A Spill of Blood

CHAPTER 1

 

You know the old cliché, “He was wearing nothing but a platinum blonde”? I hate it when they’re blondes because it reminds me of Amber. I ignored the stab and did my job.

Natasha Sullivan grabbed for a blanket, but my phone was live-streaming.

Walter Sullivan–who was not the man under her, of course–appreciated the reverse-cowgirl full-frontal that sailed over the ether onto his computer because it left no room for denial.

I appreciated the massive tits that had been pointed toward the ceiling as she put her weight back on her hands and pogoed that cootch up and down on Jordan H. Regan IV’s dick.

The chambermaid appreciated the Benjamin for swiping her passkey through a lock and walking away.

Natasha Sullivan screamed at me. I didn’t speak that language, so don’t ask me what she said.

JHR swore he’d kill me. The tangled bedclothes turned his lunge out of bed into an ungraceful tumble beside it. I wasn’t worried anyway. The only thing impressive about him was what was wilting between his legs. The rest looked like it was toned by nothing more than bronzer.

I backed out the door and headed for the back stairs at a trot. I’d told the chambermaid to give it two minutes then call security all distraught and tell them someone had snatched her credentials off her cart. It never pays to leave those who help you in the lurch, and they’d know whose keycard opened that door.

My landlord appreciated that I’d be making rent.

 

• • •

 

I didn’t know the office wasn’t empty until I was one step inside.

“It took me a while to find you.”

Jordan Regan sat on my couch in a suit that cost more than I took home in a couple of months. I was already in motion because I remembered his words from when I’d last seen him. The second guy, the one I didn’t see because he was behind the swing of the door, had other ideas.

He wasn’t much bigger than an Amazon delivery truck. I bounced off the forty-eight-ounce ham masquerading as his fist. When I steadied myself off the wall and set my feet under me, he smiled and waggled his finger “no” at me. The glint of gold in his mouth where most of us had ivory told me something. The couple of detours his nose took as it made its way down from his face told me the same thing.

“Relax, Mr. Morgan,” Regan said. “We’re not here for trouble.”

It didn’t seem like it mattered to the truck in front of me either way. He was still grinning. But I didn’t want trouble either. I wanted easy. I slid sideways toward my desk.

“You’re here to thank me for freeing you from a relationship gone stale?” I asked as if this were an ordinary visit.

“If you’re contemplating the revolver attached inside the well of your desk, it’s not there anymore.”

I froze. “It better be.” I’d inherited that gun from my father, one of the few things that survived Mom’s drinking problem after his death. Big guy or no, we were going to have a problem if it was gone.

“Again… relax, Mr. Morgan. Mitchell here somewhat liked it, but I pointed out that we have business and that might get us off on the wrong foot. It’s in your bottom drawer with the bullets removed. And while we are on that subject, we are also aware that you sometimes carry a gun under your jacket. Please, let’s just talk.”

I sometimes did, an M&P Shield in.45, but I wasn’t today. I slowly shrugged off my windbreaker under the watchful eyes of Mitchell, displaying all the nothing underneath, and moved to my desk chair.

“So, what’s our business?”

“I want you to find someone. They took something that belonged to me, and I want it back.”

“And you came to me because…?”

“I came to you because two things stuck in my memory once I got over my ire at you. The first was that you almost certainly broke the law in catching us. Even that final scene for Mr. Sullivan’s benefit was a minor felony or two. That’s a useful side of your character. The second is that you did catch us even though we were very careful, and I’m not a newbie at being careful.”

I did and he had been. He contemplated me with thin amusement before continuing.

“There’s a third reason. I’m not entirely over my pique. Natasha had the body of a goddess and was extraordinarily uninhibited about sharing it. You owe me, Mr. Morgan, and I’m here to collect.”

If nothing had done so before, that told me this wasn’t, “Go find my lost aunt.” This was payback and that meant it wasn’t safe for Mrs. Morgan’s little boy.

“You’ve heard about the police?”

His smile held no humor. “I’m sure it’s patently obvious that there will be no police report. We will make some inquiries from our side, but well, it’s not exactly our area of expertise. Besides, I think it’s prudent to have more than one horse in a race.”

“And if I decline?”

“It seems to me”–he glanced around the office–“that you’re not in the best financial shape. I need resolution within three weeks. Three thousand a day plus any reasonable expenses. Sixty large could go a long way to alleviating your condition, I think. Much better than my irritation continuing.”

Mitchell’s smirk showed me the irritation option suited him just fine.

Regan and I tugged at each other’s eyeballs. His blinked first. It wasn’t amusement. It was far colder.

“And of course, there’s your uncle in the care facility out on the island. Or the ex-wife… though she might not be on your Christmas list, so perhaps not. But closer to home, that assistant of yours, Jessica Savard. I prefer women who are more curvaceous myself, but a certain type of man wouldn’t mind offering her a job. I probably know people who know people.”

The cold stare left no doubt what type of “job” that was: one where you spent a lot of time in rooms like I’d caught him in, but you didn’t get to say, “I quit.” I could see Mitchell’s eyes as his boss’s last words sank in. That febrile stare would have had any competent nurse reaching for a thermometer.

As quickly as it came on, Regan’s expression disappeared, and the smile came back. “Three thousand a day, reasonable expenses, report to me on Fridays at this number.” He laid a business card on my desk. And waited.

I thought about what a man like Mitchell could do to someone like Jess. I nodded.

Regan’s smile was wide. Aren’t we just the best of buddies? it said.

“Pictures from the party where it happened and names are in here.” He set a 9″×12″ manila envelope next to the card.

I undid the clasp and pulled out one. It was clearly taken by someone with a cellphone. It was also clearly not a party for kids unless you wanted them to play Pin the Tail on the Hooker’s Panty-Clad Ass. I slid it back in for later, ignoring the smirk as he watched my expression.

“And if I find what you’re looking for?”

“I want my property back. I want to know who is responsible so that I can negotiate assurances that this situation will not recur.”

My eyes strayed to Mitchell. Regan caught it.

“Sometimes the needs of business preclude other methods of obtaining those assurances. My property back and a name, Mr. Morgan. Nothing more. No one needs to get hurt.”

I was not on the road to Damascus, and faith did not fill me.

“What am I looking for?”

“Do you know what a eurobond, or more specifically, a eurodollar bond is?

“No.”

“Do you know what a bearer bond is?”

“Vaguely. Something from old movies that worked like cash.”

“Well, not quite like cash, but good enough. And yes, they were in old movies. They’ve been legislated almost out of existence in this country. However, they are alive and well abroad. You’re looking for two. They are issued by Cypriot Interconnect and have a face value of one thousand dollars each. They were there the Saturday of the party. I saw them. They were gone Sunday.”

He gave me the rest of it, then rose to his feet and adjusted one precisely shot shirt cuff. “Three weeks from today. I look forward to a progress report on Friday.”

With that, Jordan H. Regan IV and Mitchell took their leave, leaving me wondering what the hell I’d gotten into and what the hell I was going to do to get out of it.

I opened the bottom drawer and pulled the Centennial 642 out. I reloaded it and rehung it on the inside of my desk. Then I walked myself down to the corner.

“Rittenhouse, Jimmy.” Not that he wasn’t already pouring. It was the only rye on the shelf, and I was a creature of habit.

 

• • •

 

“So,” Jess said, “some rich guy breaks into our office with his bodyguard, who assaults you, then makes some threats unless you do a job for him that everyone knows is shady, and you don’t call the cops?”

“Not just some threats, he–”

“Yeah, I got it! He threatened to hurt your uncle and have me taken. Not happy about that. All the more reason to call the cops.”

I noticed she didn’t mention Amber. She never did if she could avoid it, and when forced to, her tone was as alive as a three-day-old fish. I couldn’t be sure whether she thought whatever happened to Amber was karma.

