Free Dream of Danger (A Brown and De Luca Novella) by MAGGIE SHAYNE

which of my books had contained that particular piece of crapola. Her sneakers squeaked as she trotted away, until the sound got lost amid the buzz of the drones.
    I turned back to the woman at the counter. Her image in my mind was short, hefty, w [ort. ith melon-sized boobs and long shiny ringlets.
    “Where were we?”
    “I believe you were about to threaten to kick my ass,” she said. “Or maybe you were gettin’ ready to dole out one of those Susie-sunshine lines you’re apparently known for.” She paused, leaned back in her chair—I heard the movement—and slurped coffee that smelled stale. “So are you famous or something? ’Cause I never heard of you.”
    I placed my hands flat on the tacky countertop and leaned forward. “My brother is missing. I reported it three days ago, and I haven’t heard one word from you people since.”
    “‘You people’?”
    “You cop people. I want action. I want my brother found. I at least want some indication that you’re looking for him. Can you give me that?”
    “I already gave you that. I told you, we’re doing everything we can. I’ll have an officer call you later in the day. I already have your number.”
    Oh, brilliant double entendre there. Apparently I was dealing with a genius.
    “Thanks a million.”
    I turned and waved my cane back and forth, half hoping I’d whack someone in the shins on my way out. But no. Apparently the bees were parting like the Red Sea. I was not amused that my identity had been revealed in the cop shop. My agent would lop off my head for being a bitch in public at all, much less being recognized while I was at it.
    What the hell did I care? I’d deny it. My legions of followers would believe me. I mean, as long as it didn’t happen too often or in front of someone’s cell-cam and wind up on YouTube, I was golden. And even if it did, they’d forgive me for losing it if I let them know why.
    My brother was missing, for God’s sake. A saint would be on her last nerve.
    I tapped across the room and out the door, feeling the space around me widen as I moved through it. I turned left down the hall to the main entrance. Lots of doors there. I picked the quietest one and went through it and then down the broad stone steps to the sidewalk. I intended to cross the street to the coffee shop, grab a Mucho-Mocha with extra caffeine, and phone my assistant to come and pick my ass up. My mind wasn’t on what I was doing, though. I was flashing back to the last time I’d seen anything.
    It had been Tommy’s face.
    I was twelve and knew I was going blind. I had a corneal dystrophy, a rare one. At that point I could still see, but it was pretty bad. Blurry, dull. Worse and worse. I’d been having a nightmare, dreamed of being completely blind, and woke up screaming.
    It was Tommy who came to my bedroom, sat on the edge of my mattress, hugged me close, told me it was all gonna be okay. That he’d be with me, no matter what. And he was, before the addictions took him away. He went from coke to crack, from the oxy-twins—contin and codone—to heroin, his standards lowering with his resources, until he was broke and homeless and taking anything he could find that was stronger than aspirin. Anyway, before all that, when he was a freshly showered fourteen-year-old kid with a future, he hugged me, conceded to my demand that he leave the light on and told me stories until I fell back asleep.
    When I woke up, I thought he’d lied to me. I thought he’d turned the light off after swearing he wouldn’t. But he hadn’t. Turned out my nightmare was [niged a premonition. I was totally blind.
    I shook off the memory about the same time I heard squealing tires and a blasting horn, and realized about a second too late that I’d stepped off the curb and into the street without checking first. Sure as shit, the car hit me. I couldn’t even believe it. One step, a loud horn, and bam . I flew fast and landed hard, hip bone, then shoulder, then head, in