"This seems to have turned into more of a hostage situation than a criminal prosecution," Special Agent Jane Hyatt apologized when she came for her morning visit. "The thing is, we don't really negotiate with kidnappers, especially when there appears to be a political issue involved."
"Are you freaking kidding me right now?" I asked, diving into a bowl of guacamole made with ripe avocados dropping from swollen, overhead trees. "How can I be a political prisoner when I don't even vote? You tell me what's really going on here or I swear to God I'll go on a hunger strike," I lied. 
"Please don't do that," she sighed. "Don't you think I feel bad enough? You were never supposed to get hurt.""Attica. You want me to say it louder?" I wasn't sure where I heard that word, maybe in some old movie at the bottom of my Netflix list? Anyway, it did the trick.
"Okay, here's the deal," she said, leaning in so close I could smell last night's tequila on her breath. Or maybe she was already lit up at that early hour, buckling under the pressure of being the unproven junior agent sent to convince me to quietly cave. "If the feds could just get a look the contents of that safe deposit box of yours without having to get all official with a subpoena, we might be able to spring you." She eyed the key I'd thankfully taken to wearing around my neck for safe keeping.
"So you want the diamonds.""No, the Mexican government wants the diamonds. They were stolen, after all, I think we can all agree on that." She helped herself to the fresh chips and salsa delivered by the dimple-faced little thug I'm convinced was a full-on eunuch. "What we want is the information on Rita's flash drive. Things have gotten a little complicated," she added. "That's all I'm authorized to share."
"Seriously? Who am I going to tell?" I was apparently the sole inmate at the remains of a detention facility pretty much out of business since the drug lords had taken over everything south of San Diego. "What if I told you there was an ongoing investigation into allegations of inappropriate activity inside Hollywood Division?" she finally tossed out."Inappropriate how?"
"Murder for hire," she mouthed, her voice barely above a whisper. She sat back, licking the salt from a margarita that arrived in time to further loosen her up. "Say you're a random mobster who's found a really good paid assassin with a badge. You still have to deal with all those bodies turning up around town. How crazy would it be if some sicko was known to law enforcement to get his rocks off sexing up corpses after gross anatomy class. Think he might sign on to make them disappear?"
"Dr. Hollister," I said. "I knew it." That freak was supposed to get off on a technicality. So what if he got caught red handed dismembering my roommate? They figured I'd look the other way like everybody else when that dumbshit Muñoz botched the arrest to cover somebody's tracks. But whose?"We don't know. You think any of them are going to jump up and volunteer anything?" she asked, sucking a straw so hard it gave her brain freeze. "All we have right now is the word of a dead serial killer. These guys are cops, they protect each other, no matter what. I'm not saying it's right, far from it. But the fact is -- "
"You're either one of us or you're not." I finished her sentence, echoing the captain's ominous words welcoming me to the brotherhood with fixed parking tickets and borderline misdemeanors mysteriously removed from my background check. The whole equation was finally starting to make sense. "What could Rita have done for somebody to want her gone without a trace?" "That's the question of the hour."
"How many officers are in this supposed hit squad? It can't be the whole department," I said, seized by a horrible thought. "Is the captain involved?"
"Is he still mad at me for shooting him?"
"You don't want to know," she said. "Anyway, if you don't want to play ball, it might be best for you to effect your own release," she said, sliding over a gym bag. It was filled with fresh panties, face cream -- and a new electric toothbrush I recognized from my favorite Beverly Hills spy shop to double as a loaded gun. I picked it up. "Hey, careful where you point that thing," she warned. "It would have been nice if you'd had more training."
Training for what? I wasn't some secret government agent. I wasn't even a cop. I was a temp, and not even a good one. I was a bad actress with a broken dream, doing time in the world's gayest foreign prison for shooting my married boyfriend by accident. On top of all that I was seriously overdue for a set of highlights. "It's really not a good idea to bet on me," I finally told her, sucking in a breath. Like I say, my luck was never good. 