We glared at each other. She’d been my assistant for three years: one when it was Amber and me, one when it was barely me outside of a bottle, and one since then. I had no idea why she stuck it out. It wasn’t for the paycheck, that much I knew. The white line around the finger she’d had when she applied had long since disappeared. The diffident attitude had followed it a year later, turning into one that sometimes irritated the everlasting bejesus out of me, but I couldn’t deny had pulled me through.

“So why?”

“He’s suspicious about a bunch of people, including them.” I gestured at one of the pictures that lay on the desk between us. “I don’t like their odds of what happens if he sends Mitchell to ask, which is probably Plan B despite what he said. He was calm and cool, but he’s in a bind. There’s no missing the stink of that.”

Jess looked at the picture. There was very little doubt of what it showed. Four young women in varying stages of undress clustered in for a selfie at a party. A very special kind of party in a very special stratum of the world. That mahogany-paneled room with the long stretch of green pool table wasn’t found in some “3br, 2.5ba” listing in the real-estate weekly from the deli, and those antiques didn’t come from Big Fred’s Furniture Mart.

Not to mention four young women, not one of whom was even remotely unattractive or a girl-next-door type. Call it the better part of a grand an hour… each. I guess a guy who could wear $7,000 suits and drove away from my office in a Bentley Mulsanne–yeah, I watched to make sure they left–wasn’t worried about that.

Jess sniffed. “Men aren’t too picky where they stick it, are they?”

I bit down on my words. I knew some of her history. “And because they’re party girls, they deserve–”

She cut me off with an exasperated sound. “Of course not! Four, no–” She pointed to another who was barely in the frame off to the side, almost hidden by a lamp in between her and the camera, bent against a table by a man in a bathrobe with its ties hanging loose. “Five, and you’re a sucker and a softy, so there’s no point in me arguing.”

I didn’t protest that out loud. It was pointless. I did inside… both parts.

She sighed. “Tell me the rest.”

She picked up the sheet where Regan had noted the details of the eurodollar bond. She didn’t ask. She just dumped the packet on the desk and started pawing through it. As I said, an attitude that sometimes irritated the everlasting bejesus out of me.

“Why is something worth two thousand such a big deal that he’ll spend one and a half that per day?” she asked.

“A very good question. I don’t know.”

“What does Cypriot Interconnect do?”

“Another good question to which I do not have the answer beyond the internet telling me it’s privately held.”

I pulled another sheet and slid it toward her. “There were nine people there besides Regan. Richard Bertram, Charlie Everett, and Larry Beck are described as long-time business associates. Anders Lindqvist was a new one.

“Here’s the kicker. Regan tells me that under no circumstances do I approach Bertram, talk to Bertram’s people, hint to Bertram. He implied maybe even whispering Bertram’s name when I’m in the shower was out. Me? I’m thinking Bertram isn’t just a business associate. I’m thinking he’s a partner who doesn’t know these bonds are missing and won’t be too happy if he finds out.”

Jess nodded. “And if Bertram’s the culprit?”

“I cross that bridge when I’ve eliminated the others.”

Together, we studied more photos that showed the men in question. They were party snaps and every one of them had one or more companions wrapped around the guy. I wondered for maybe two seconds why we got these and not some corporate headshots. It took only a second to answer myself.

He’s bragging, Harry. He’s the type to flaunt the lifestyle, let you know he’s the man with the women, the cars, the everything. Look what I got, Harry, five of them, willing to do anything, and you don’t even have one.

Jess seemed unruffled by the carnality portrayed.

“And who are they in real life?” she asked.

“Bertram runs an import-export business… which I figure is French for he’s mobbed up. Everett’s in the silk business, everything from men’s ties to women’s lingerie by way of some stupidly expensive expedition gear. Beck Resources is some big deal in crushed rock and cement. Lindqvist is a bit of a mystery. He’s Swedish and seems to be something in shipping, but I don’t have enough on him yet.”

“What the hell do Regan and Bertram do that those three would become clients of theirs?”

“Damfino.”

“And the women?” Her finger wandered down to the bottom part of the list. It had first names: Sasha, Emerald, Gia, Luiza, and Kimi.

“Regan says they don’t know anything about the bonds and weren’t anywhere near them. He figures the most they can tell us is if they saw something in someone’s pockets later that evening.”

“So, you’ve got one man you’re not allowed to talk to. You’ve got three more that are rich enough to ignore you if they want to… and I’m betting they will want to because they’re probably married, and who likes assholes waving pictures of a sex party anyway? Plus, you’ve got five women who know nothing. Why the hell is he counting on you to do anything? It’s impossible. At least in that timeframe.”

“I don’t think he is counting on me.”

She looked puzzled.

“I think I’m the tethered goat. He wants me to go out there and stir things up. He’ll watch to see who scurries where. If I get hurt in the process… Well, he’s still pissed at me no matter what he says, and that’s just a bonus for him.”

“You need to drop this.”

“I can’t.”

“You can!”

We glared at each other. It was a long conversation in a dead-silent room. Finally, she sighed.

“So… what?”

“I think he’s wrong about them.” I pointed to the last five names in her hand. “Women always dig around in stuff that’s none of their business.”

Her look was half irritation at the crack and half understanding. She’d been around for Amber.

 

• • •

 

I had one entrée into that world. I’d never used it, mostly because my usual clients–or should I say, the husbands of my usual clients–didn’t move in those circles. They were more likely to pick up a stripper at a club or call one of the low-end numbers.

Years ago, back when I was so wet behind the ears that my collar was damp, I gave someone a free pass. She was new to her game too. Not quite as new. She was still fresh-faced without the hard edge you can’t quite hide after a while, but she knew enough to be resigned instead of “Oh, shit!” at the sight of two uniforms filling the bedroom door of the hotel suite.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the guy started in, trying to find his balance.

My partner’s raised hand stopped him. Or maybe it was the other hand resting on the butt of the service pistol. “Sir, we knocked and identified ourselves.” Quiet politeness, just like they taught us in the academy. “No one answered.”

That was no surprise. We could hear the yelling clearly as we walked down the hallway. So had the neighboring rooms. Probably so had the guests in the hotel next door. Add in that these two were in the bedroom, not out in the living area.

“Since you’re the only person registered to this room, sir, perhaps you’d like to start?”

The silence that got didn’t matter much. We didn’t need an explanation. Him in a bathrobe. Her in a skirt, deep-v blouse, and heels. Only a single suitcase in the room. One look at the red mark on her cheek and we knew somebody either liked it rough or wanted to negotiate a discount.

My partner contemplated for a long moment while nobody said a word. He turned to the hotel flunky who had keyed us in. “Thank you, sir. I noticed the room across the hall is being made up. Perhaps my partner could take one of them there until things cool?”

The john glowered. The woman stiffened. The hotel guy gave a relieved nod–noise and police, two bad things in his business. My partner turned to me.

“I’ll have a little talk with the gentleman here, get things calmed down. Why don’t you take the lady? Oh and, rook?” He waited until I caught his eye and gave me a wink. “Welcome to the job.”

She turned as the door latched shut behind me.

“What’s your name, miss? Your full name.”

“Lauren Cartier.”

Yeah, like the watch… expensive. I wondered if her real name was something like Ann or Jill; I could hear the flat Midwest in her vowels.

“What’s your side of the story?” I asked.

“There’s no story.” Her voice was cautious.

“Do you want to press charges?”

“Hardly.” The faint scorn was unmistakable.

I considered what to do next. The silence seemed to prompt her. The resigned look came back in full, along with anger. “Let’s get this over with.” Her hand strayed to the buttons of her blouse.

“No.”

Perplexity blossomed, then derision, and she opened her yap without thinking too much. “All those virile policemen don’t mind your kind on the force these days?”

