Angie Carlino was an old pal, an outsize, sexy, kind-hearted Italian who’d worked in a series of clerical jobs down on Washington Street before falling in love with a Tampa-based cop and moving to the west coast where she now worked for the Pinellas County Sheriff’s office. Sam had gone to Angie’s wedding, sent her gifts when her babies were born, and she always sent him a caring note around the time of the anniversary of Sampson’s death. From time to time, when one or the other needed a little coast-to-coast help, they used each other to shortcut the system. Her home number was one of about twenty that Sam had logged on his cellular phone’s memory. ‘Angela, bellissima, come sta?’ ‘Hey, handsome, what’s doing?’ Angie always recognized Sam’s voice, complained his Italian was lousy unless he was singing it. ‘Usual stuff, babe – how’s the family?’ ‘Gorgeous and healthy, thank God.’ Angie paused. ‘So what’s up, Sam?
