"So nice having you for supper, hon," Mrs. Starr said, smiling as she helped her daughter on with her coat.

"Thanks, Mom - no one makes a chicken casserole like you do!"

"I'm so sorry your man Jason has to work," her mother pouted.

"Well, Mom, you know how a theater is - does its best business on Saturdays."

"Hmm. Well there's enough for both of you in there, to have a nice meal," she said, tapping the plastic container Astrea now held in her hands.

Astrea started to protest, but her mother put her finger up to Astrea's mouth.

"Uht uht aht. No argument. I can always make Franklin another casserole."

Astrea smiled. While the casserole leftovers could have fed her parents at least once, she knew her mother's love was in that container.

"'Bye, Dad," she called.

"Oh, hon! You leavin'?"

Franklin Starr hopped up off of the couch and came to the front door.

"She's been leaving, Frank," her mother said, a tad cross.

"Sorry, sorry. I was just watching the news. Said the force wants to talk with Americana."

It was testimony to her ability to act - and to lie - that Astrea calmly asked, "Huh - what for?" without spouting a dozen questions, rapid-fire, as part of her felt like doing.

"Ahh, seems there are some third-story break-ins they can't figure out. And Americana can fly, you know... "

'Are you kidding?" she wanted to scream. 'This is how the police react - after all the good she's done - they blame her first thing because they're too stupid, too unimaginative, to think of an alternative?'

Instead, she quietly looked at her father and said, "Surely... you don't believe... I mean... "

"Oh, come now," he said, shaking his head. "Hey, I may not like her fighting crime without a badge, but heck, I'm not that stupid. Gal seems like she's got a good heart. I bet the department just wants to pick her brain."

Astrea's heart swelled - her father believed in her, or rather, in Americana. She was so proud of him, she wanted to hug him and not let go.

She had to settle for a good squeeze and a peck on the cheek.

Besides which, she was listening...

Listening to the television in the living room, trying to hear where these burglaries had taken place.

"This is the third such burglary in a week."

The camera panned up the side of the building to the broken third-story window, then back down to the lovely reporter at the building's base.

"Metro Police would like to speak with Americana, the only obvious person whose abilities could make this kind of break-in possible. It should be noted that the police have emphasized that she is not considered a suspect at this time but is merely a person of interest in the case.

"Live from the Northeast side, this is Victoria Valentine reporting."

The woman lightly brushed a thin layer of snow from her shoulders and glanced up at the broken window.

Then she trudged over to her news van, microphone dangling from her fingers.

"You... don't think she did it?" her cameraman asked, loading the camera into its padded case.

"Of course not," Victoria snorted, taking a sip of lukewarm coffee from a styrofoam cup.

"Well! Thanks, Vic," Americana smiled as her head descended into view.

She was floating upside-down.

"Glad to hear at least you trust me."

She held out a steaming cup of coffee - upside down, Victoria noted; that had to require some coordination.

Victoria gratefully took the cup - it even had cream!

"Hey, Eric!" Americana waved a second cup in his general direction. "Care for some coffee?"

"Thanks, man," Eric smiled. "How you doin', Americana?"

"Fine - I guess," she nodded toward the building. "What exactly am I not being formally accused of?"

Victoria took a long sip of coffee. "Well, this is the third time this week a burglar has broken in to a building on an upper floor. No ladder-marks, no place to hang a ladder or a rope from. You are just about the only person in town who's known to fly," she said with a shrug.

"Uh, huh."

That's not in jail already, she thought.

Americana rotated her body so that her feet were pointed down, and dropped to the ground.

"So I'm automatically the one they think of. Lovely."

"No, no! You are not a suspect!"

Americana turned as a man dressed in a rumpled suit and an open overcoat scrambled toward her.

"We just wanted to ask you a few... questions... "

Victoria was already moving into position as Eric hoisted the camera onto his shoulder.

"Without a damn TV crew!" he bellowed.

"Easy, easy, Detective... Fergussen?" Americana said, raising her hands.

The detective raised an eyebrow. "You... know who I am?"

The heroine shrugged and smiled. She wasn't even going to attempt to explain that she knew most every ranking officer in the department.

Having a father and sister on the force did come in handy at times.

Fergussen raised his finger to make a point, then obviously thought better of it. He jerked his head and, without waiting, turned toward the house.

Americana raised herself up a few inches in the air and flew over, standing upright.

"Look," the detective took a huge breath as he began. "I'm pretty sure you didn't break in here, but if you got any ideas I'd love to hear 'em."

He nodded toward the third story window, through which a curtain was now flying like a flag.

"Finger marks on the sill are long and narrow, like female fingers. Dust smeared, we got no prints. Window was cut out, actually. Found a bunch of footprints in the lawn before the snow set in, but they were such a jumble we couldn't really use any of 'em."

Americana looked hard at the ground under the window. Was it her imagination or - ?

"Those two," she nodded. "Footprints?"

The detective nodded.

"Why are they so... deep?" she wondered aloud. "To show up as the snow settles into them... "

She floated over and slowly turned upside down to get a good look.

"Did you already process these?"

"We took impressions. Got part of a tennis shoe tread. Lab boys say that depth comes from the wet ground, until it froze this morning."

"Then why... are the other prints so much shallower? If the ground was that wet, wouldn't all the prints be of equal depth?"

Fergussen's jaw dropped. Why hadn't he made that connection?

Americana floated back over the sidewalk and stood in the tiny bank of snow someone had left when they had shoveled the walk.

Wordlessly she crouched down... and jumped onto the sidewalk.

The detective stared as if she had lost her mind.

You hadda be a little crazy, he supposed, to run around town in a bicentennial gym suit and fight criminals - for free.

Americana was staring at her footprints in the snowbank.

She waved Fergussen over.

"See how the weight's distributed, when I leap? Deeper here, shallower in the heel? The prints over there are far more even - they don't follow the pattern. That means our perp didn't leap up to the third floor - but he did weigh quite a bit, evidently."

"Son of a gun," he half-whispered.

He turned and looked at her with a mixture of surprise and admiration. "You did say, 'he'."

"Honestly detective - have you ever know a woman with a foot that large - that wide?"

She shook her head.

"Even taking into account potential melting, five will get you ten that's a male."

The detective nodded numbly as he answered his cell phone.

Crazy or whatever else she may be, she was no dummy.

"'Lo, Fergussen... "

He listened intently for a few seconds.

"Yeah. Just finished here. ETA in ten. Ten-four."

He looked at Americana.

"This is just robbery.

"Wanna step up to the big leagues?"