Her implication was obvious, and it riled me some. I was having a hard time not staring at the fingers frozen at the neck of her blouse. Or more accurately, at the two swells pushing up behind them. Nature, or somebody’s scalpel, had been kind to this woman. Being tweaked about not putting her on her knees didn’t sit well.

“Lady”–I bit back the “fuck you”–“I don’t take a fifty backhander from some mom-and-pop shop to do my job, so I won’t take the same from you.”

Her jaw tightened, but her brain had caught up. She wasn’t going to get into a pissing contest about price tags with someone who could still decide on a ride in the patrol car. I watched it turn fatalistic. Her hand dipped into the purse over her shoulder and came out with an envelope. “Not a fifty, huh? It’s going to take the whole thing?”

I wondered about that envelope, how much the john had put in it. Not because I needed a new putter. I golfed as regularly as I went to an ob-gyn. I wondered how much I’d been off on that crack about fifty bucks. I’d never know.

I made up my mind and gestured toward the still-visible red spot on her cheekbone.

“I figure he paid for the privilege.” I tore my peripheral vision off her tits and opened the door behind me. “Do the manager a favor and leave by the side door. And…” I gestured to her cheek again. “You know that’ll probably happen again someday? Or worse?”

Both the anger and resignation were gone. In their place was a wary surprise. She nodded. “Yeah. Um, you know, maybe it’s time for me to try something different. Thank you”–she glanced at my name tag–“Officer Morgan.”

It wasn’t time for something different, of course. She was just playing me until she could get gone.

I saw her once more before my coworkers decided they couldn’t quite trust me to be part of the team the way they played it, and once more a long while after that. The first time was on the street. I was going east. She was going west. West was inside the Hilton lobby. She froze.

“Miss Cartier,” I said politely. Names I was good with. I stepped out of her path. I wasn’t the least surprised at her destination. The job had wised me up some. Enough, for example, to know I’d been turning down a freebie that day because my partner was collecting a couple of C-notes to forget the whole thing. “Have a nice evening.”

“Um, thank you.” I could feel her eyes tracking me down the street.

The second time I was at the bar of a restaurant, deep into my third. She was at a table, deep in conversation with an older gentleman whose tailor probably owned a pretty nice brownstone. I noticed her, but my drink was more interesting.

“Officer Morgan.” The quiet voice at my elbow had lost the flat Midwest and picked up a hint of southern molasses over the years.

I looked sideways from the now-empty rye to a view that hadn’t gotten any less in the intervening years, although now it was more demurely framed in expensive silk and pearls, and traveled up to an expression that was polite and pleasant.

“It’s not officer anymore. It was agreed I should seek a new career.”

If I’d thought that would surprise her, I would have been mistaken. I hadn’t thought it, though. Even the first time we met, she’d known how some of the world worked.

“And your new career is whiskey taster?” She gestured at the row of dead soldiers in front of me that I hadn’t let the bartender clear. I wanted to keep track.

“No, that’s ’cause I’m also no longer…” I held up my left hand and wiggled the ring finger.

“Ah, that happens.” There was no sympathy in those eyes. Comprehension, yes. A hint of that hardness I’d looked for back when. But no derision either. “I was mistaken that first time, wasn’t I? Maybe I can do better this time.” She pulled a card out of the tiny clutch she carried.

“Cartier’s” in flowing gold italic on a black background. Beneath that, “by appointment” and a phone number. The trailing flourish of the “s” curved in an unmistakable shape.

“You’ll find the morning after requires much less aspirin than those,” she said with a nod toward the empties. “And one can have their drink of choice in things other than single malts.”

“It’s rye,” I said automatically.

“Spicy. I know just the type for you.”

At my raised eyebrow, I finally saw a glimpse of humor break through. “I’m more into management now.” She glanced over at the back of her distinguished companion. “Though I still have a few old friends.” She signaled to the bartender.

“Karl, put”–she looked over the shelf behind him–“an LSB 16 on my tab for Mr. Morgan here.” She turned back to me. “And now, I need to powder my nose and get back to my friend.”

All that was by way of saying that I had an entrée. It wasn’t a gold mine, but it was a start.

 

• • •

 

“Cartier’s.”

The tone spoke of dim lights, oysters on the half shell, and rich red wine. It spoke of bed sheets and lace and skin on fire.

“It’s Harry Morgan,” I said when I recognized it. “Maybe Officer Morgan to you.”

The voice grew warmer. “Officer Morgan! I’m surprised. It’s been… what?… over a year. I decided I had misjudged again.”

“No, you didn’t. Truth be told, I would’ve, but I knew I couldn’t afford it. I never believed that crack about the fifty, you know.”

She laughed. “No, after I got over my nerves, I knew you didn’t. I irritated you and you paid me back. We might have reached some kind of arrangement, though. I owed you one.”

“Well, see, I’m glad to hear that.”

“Oh?” The warmth banked down. Caution ruled.

“I have a picture. I need some names and contact info to go with it.”

“Officer Morg–”

“Just call me Harry. You know I’m not with the force anymore.”

“Harry… and please call me Lauren. Harry, you know that this is a world where confidentiality is the sine qua non.”

I don’t know if I was more impressed she knew the term, or that she used it so effortlessly in actual conversation. Neither, I decided after a moment. Polishing up was as much a tool in her trade as an iron bladder was in mine.

“Look,” I said. “I’ll lay it out straight. It’s not the johns. I know you’d never give them up, and besides, I know who they are anyway. It’s the girls. And I don’t care about their real names. I’m not looking to get them in a twist. A conversation any place they choose. That’s all.”

There was silence, then a sigh, like she truly regretted saying it. “I owe you Harry, but I don’t think I owe you quite that much. I’m so very sorry.”

I needed this. Keeping everything close to the vest I didn’t wear wasn’t going to help.

“Lauren. I’m going to put it a different way, a way that might not make you happy.”

“Well, Harry, go on.” I remembered her reaction back in the hotel room when she thought I was going to shake her down for sex or the cash or both. A merest hint of that was in her voice now, but years of cultivation had smoothed the edges until it said she was resigned to disappointment rather than anger.

“There are a number of people going to be looking for these women. You’re going to prefer I’m the one that finds them first because I just want to ask a few questions. The others won’t ask; they’ll insist.”

She lived in the shadow world. She understood what I was saying. I waited, and waited some more. Tick-tock, Lauren.

“I’m meeting a friend… no, not that kind of friend, a real one… at seven at Molto’s. I’ll meet you at six thirty in the bar there. You can have fifteen minutes.” The polished tone slid a little. In a way, it made it even more personal, like I was truly her intimate rather than a man who called Cartier’s. “I hope you’re not fucking around with me, Harry.”

I was on one of the stools at six fifteen. She arrived at six thirty, just as she promised.

“A glass of the Fevre Champs Royaux, please, Margot,” she said to the woman who walked up. “Still drinking rye, Harry?”

“Yes, though not as nice as that glass you bought me once upon a time.”

She smiled at the memory, but I could see the wariness lurking. I waited until she had her wine and the bartender had walked away before sliding a picture onto the counter. It was the one Jess had looked at with the four women.

“No guys in this one. I’m trying to be as discreet as you,” I said. Her finger touched the robed figure almost hidden by the lamp. “He doesn’t count. You can’t see anything except he’s got dark hair, but that does give you an idea about what type of party this was.” She nodded in agreement. I slid a second, carefully folded. It had the fifth woman in it. The fold hid the face of the man whose lap she was on.

“Something disappeared during that party. The owner wants it back. As in, wants it bad. He’s not thinking the girls took it… yet… but that doesn’t mean he won’t think they saw something. And if he gets tired of waiting for me to produce results, he’s got a semi-tame pit bull that will have no problem asking until he gets answers he likes. And then maybe he’ll ask a few more times just for kicks.”

Again, she understood.

“None of them work for me, Harry–”

Fuck! It was my best shot.

“–but she did for a few weeks some time back.” She pointed at the blonde. “I let her go. She looked the part, but she couldn’t quite act it.”

