Someone else beat me to it. The door swung open and a small shape emerged from Wilson's office. I got a quick impression of spikey neon hair and a whiff of patchouli just before the person ran right into me.

So much for my sharply honed cop's reflexes.

At least I caught her as she stumbled, helping to right her. She was a tiny thing, 14 tops. Her hair had been chopped short - 10 bucks said she'd done it herself - and dyed neon pink with blue tips. She wore enough makeup to keep Avon in business for a decade, half of it things I couldn't put a name to. It gave her a tarty, exotic look that was appealing and repulsive at the same time. Appealing because it leant her the air of someone twice her age. Repulsive for the same reason. I don't have kids of my own, but I knew I was looking at a father's nightmare in the flesh.

A row of earrings, delicate gold droplets that shivered with every breath, lined one ear, but the other was completely bare.

Her clothes were out of step with the rest of her. Plain white shirt, immaculately clean and neatly buttoned, plaid skirt that stopped at her knees, and plain dark shoes. It hit me belatedly that she was wearing a school uniform.

I managed, just barely, to keep my mouth from falling open. I squinted at the face again, and mentally replaced the neon messy hair with long light brown curls.

"Emily?" Wilson's oldest daughter, the science whiz kid. The shy bookworm who had taken honors in one of the city's most prestigious science contests with a paper about nanotechnology and neuropsychopharmacology. Basically, robots repairing brain chemistry that had gone haywire. It had sounded more like Star Trek than science to me but I could tell Wilson had been proud despite the nonchalance in his voice when he had grumbled about taking time off work to attend the award ceremony last year.

From behind Emily came Wilson's curt voice.

"Yes, Emily. Meet your new assignment, MacStealth."