them are as big as you,” she teased, circling a finger around his thumb as she continued to read the article.

“Keep talking like that and I’m going to be forced to call up the desk and beg them for a bellboy to go out to the druggist for another tin.”

“And I won’t be able to walk out of here. Tell me more about the bust.”

He slipped an arm beneath her head and settled his leg across hers. “St. Laurent does a lot of cheap deals, but he also has half the hotel business in the city. Had, rather. The Feds’ tip was on the nose. They found him in the Whitcomb, eating dinner in the kitchen while his crew unloaded a quarter million in rum for a big fund-raiser party. Had enough evidence to haul him in. Just like that, he’s gone.”

Winter was shocked when he got wind of the bust last night. If he had any lingering worries about St. Laurent being responsible for his hauntings, those doubts were now gone.

“But why did the Feds show up at the Palace if they’re your client?”

Winter folded the newspaper and tossed it on the floor. “They weren’t three years ago. Used to be St. Laurent’s, but he made a deal with my father when he thought the Feds were after him back then.”

“So last night the Feds thought the Palace was one of his.”

“Yep.”

“They weren’t after you.”

“Nope.” He ran his fingers over the curve of her shoulder. Her skin was so soft, he almost worried his calloused fingers would scrape it, but he couldn’t stop himself from tracing random lines of freckles that led to the ridge of her clavicle.

“Do you think that this has any connection with what’s going on with you?”

“Raids happen all the time, and there’s no indication of anything supernatural going on with this one. But there are two things that worry me. On that first night when I was poisoned, St. Laurent told me something was changing in Chinatown. The tongs who control the booze there are getting pushed out of business.”

“And the second thing?”

“Rumor is that the Feds were tipped off by someone in Chinatown.”

“O-oh.”

“Odd that there’s unrest in Chinatown’s booze distribution, and someone’s attacking me from Chinatown, and now St. Laurent gets hauled away on a tip from Chinatown.”

“More than odd.” She stared out the balcony doors. “I was thinking about the ghost last night, and those dragon buttons. You think it’s a coincidence that they were sewed on, and you know someone in Chinatown with a sewing factory . . .”

“Ju? No. Couldn’t be him. That truly has to be coincidence.”

“Are you sure? What if Sook-Yin is upset that you haven’t been seeing her? What if Ju takes your rejection of her as a rejection of him? And at that lunch, he did make a point about how successful you’ve become—warned you people would be jealous of that success.”

As much as he hated to admit it, things had been more relaxed between him and Ju back when he was still visiting Sook-Yin. “I don’t know. Ju isn’t a big tong leader, but he’s not stupid, either. Besides, if he wanted me dead, he’s had plenty of opportunities to kill me. Why all the hocus-pocus with the magical poison and the hauntings? Doesn’t add up.”

“Maybe you’re right.” She gave him a thoughtful look. “The hotel we’re in now wasn’t raided. Were they one of St. Laurent’s customers?”

“They were raided.”

“Why aren’t they shut down like the Palace?”

“Prohis didn’t find any booze. I talked to the manager this morning. Apparently St. Laurent was behind on shipments. Regardless, they are now without a supplier, and in light of everything I just told you, I think it’s possible whoever ratted out St. Laurent did so because they either wanted him out of business, or they want his business.”

Intelligent eyes squinted up at him; he liked the way her nostrils flared when she did that. “Is that why you got this room? You waiting to see if anyone shows up to offer the hotel booze?”

“Believe me, I was thinking about you when I checked in.”

She hooked her leg around his while her fingers toyed with the line of hair that bisected his stomach. Christ, she was just as bad as he was—they couldn’t stop touching each other. “But . . .” she prompted.

“But I might’ve taken last night’s events into consideration when I choose the Fairmont specifically. So I’m going to be nice to the hotel manager, and wait and see what transpires.”