I got pinned under that gaze again. The long stare came from a woman who read men for a living. The best cops on the force probably didn’t do it any better.

“I’m guessing your client isn’t hurting. Are you on an expense account?” she said.

I nodded.

“Having hired her once, I’m also guessing he’s not one for moral outrage at certain expenses.” She pulled out her phone. I watched her scroll several times; I bet that list held a lot of numbers.

“Sasha? It’s Lauren Cartier. How are you, dear?” She gave me a polite smile and slid off her stool to walk far enough away that I couldn’t hear. Five long minutes later, she slid back up beside me just as I was finishing my drink.

“Margot says you can take that booth over there for the next hour or so. Make sure you tip her well. Sasha will be here in about fifteen. It’s five hundred for forty-five minutes, Harry, and that buys you questions with no guarantees of answers, nothing else.”

“Jesus! I don’t carry that kind of cash.”

She laughed, real mirth this time. “Everyone takes credit cards these days.”

She sobered and the veneer slipped again. It was deliberate. That didn’t mean it wasn’t effective with someone like me. It meant it was.

“If you are fucking with me, better lose that card I gave you, and I won’t pass up an opportunity to return the favor someday. If you’re not, then good luck, and maybe… just maybe… there’s still an arrangement to be had if you ever call.”

She smirked. I returned it weakly.

 

• • •

 

Her shoulders were a touch too wide, “swimmer’s shoulders” my mother would have called them. The hips were just a hair too narrow for a runway strut. But there was something feline about the package, something that prowled and growled and didn’t have a lot of stop in it.

She wasn’t dressed for Molto’s. The skinny jeans, the white wifebeater stretched taut, and the Converses were as out of place in the sea of business suits and dresses as pom-poms, but nobody frowned during the cool saunter through the bar. There were some jealous glances. There were more that were acquisitive, not all of them from men.

She made a beeline for me. She knew where I was sitting or what I looked like.

“Sasha?”

She nodded and slid in opposite me, ignoring my move to rise. “Martini, two olives,” she said to the server. She turned back to me expectantly. Her eyes went to my credit card sitting on the table next to my drink.

“Go ahead.”

“You know that once I run that, I can leave at any time? That’s the deal.”

I nodded. She pulled out her phone and one of those Square readers from the tiny purse slung over her shoulder. A minute later, she pushed the phone toward me. I did my thing, and Regan was going to be five hundred poorer if he paid my bill.

“You bought yourself forty-five minutes. In this bar, I mean.”

For one second, I was tempted to say, “So, we use the men’s room here?” but I resisted. I wasn’t a funny guy, and I didn’t want to antagonize the only starting point I had so far.

“I’m sure Lauren told you that I have some questions. They’re about a party a week ago at Jordan Regan’s place. Richard, Charlie–”

She cut me off. “I don’t talk about clients.”

I kept a grip on my patience and went on. “–Larry, and Anders were there.” Regan had told me they had used their real names in front of the girls. “You know which party I’m talking about?”

“I don’t talk about clients.”

“I don’t have the slightest interest in juicy tidbits about who did what with whom. I already know who the clients are in real life, maybe more than you do. And I’m certainly not looking to get any of you or any of the others in trouble.”

That didn’t even merit a verbal response. It was getting harder to keep that grip. Did she think I shelled out five hundred to ask about salmon recipes?

“Okay… then you don’t talk. You just listen while I tell my story. That’s part of the service you provide, right? I read that in a GQ article about why men call escort services.

“There was this party. Five guys were at it and five girls. A good time was had by all, from what I’m told, but maybe that’s biased. But after the party, the guy who paid the bill found out something was missing. He didn’t like that. So, he asked people to do something about it. Some of the people he asked are nice. They go about it with questions in upscale bars. The others go about it with questions too, but they aren’t asked in upscale bars. They’re asked in places where the consequences of wrong answers don’t disturb the upscale people.”

I had her attention. I gave it a long second to sink in.

“The end. Now, shall we have a cigarette? A drink before and a smoke afterward are the three best things in life, right?”

She was paying attention, but I didn’t have her.

“Listen, does Jordan Regan strike you as the kind of guy who’s going to let something like this go?”

She shrugged. The expression was somewhere between thoughtful and apprehensive. It was close but not enough.

I decided to give it a little nudge. “Have you met a man named Mitchell?”

That did it.

“What do you want to know?”

Her tone oozed petulance. I’d take it. I laid my packet of pictures on the table. She’d been there, so no need for secrets.

“Like I said, I want to know anything that might be relevant to two pieces of paper that went missing. And before you tell me that you don’t know anything about it, you might not know that you do. Give me a rough outline of the day. Who was where when?”

Regan had given me that, but I wanted outside confirmation. It wasn’t that I figured he’d lied, but it’s astonishing how much people forget when they describe something they think they remember well.

“Start from when you arrived. I’m told two cars came at almost the same time. Did everyone go right to the dock, or did anyone go in the house first?”

“Luiza and I got there at two. Gia and Emerald right after. The cars took us right down to the dock. Jordan and Larry and– You know, your numbers are off. There weren’t five girls at the party.” Her eyes turned distant for a second, counting. “There were seven.”

It surprised me that I was already finding a hole in Regan’s account. I didn’t let that get to my face. “Go on.”

“So, Jordan and Larry and Nikki were already there. I don’t know if they went to the house or not. Then Charlie and Anders arrived a few minutes later, then Richard with two other women. They all came straight to the boat. We went out. The guys fished for a while, some of the girls too.”

“What did the rest of you do?”

“Sunbathed, talked. Jordan says women lying around the deck sets the mood. We had a few drinks. Not much else. After they got bored of not catching anything, we came back, and Jordan told me to take the girls up to the game room. The guys were like three minutes behind. They obviously had something they didn’t want us to hear.” She shrugged. No skin off her nose.

“You take them up to the house?”

“I’ve been there before.”

Another little detail I didn’t get in Regan’s account. My surprise showed.

“I’m the blonde.”

Since she was obviously blonde, I didn’t know what that meant.

With a faint look of explaining something to an idiot, she said, “When he has business associates there, he likes to have what he calls the tasting menu.”

She touched her own face on the photo and another as if it should be obvious. “A blonde, a ginger.” It swung over to the snapshot that showed a woman straddling Charlie’s lap. “A brunette. Three White girls.” Back to the first picture. “Nikki’s Black and Luiza’s Hispanic. And…” she pawed through the other photos. “No, I don’t see a picture of Kimi here. She’s Chinese or Korean or something. Like I said, he thinks it’s funny to call it a tasting menu. He’s been asking for me as the blonde lately.”

Regan had labeled the men in the pictures, but not the women. There were five women you could see and five women’s names on the list. I’d assumed the obvious.

“Tell me who’s who. I know the men. I’ve got you, Nikki, Luiza of the women.”

“Gia’s the brunette. Emerald’s the redhead.” She peered at the one picture more closely. She pointed to the woman partially obscured by the lamp. “The one with Richard is Coco.” It was a brunette, and I’d assumed the same one that was on Charlie’s lap in the other picture. I was proving what they say about assumptions to be true. “I told you Kimi’s not in any of the pictures.”

Seven women, not five. A puzzle to be solved later. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing because it meant more eyes, but the pool of possibly greedy hands just got bigger. I felt a jolt of despair at the time limit. “Okay. You went up to the house. Then what?”

“We partied.” The tone of voice made it clear what that meant.

“Did you see anyone leave the room?”

Again, the expression said she was talking to an idiot.

“There are bedrooms down the hall from his game room. Of course people left the room.”

Given one of the photos appeared to show Richard enjoying Coco against a table, I don’t know why I should have assumed that. For all I knew, this was a regular Roman orgy around the pool table.

“Okay. Then did you see anyone leave the room not headed toward one of those bedrooms?”

