IT'S NEVER A GOOD THING WHEN YOU'RE AWAKENED from a deep sleep by someone pounding on the front door. It's worse when you stumble downstairs and see it's a cop. A cop you recognize. My first impulse is to creep back upstairs and pretend I'm not home. But I know this cop. He's probably already gone around back and checked the garage. Both my Jag and the Ford Crown Vic I use for work are parked inside. He knows I'm home. Crap. I pull open the door. "Detective Harris. What a surprise." For a pain-in-the-ass cop, he's not bad looking. Five-ten-probably one hundred eighty pounds. Dark hair touched at the temples with gray. Square jaw, serious eyes. Beneath that off-the-rack suit, a body I suspect is neither lean nor flabby. Carries himself like he was once an athlete-a boxer, maybe. Now he's a fortysomething man fighting middle-age spread and from the looks of it, winning the battle. The suit tells me he's not here on a social visit. He gives me the once-over. I'm barefoot, wearing a pair of running shorts and a tank top. As a vampire, I'm not bothered by the effects of ambient temperature so I could be wearing anything. Or the nothing I was wearing two seconds ago when I crawled out of bed.