Rain pounded the concrete above, turning the parking garage into a hollow drum. Detective Rourke leaned against a pillar, the collar of her charcoal trench coat turned up against the damp that seeped through the structure. The air smelled of wet asphalt and ozone.

Maria approached from the stairwell, her hood pulled low, sneakers splashing through shallow puddles. She stopped a few feet away, hands shoved in her pockets.

Rourke: "You're late."

Maria: "Traffic. And I wanted to make sure I wasn't followed. You know how it is."

Rourke's eyes swept over her informant, taking in the way the wet fabric clung to her curves. The line between cop and something else was already blurring.

Rourke: "You have something for me?"

Maria: "Maybe. Depends on what you're offering in return."