“For the first hour or so, nobody did. After that, I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was the filling in a Jordan–Luiza sandwich, and he goes until he’s had enough, which isn’t quick.” The smirk was supercilious. I doubt you’re that type of man, it implied.

I understood what Lauren had meant now. Sasha was an eye-magnet. Hell, I’d only watched her walk twenty feet across the bar, but I’d already mentally had her on her back. So had every straight guy in the place.

But she didn’t have the smooth it took for Lauren’s clients. It wasn’t just that she couldn’t resist a jab. It permeated her attitude. Men were targets, someone to be taken down a peg.

“Couldn’t quite act it,” Lauren had said. I had no doubt that Lauren could do “predator” if that was what excited a man. She was a predator. But she was a predator whose prey was never conscious of the fact that it was bleeding out. She would have deflected questions with grace and regret and a deft touch that allowed a man to lead until he had gone exactly where she intended him to go.

With Sasha there was no velvet glove over the steel claws; she wanted you to see the blood she drew. I had a sudden hunch that she was “the blonde” more than once because Jordan saw that too. He would enjoy the body. He would enjoy breaking that attitude even more.

“What happened then?”

“Nothing. Cars came when the guys were done, and I went home and crashed.”

“Tell me about the other women.”

Her expression turned petulant again. I let my exasperation at her short memory show.

“Or the next person asking will be Mitchell.”

I saw the flare of anxiety. She was a pissy brat, but she’d met Mitchell and glimpsed what I’d glimpsed.

“Luiza and I worked together sometimes. Never at Jordan’s, he likes to change it up.” The “except me” was unspoken but there. She probably took that as a compliment. I saw it as confirmation.

Sometimes, Sasha, it’s not you hunting the tiger.

“The others, I don’t know anything about them.”

“Bullshit!” The tight eyes told me she didn’t like that, but I’d realized that direct was the only way this one, and fast before her short-term memory went again. “Maybe you were partying once you were up at the house, but you spent hours lying around on a boat with nothing to do but talk. I want to know how I go about finding them.”

“Emerald and Kimi work out of Eroticos. I’m pretty sure the others do too. At least some of them.”

“That’s an escort service?” At her nod, I went on, “Okay, get Luiza on the phone. See if she’ll come down here now.”

“It’ll cost you another five if she’s free.” The waspish smirk told me she enjoyed the damage to my wallet. I didn’t care. It wasn’t my wallet.

Every man in the bar was wondering what the hell I had going for me. My suit didn’t advertise it could pay for this, and my face didn’t argue it came gratis.

Where Sasha prowled, Luiza moved. A twenty-something Sofia Vergara compressed down to five four and packed into a black leather mini, silk top, and ankle boots that gave her four more inches.

“Sash.” She gave her coworker a brief kiss on the cheek. She gave me a smile perfected across a hundred dinner tables with a hundred men. A different start from her coworker, although that didn’t preclude her swiping my card also.

A different attitude too. She didn’t try to hide her concern at the situation once the full import was made clear. This was a woman who knew that the well-being of a working girl didn’t matter to a certain type of man, not when something worth spending thousands to retrieve was at stake.

“I was with Sash most of the evening and didn’t see anything either, but I know how to get in touch with Emerald.”

“What!” Sasha said. “You jumping ship?”

“No! She has this off-the-books regular who’s super into watching girl-on-girl, and she needs to keep giving him fresh looks,” Luiza said defensively. “And if you rat me out to Suzette, I’ll fucking kill you.” The threat wasn’t sincere… I thought… but the demand behind it was. I was guessing Suzette was… what’s the term now? Madam? Pimp? Manager? Someone who figured they got a piece of everything, at any rate.

Luiza turned back to me.

“Give me your number. I’ll pass it along. If she wants to talk, she’ll call. She might be able to put you in reach of the others. She knows Nikki, Gia, and Kimi.” She shook her head. “I have no idea about Coco. She was fishing, and we didn’t have a chance to talk.”

“Nothing else?”

The two shook their heads.

“Should we be leaving town for a while?” Luiza asked.

“Honestly? I don’t know if that’s the smart thing or makes you look like you’re running with something to hide.”

 

• • •

 

If I’d known how the night was going to end, I’d have gotten laid instead.

The phone rang. I didn’t feel like getting up from my desk to push the door shut. Doing paperwork for jobs completed had left me snoozy. Waiting for Emerald’s call for almost a day had left me anxious.

“Hey, Lexie.”

“Hey. This is a booty call. ‘Bout nine? Bring a bottle.”

“Going to see your pole dancer friend?” Jess’s tone was starchy as I walked past on my way to the liquor store.

“She doesn’t pole dance anymore.”

She sneered and turned away, mumbling. I’m not sure what it was. I wasn’t going to ask.

Jess didn’t like Lexie. She’d met her exactly once, and then only because Lexie had stopped by the office unexpectedly. I’d put a stop to that. I didn’t need the crap. After Lexie had sashayed her ass out the door, Jess had stuck her head in my office.

“That’s your girlfriend? Where did you find her? The VIP room at the KitKat?”

My protest that Lexie was a retired stripper, was met with a snort and a quiet, “Haven’t you had enough whores in your life?” I’d ignored it out of shock. It came from a woman who bit down on actually criticizing almost everyone. She might think it. She might let you know she was thinking it. But the words didn’t escape very often.

Lexie wasn’t my girlfriend. That word made my stomach clench. Girlfriends somehow became fiancées; fiancées became wives; wives became exes. That was an arc that started as good and inevitably turned bad.

Lexie was, even though I’d never say the words to her, a fuckbuddy because every once in a while, I wanted the w’s: warm, willing, wet. It didn’t matter that silicone didn’t squish against me the way the real thing should, or that I was pretty sure that “thirty-six” was off by a decade or so. Or even that I secretly wondered if Jess’s assessment of Lexie’s retired status was right. I wore a condom and soaked myself in ignorance.

We’d met when I’d found an apartment after my life fell apart. She was two floors down and friendly. Three ryes into a bad evening I was balls deep and responding to “Harder, baby!” like an old racehorse hearing the starting bell.

She’d moved to a cheaper place a while back, but the calls didn’t stop. About once every week or so, the phone would ring. It seemed to coincide with her running out of either Jose Cuervo in the summer heat or Mount Gay in the cool months.

I stepped out onto the sidewalk, letting the evening sounds wash over me: the constant thrum of traffic, the blare of horns, the loud voice shouting some nonsense to all who’d listen… which was precisely zero. Over it all was the smell of the city, the combination of overheated brick and charred pretzel, car exhaust and pizza, everything tinged with the sweet-sour fragrance of garbage. Since the fall nip was coming in, I bought the rum and a six of Coke for her to mix it.

At nine oh-nine, I was buzzing her apartment, trying to keep an eye on those walking past me. It wasn’t a good neighborhood.

At nine twenty-eight, I almost ignored my phone. What was worth interrupting what Lexie was doing?

She had greeted me and my gifts with delight, pressing her lips and the twins equally firmly. She took my jacket and hung it, then poured us each one. Hers killed the last two fingers of the previous donation. Mine came out of a bottle of Old Overholt I kept there. Lexie hated any type of whiskey, so I knew it’d still be there when I visited.

“Thank you so much, Harry,” she said. She always did. She never offered to pay. Maybe, in her mind, she was paying because the next part was always the same too. And there I was, sprawled back on the sofa, eyes closed, a rye in one hand, enjoying warm, willing, wet when my phone rang.

The cheap clock on the shelf changed everything. It was one of those that dinged the Westminster chimes off-key every fifteen. Lexie thought it was classy. I thought it was annoying as hell. Interrupting a blowjob didn’t change that impression. But the eight notes of half-past me think of time, and time made me think of a three-week deadline… and a call I was expecting. The “Unknown” on my phone said it was a private number.

