"Taking him down will be dangerous for both you and your family, Sam. Remember, this guy doesn't play nice."
"I won't put my family in harm's way," I said. "And besides, who says I play nice, either? I've been known to bite."
"Very funny. But I don't like this, Sam. This isn't your typical P.I. gig. Hell, the FBI still hasn't figured out a way to nail this guy, and you're just one woman."
"But a helluva woman."
"Sure, but why am I more concerned about your safety than you are?" he asked.
"Because you like me a little," I said, blinking daintily.
"I would like you more if you stayed away from this case."
Something small and furry and fat suddenly appeared in the sand beneath our feet. It was the same little dog, now trailing a leash. It was, in fact, a tea cup Pomeranian, and it was about as cute as cute gets. Maybe even cuter. It wagged its tail a mile a minute and turned in a half dozen small circles, creating a little race track in the sand. It never once took its eyes off Kingsley.
"It likes you," I said.
"Go figure."
Kingsley made a small noise in his throat and the little dog abruptly sat in the sand in front of him, staring, panting, wagging.
And from out of the darkness, sweating through a black tee shirt and rippling with more muscle than two or three men put together - that is, if those men weren't Kingsley - was the same tall man we had seen a few minutes earlier. He approached us with a small limp that didn't seem to bother him.
"Kill, Ginger," said the man easily, grinning. Ginger turned in two more circles and sat before Kingsley again. The man reached down and gently patted its little head. "Good girl." He looked up at us. "Were you two at least a little afraid for your lives?"
"Terrified," said Kingsley.
"I might have wet myself a little," I said.