“I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”

“A couple more things. Ju says the guy isn’t affiliated with any tongs. He’s probably just a hired gun.”

“Then we’ll just convince him to tell us who’s paying him. What’s the other thing?”

“Anthony Parducci turned himself in early this morning.”

Winter froze. “What?”

“Showed up at Central Station, spooked as hell, saying the voice of God had spoken to him and told him to turn himself in. They thought he was doped at first, but now they’re saying he just went crazy. Police chief tried to talk some sense in him and get him to calm down, but two Feds had stopped by the station and heard what was going on, so they arrested him. Parducci gave up the locations of all his warehouses, suppliers—everything.”

“Holy shit.”

“Whoever’s conducting all this is starting to land some blows.”

“I don’t want to be the next one. Pick me up out back,” Winter said before hanging up.

Aida started dressing before he could even finish telling her. “I’m going with you. If there’s any ghost business, you’re safer with me along. Especially after the business with this other bootlegger turning himself in. Let’s hope this Black Star is your guy.”

He watched her rolling the welt of her stocking over a pink garter that sat snugly on her lower thigh, just above her knee. “I might have to threaten him. I don’t want you to see that.”

“You mean that you don’t want me to be repulsed by it,” she clarified.

“Yes.”

“Well, I won’t be. And I trust you will protect me if something goes wrong.”

He watched her pull on the second stocking, amazed by her nonchalance. By now he shouldn’t be surprised. “All right.”

Both stockings were in place now. She stood up, wearing nothing else. Absolutely gorgeous. But something was changed about her today, even before Bo called, and Winter could see it in the line etched between her brows. He captured her wrist.

“What?” she asked.

“You seem different.”

“Do I?”

“Something wrong?”

“Not at all.”

“Are you sure?”

Her chin dropped. “No.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s silly. I just got something delivered to me at Golden Lotus this morning that made me sad.” She gently tugged her arm away and picked up a shell pink chemise. “I met with my future employer a week ago. He came to the club and offered me a gig in New Orleans. A new jazz hall called the Limbo Room.”

The unexpected news unstrung his nerves. “You’ve already got another job?”

She stepped inside her chemise and shimmied it over her hips. “They’re offering me room and board at a hotel next door to the club. Will pay me double what Velma’s paying. The most money I’ve ever been offered in my life.” She slipped silky straps over freckled shoulders. “It’ll keep me employed through October. The owner bought my train ticket. That’s what was dropped off at Golden Lotus this morning.”

“Do you know anything about this man?”

“He’s middle-aged. Owns another speakeasy in Baton Rouge. Seems nice enough.”

“And you’re just going to run off to a strange city halfway across the country to work for a complete stranger?”

“It’s what I did when I came here.”

A rising panic tightened his chest. “You won’t have anyone there to look after you.”

Slender fingers tucked the front locks of her bob behind her ears as she bent to pick up her skirt. “I’ve made it this far on my own.”

God only knew how—a miracle she hadn’t been raped or robbed or killed in some dark alley after leaving one of her shows in the middle of the damn night. The only unescorted women roaming the street that late were . . . Christ, he didn’t know if there were any. Even prostitutes had sense enough to stay behind closed doors. It panicked him to think about her off somewhere, out of his reach, where he couldn’t be there in minutes. “New Orleans is a vice-ridden port city, cheetah.”

“San Francisco is a vice-ridden port city, Mr. Bootlegger.”

Swearing in Swedish under his breath, he hunted down his clothes, trying to hide the unsettling mix of anger and hurt churning inside. This was preposterous, her traipsing off. He knew she had to leave—of course he knew. But in the back of his mind, he’d pictured her in Seattle or Portland, maybe Los Angeles. Somewhere on the West Coast, where he could take an afternoon train and be there in time to catch her show. And where the hell were his socks? He didn’t for the life of him remember taking them off.

“Here.” She handed him two limp black dress socks.

“When do you leave?”

She stilled and bit the center of her upper lip.

“When?” he insisted.

“About a week.”

His throat felt as if he’d swallowed wet cement. “One week?”

She nodded. “Now you know why I’m sad.”

That was nothing—no time at all. “What if Gris-Gris offered you a longer contract?”

“Velma already has a telepath booked, and don’t you dare storm into her office and force her to keep me. I can already see the wheels turning. I won’t take something I haven’t earned honestly, and I can’t stand being in debt to someone else. I’m not sure if you understand that, but it’s important to me.”