“Harry Morgan.”

“This is Emerald, Luiza’s friend.”

Lexie’s face looked up with surprise when she heard me answer. You’re taking a call now? it seemed to ask. Then her eyes twinkled, and she redoubled her efforts.

“Um.”

The voice was brusque.

“Luiza said I should talk to you and that sooner was better than later. I have somewhere I need to be at ten. If you want to meet me in the lobby bar at the Hilton Garden before, okay. Otherwise, it’s late tomorrow.”

That was tight even if I could find a cab or an Uber close by.

“No chance after your appointment?” It was getting hard to talk. Other sensations were taking over.

Emerald’s tone got even more clipped. “It will run too late.” An overnighter, I interpreted, or at least the wee hours.

“I might make it in time.”

“If I see you, then I see you. I think you know what I look like.” She didn’t sound happy about that. “If you’re not here when I need to go, I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon.” She hung up.

“L-Lexie,” I stuttered. “I need to go. Like now.”

“You have time,” her mouth left me just long enough to get the words out.

“No.” I reached down and pushed her back. “This is work and a big deal.”

She pouted. “You want to go meet another woman while I’m in the middle of sucking your dick?”

Sometimes, the best way to manage Lexie was to move to her level.

“I’m going to meet another woman who will not be sucking my dick. But there is a lot of money involved. And when I’m done, I’ll be coming back here, and we can pick up where we left off.”

“You can come back, but don’t think I’m picking back up where I left off,” she huffed. But the mention of a lot of money had settled her.

Somehow, I stuffed myself back into my pants, grabbed my jacket, and bolted down the stairs.

I never saw them coming.

The first fist exploded into my kidney out of nowhere. My breath left me in a moan, and I arched back in pain. The second shot to the same spot put me on the ground where a foot caught me in the ribs, curling me into a ball.

A fist wrapped in my hair and yanked my head back. My scream cut off as something flat, it didn’t seem like a fist, smashed my left jaw. I felt something give in my mouth. My head whipped sideways, and this time I caught a glimpse: a black glove, bulging unnaturally. Weighted, my mind said just before the backhand hammered into the frontal bone above my right eye. The world spun and wet darkness flooded across my vision. The hand let go and I fell sideways to the pavement, staring at a pair of black shoes with my one good eye. Or not very good as it kept shifting in and out of focus.

“Get him on his feet,” a voice said.

A forearm looped against my neck like an iron bar, the other tucked up under my armpit, and I was hauled upright. A fist sank into my stomach. Then another, and another, and I lost count. That was about the same time I lost my dinner and the few sips of rye I’d had. With a cry of disgust, the forearm choking the life out of me let go and I fell.

Someone knelt next to me. The same voice said, quietly but distinctly, “Take another case, Mr. Morgan. You’re done with this one.”

Then something hard, much harder than a sand-weighted glove, slammed into the back of my head, and the lights went out for real.

 

• • •

 

I woke to the sound of a truck backing up.

“Wha–” The word barely started before I cut it off with a gargle. My throat was on fire.

The beeping brought in a nurse. I realized where I was and that there was no truck.

Over the next few minutes, I was told to shut up, had my blood pressure, temperature, pupils, and catheter checked; given the startling news flash that I’d been mugged; and informed that the doctor would be in shortly.

The doctor looked the way they all did: too young, too tired, and too harried to want to talk with me. Not that talking seemed like a good idea with my throat. I lay there and tried to figure out exactly what the smell of a hospital was–they all smelled the same–while he recited the litany of my woes.

“Concussion. Two fractured ribs; we’ve strapped those. Nine supraorbital stitches; the scar shouldn’t be too bad. We splinted the two fractured fingers. Significant contusions about the torso and head. After the head trauma, I was most concerned about renal damage, but I’m cautiously optimistic. You should anticipate passing blood in the urine for a couple of days. We’ll keep you for observation for a while. Oh,” he added, almost by way of afterthought, “the police asked to be notified when you awoke and will be stopping by.”

The police were not next. That was Jess.

“You look like shit, Harry.”

She didn’t look so hot herself. Her clothes had the limp look of worn too long. Her hair looked like she’d been sleeping against something. What little eye makeup she wore was smudged.

“Time?” I croaked, shifting to find some way to lie that didn’t hurt.

“Three. In the morning,” she added.

“How?”

“Somebody called 911. They didn’t hang around to get involved. It wasn’t your girlfriend. She didn’t even come down.”

Snippy. I wanted to point out that it was a rough neighborhood and coming down every time there were flashing lights was more cardio than anyone needed, but it hurt too much to say that many words.

“They called me because I’m the ICE contact on your phone.” She peered at my face. “I was surprised at that. I…” She didn’t finish the sentence.

I tried to smile. It hurt like a sonuvabitch so I stopped. “Who else? Amber?”

That got an answering smile. Then it turned serious and very upset. “You could have died. I think–”

Before we could get into whatever talking-to I could tell was coming, the curtain slid back again. One look and you knew what he was: north of fifty with thinning hair turning gray at the temples; tired eyes that didn’t widen at the sight of a body that probably looked like an extra in a zombie movie; clothes that were just a hair too large like he’d shrunk a bit since they were bought. The gold shield hanging from the belt was superfluous.

“Mr. Morgan, I’m Detective Darryl Murray.”

I grunted a greeting. He turned to Jess. “Ma’am, if you would give us a moment, please?”

“Of course. I’ll go back to my chair outside.” The way she said it told me she’d been there a while. That explained the slept-on hair.

I grasped her hand before it moved off the rail of my bed. “Stay.” I wasn’t sure how coherent I was after the beating and with painkillers in me… because while I ached all over, I realized I didn’t ache enough.

Murray’s eyes took it in, decided it wasn’t worth insisting.

“So, Mr. Morgan, who wanted to kill you?”

“Mugging.”

“Hmm. You see, it’s interesting that muggers would go to the trouble of doing that.” He gestured toward my face. “I mean, I’m not saying there aren’t violent people out there, especially if you resisted. But it seems odd that they’d go to that trouble, grab any cash you had in your wallet, but not bother with this.” He held up a photo. It was of a pistol. Specifically, the M&P Shield that I’d been carrying in the small of my back. I’d never had time to reach for it.

“It’s a nice gun. Probably clean as you’re such an upstanding citizen an’ all. Probably pick up one fifty on the street for it. Or just use it.”

He waited. I didn’t say anything. I was thinking about the hundred bucks that had been in my wallet. I guess I add that to my expense sheet.

“So, still a mugging?”

“Mugging,” I confirmed.

He sighed. “How many were there?”

I held up two fingers.

“Can you identify them?”

“No. They came from behind.”

“I ran you as a matter of course. Never know who might fall into our laps, right? So, I know what you do, and that gives me ideas. I got the idea somebody didn’t like something you did. Maybe a husband who’s paying through the nose because you caught him with his pants down. What do you think of that?”

I’d only been threatened twice in connection with an adultery case. Once years ago. The last time… well, that was the guy I was working for now. I shook my head. Bright streaks of lightning crossed my vision as my head explained that I should stop doing that immediately.

“Or maybe someone you’re trying to catch with their pants down right now.”

“No case like that.”

“Okay, if you’re not working a divorce situation, what are you working on?”

My throat was raw. “Hurts to talk.” I looked up at Jess. “Tell him ’bout Semmick case.”

Thankfully, Murray was still staring at me. He didn’t see the confusion that took hold for a second. Then the irritation.

“We have a case where a small business is experiencing theft out of their warehouse,” she said. “They asked us to set up some surveillance after hours.” There had been one of those cases. We’d finished it months ago.

“What kind of stuff?”

“Small electronics.”

