Mon leaned over the couch in Fats Foley’s penthouse and hunted for her keys. That damn cat must have swiped them. Now she’d have to search the whole apartment. And the guy she’d decided to call Sparky was buzzing all around her. He dogged her footsteps, and when she stretched out on the carpet and swept her hand under the stereo cabinet, trying to out-think the cat, he just stood there like a lump, watching her. You had to give him credit: he didn’t give up.
watching“You know about Robin Hood, right?” he said.
“You’re really getting on my nerves,” she told him from the floor. “Could you shut up and help me look, so we can get out of here?”
“Why, what’s your hurry?”
Mon didn’t look up. Where had that stupid cat stashed her keys? She didn’t stop to think how unlikely it was that a cat ha