“Hmm. So, some cheap-ass TVs from China are going missing. The persons taking them notice you watching. Instead of just cooling it for a while until the owner decides he can’t afford to pay you anymore, they stalk Mr. Morgan to a friend’s place and turn larceny into attempted murder. I mean, it’s not like it was just a beating ’cause they didn’t explain, right? Yeah, it all sounds totally plausible.” They were selling sarcasm two for one on the day he bought.

“But what do I know? I don’t have the time to cut through bullshit or the inclination to deal with idiots. I spend my time on people who want to cooperate.” He waited for me to change my mind. After another sigh–this man was seriously world-weary–he nodded.

“Okay. Well…” He slid a hand into a pocket and came out with a card. “If your memory suddenly gets better once you’ve healed, there’s my number. Stop by the station if you want to claim your property.” He glanced over at Jess. “Ma’am.” He left, a man disappointed in his public.

Did I want to tell him? Of course I did. I wasn’t stupid, and the police had much better resources, both for finding and protecting. But two things stopped me.

One thing I’d known for days: Regan’s threats. He had that cold core that made me believe they were real. He also had a rabid dog who would enjoy carrying them out. The thought of Jess dragged into a van, a needle pushed into her arm, what followed… no, I wasn’t going to risk that.

The second thing I’d known for about five hours. When I’d fallen onto the sidewalk and stared at the shoes in front of me, I knew what they were. Nike ACG Superdomes in black on black. I had a pair myself. Those weren’t street kicks. But they were favored by cops who walked those streets.

 

• • •

 

“What the fuck, Harry?”

Jess had no hesitation about swearing at her boss. It had started a year ago when my ever-respectful, textbook assistant had pulled up alongside me at Jimmy’s, and the first words out of her mouth were “So, I should look for a new job because you’re pouring my old one down your throat? Can you at least write me a fucking reference before you totally bitch out?”

She later told me she’d been quaking in her size eight Tory Burch pumps, but she’d already tried every other way she could think of to get through my absorption with the detour my life had taken.

The next few months, they’d sucked. We’d emerged, barely solvent and not without a few shouting matches. I put up with it because, no matter what she said, I knew she was loyal to the core. Hell, she’d just lied to the detective at my instigation. So, I put up with it.

“Not open to discussion.”

“Don’t be an idiot! Tell the police, you–”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Screw that I felt like I was gargling gravel, my voice rose. “I tell the police something and the next thing you know, they’re talking to the eleven people who had a reason to do this. Then they turtle up on me and it’s all over.”

“You don’t know it’s one of them.”

“I do.” I told her what the voice had said at the end. She stared at me. I could see the fear was finally getting a toehold.

“This is too much, Harry.”

“It is. But I’ve got no choice but to play the cards I was dealt.”

She started to say something else. I cut her off.

“I’m not a guy who takes a threat of you held in some upstairs room taking on all comers while you’re strung out on H and says, ‘Oh, the police will handle it.'”

She glared. I glared back. It pissed me off to have to argue about this. I hurt all over, and cranky wasn’t even in the same county as how I felt.

“Besides,” I said. I told her about the shoes. The apprehensive look came back though the glaring didn’t stop. That woman had a complex face.

“So?” she said finally.

“I don’t know if Emerald set me up or if word got to whoever some other way. All I know is we’ve touched a nerve. And that clock is ticking. I need to get out of here. So, help me disconnect all this stuff.”

I expected it would take a while because, of course, I was going to have to argue with her about that. A lot.

It took longer than I expected because I realized I had no idea how to disconnect a catheter, didn’t want to ruin my plumbing, and sure as hell wasn’t going to ask Jess to help me figure it out.

Flushing, I called the nurse. Which meant arguments with her, then with some on-call doctor-type. Finally, ignoring the broken record of “against medical advice,” I got a wheelchair.

“Tough guy,” Jess sneered as she helped me into her car. I’d learned about giving her the last word, so I zipped it.

 

• • •

 

“It’s Emerald. You didn’t make it last night.”

“I was unavoidably detained.” It sounded cheesy even to me, but if she didn’t already know what happened, I didn’t want to scare her.

“Can you make it today? Like soon?”

The brusque tone of yesterday was replaced by tension. Concern over last night? Worried I’d twig if she set me up a second time? I decided neither. I’d done nothing so far to indicate last night’s message hadn’t stuck.

“Did something happen?”

“I came home–” A horn blared on her end. “Sorry. I’m in a cab. I came home and my doorman said, ‘Oh, I figured you were sleeping in. When you didn’t answer the buzz, I told him to come back later.'”

“Let me guess. You didn’t have an appointment this morning?”

“I don’t do incall with anyone but long-time regulars, and the doorman knows them.” Nerves had scattered the euphemisms of last night to the wind. “Besides, I don’t accept bookings when I don’t know what time I’ll be home.”

“So, what now?”

“I’m going to a friend’s. She’s away but I have a key.”

“I’m certain Luiza told you what I’m asking about. Do you know something, Emerald?”

There was only the sound of traffic on her end. I pressed.

“I don’t think a guy getting stopped by your doorman would worry you unless there was something else.”

Her answer was oblique. “Mitchell creeped most of us. And Kimi wasn’t happy later she had to…” She trailed off. “I’m in a cab.” The implication was obvious: not gonna talk about a sex party. I was busy considering Mitchell. If I made a stab at the end of her sentence, it sounded like Regan let the help have a little fun too.

Does that put another name on the list? Fuck, there’re too many players already and not enough time. But I couldn’t discount it. A knife in your boss’s back wasn’t out of the question, especially if the boss was concentrating suspicion elsewhere. Fuck me! Thirteen people there… I wasn’t superstitious but I had a bad feeling about this.

“Do you know something, Emerald?”

“I don’t know. There’s a picture. Jordan–” She broke off. “This isn’t the place to have this conversation.” She rattled off an address.

I thought about it. A pain in the ass on the subway. Sixty-five blocks and on the other side of town by car. “Thirty minutes or so.”

Five minutes into the car ride, every pothole sent a reminder through my body of the night before. I made a decision. Then I made a hard right, earning a horn and finger from a cabbie. I had a stop I needed to make first.

“I’m here to pick up personal property that you’re holding. It’s a firearm I was carrying.” That earned me some attention. It also earned me a lot of comments from wiseasses who thought they were funny by pointing out the incongruity of a carry permit and my face. It took forty minutes to verify my permit three times, sign a hundred pieces of paper, and wait.

“Your property guy go get it by mule, and the mule died on the way?” I asked the sergeant who was keeping an eye on me.

He sneered. Like I said, I’m not a funny guy.

“Detective Murray says he wants to see you when you come in.”

“So, show me where to go.”

“He’s out.”

“Then tell him thanks for the kind wishes but I gotta go.” That earned me a sour look from the sergeant, but I was late already. Murray would forget about me in a week, pushed aside by the next victim.

It was a reasonably toney building in a toney part of town. No doorman, but a locked door. I pressed the button for the number Emerald had given me. The door buzzed and I headed in. Coming up behind me was a woman with her arms full. She froze when she saw my face.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I was mugged last night,” I said, holding the door for her. My suit didn’t say I belonged here, but she only had eyes for the colorful skin and the bandages.

Immediately, her face softened. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“I’ll heal.” I tried for a twinkle, hoping it didn’t make me look like a ghoul. “Though as soon as I’m done with my friend here, I’m thinking it’s five o’clock somewhere.” It was only ten thirty in the morning, but the bag she was carrying had a liquor store logo and clinked suggestively. She laughed and moved down the hall while I waited for the elevator.

Emerald’s friend lived on the third floor. No doorbell; I knocked. There was no answer, no sound of footsteps. I knocked again.

“Emerald?” What the fuck?

I jiggled the door handle. Why? It’s human nature. It turned.

This is the city… one does not leave one’s door unlocked.

The M&P.45 was a reassuring weight in my hand without me even realizing how it got there. For a brief second, I wished I were one of those two: military or police. If I were, I’d have a vest on, and there’d be backup standing beside me.

I gave the door a shove, my head below where my center of mass would be normally, just barely peeking around the frame. A hallway stretched ahead, twelve or fifteen feet, empty.

I rose and stepped along it, every sense straining. There was that feeling of “nobody home,” but trusting it could make me very dead. Where the hall turned left into the apartment there was a mirror. I angled so I could look. I saw the edge of a counter, a couch, and part of a chair beyond that. I came around the corner fast. Nobody.

A door to what I presumed was a bedroom stood open beyond the kitchen in the same wall as the hall came out. I moved to the far side of the kitchen island. No matter what Hollywood tells you, apartment walls don’t stop bullets. Neither does the thin wood of cabinets, but I hoped there were some pots and pans in there that might give me a little cover if someone fired blind.

I snagged the long coat thrown carelessly over the back of the couch and duckwalked my way along. I made a quick out-and-back with my head around the corner of the island. An oriental runner, the corner of a bed.

I stood and hurled the coat through the doorway. No fusillade of shots tore it apart. Then I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. When the voice answered, I recited the address Emerald had given me, speaking loudly enough that anyone would hear and know cops were coming. My gun was steady on the opening. “I think there’s a murder.” I set the phone down on the counter without disconnecting. I ignored the questions squawking from it, my focus solely on what was in front of me.

I moved through the doorway in a rush, just in case I wasn’t too late for that limp leg trailing off the side of the bed.

I was. My initial feeling had been right, the apartment was empty. There’d been at least two people. One of them was gone, probably down the stairs while I came up the elevator. The other was sprawled on the bed.

Her cocktail dress was rucked up, exposing the long expanse of leg I’d seen from the living room and a pair of panties so lacy and sheer I knew they cost a fortune. I wanted to pull it down to give her some decency, but I knew the drill. The darker, wet-looking blotch marring the green silk just inside her left breast wasn’t needed. The rusty iron smell fighting with a trace of urine told the entire story.

There was no need to worry about her modesty. The dead don’t get embarrassed.

She looked so different from her picture. The hair was still spun copper, the skin porcelain. The face was still beautiful, the body a masterpiece of curves. But it was just a husk. Whatever had made her Emerald in that photo was gone.

The thought of a photo made me remember her words. I didn’t see a picture or phone lying there. I picked up the coat and felt in the pockets. Nothing. I looked for a purse. I didn’t see one, which was odd. This woman didn’t go on a date without one. There were things she’d want to carry and a wallet.

Is it under her? I had no desire to touch that body. I moved forward to see if anything was poking out.

“POLICE! Put the weapon down!”

I froze. I didn’t whirl or argue. I knew how twitchy those fingers could be when confronted by someone holding a gun. Very slowly, index finger of my right hand prominently extended away from the trigger guard, I laid my pistol on the bed. Then I placed my hands on the back of my head and started to kneel.

I didn’t make it all the way down before I was manhandled the rest of the way, an iron grip on one wrist while the officer’s other hand controlled my head. Where the head goes, the body follows. I didn’t struggle. A few feet behind and to the side would be his partner, and he’d have his service pistol aimed right at my back. A knee into my aching kidneys wrenched my ribs. I barely stifled a scream.

“I have a broken–”

“Shut the fuck up!”

I felt the first cuff ratchet, then my other arm was wrenched to join it. I was rolled onto my back, drawing another groan. Grimacing, I faced my captors. Right above me was an angry face above a blue uniform. Just as I expected, his partner was to the side with her pistol, it looked like a Glock 19 to me. I was pleased to note it was now slightly to the side and her finger was indexed along the guard instead of curled in.

Behind them was a sharp-faced man in a windbreaker, but I could see the black nylon of a vest underneath. I directed my words to him.

“I have two broken ribs as well as a concussion. Please tell your guy to get his knee off me. I’m having trouble breathing.” Those could be magic words these days, and I felt the knee ease slightly, although the hands still pinned me. They were superfluous; I wasn’t going anywhere. My tank had run dry.

Sharp-face studied me for one long moment, then made a motion. The knee came off fully, and I was half-lifted to lean against the wall. “You look as though you have a concussion and two broken ribs.”

“That was fast,” I said.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just called a few minutes ago.”

His face took on an expression of extreme interest. “You called?”

“Of course. I just got here. Check with the lady in 1B if you want. She came in with me.”

“You just happened to be standing in front of a dead body with a gun?”

“My weapon hasn’t been fired. A GSR test is going to be negative on me.”

Sharp-face reached into his side pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. Donning them, he picked up my gun, sniffed it. He popped the clip out and racked the slide, catching the round that flew out with a practiced hand.

“Nice gun. I carry the same off duty ‘cept mine’s a nine. Got a permit to carry this one?”

“In my wallet. Back right pocket. You can take it out.”

He nodded at the uniformed woman and my wallet was extracted while her partner kept a hold on me. Sharp-face studied the driver’s license and then the carry permit.

“How’d you manage one of these, Mr. Morgan? They’re hard to get.”

I ignored the question. It was none of his business. “Who am I speaking with?”

His face twitched. “I’m sorry. I’m Detective Gibson. These are Officers Hopkins and Allen.” He handed my permit to the guy. I didn’t know if he was Hopkins or Allen. “Check if this is legit, and confirm whether there was a call to 911 or not.”

“The call is probably still going on. My phone’s on the counter, and I didn’t hang up.”

Again, I got that frozen moment of extreme interest. Sharp-face nodded and the uniform went.

“So, why don’t you tell me why… well… just tell me.”

“Isn’t this the part where you Mirandize me?”

He didn’t like that, but he dutifully went through the formula. “Now that we’ve got that formality out of the way, are you in physical distress such that we need to call an ambulance?”

I shook my head.

“Then purely as a courtesy, will you tell me why you’re here? If you choose not to, that’s your right. We’ll take you down to the station while you call your lawyer and proceed from there.”

My second detective in as many days, but they couldn’t be more different. Where Murray had been rumpled and world-weary, Gibson was sharp. Not just his features. The collar under the vest was starched, the pants held a crease, the Italian loafers were polished.

Murray exuded, “I know you’re gonna lie to me, so go ahead.”

Gibson radiated, “I have a cell with a reserved sign for liars.”

A lawyer would tell me shutting up was smart. But I couldn’t afford to lose time being booked and held until a judge had a free moment.

“I came to see a woman.” Hopkins or Allen, whichever she was, gave me that look women give. It’s the one that’s fifty percent disgust, fifty percent pity, and fifty percent “I wouldn’t touch you with my worst enemy’s hand, so no wonder you pay for it.”

Gibson’s eyes were more opaque. I didn’t disabuse them of their assumption.

“And?”

“And someone buzzed me in, but no one answered the knock. The door was open, so I came in.” I nodded my head at the bed. “That’s what I found. I didn’t touch anything but the door handle coming in and maybe the island out there. I moved her coat from the back of the couch to where it is now.”

“Allen, help me get him to his feet. Let’s move out of here before we contaminate this any further.” Well, at least now I knew who was who.

I sat out there while Gibson conferred with Hopkins and then made some phone calls. I sat there some more as another gold shield showed, along with a posse of crime scene specialists. I sat there while snippets that included “operation,” “jurisdiction,” and “talk to the lieutenant” clued me in: the new guy was in charge.

I looked at Allen who was still on “watch him” detail. “Gibson’s not homicide?”

The contempt from before was no longer apparent, replaced by the dispassionate professional mask of a cop. She stared at me.

“Hey,” I said. “You saw my weapon hasn’t gone into an evidence bag. It hasn’t been fired, plus it’s still got a full clip and one in the chamber. And I’m betting your partner, or somebody, has already talked to the woman in 1B.”

The wheels didn’t turn long. “No, he’s vice,” she admitted.

I tried my question again. “You got here fast. I’d only called 911 a minute before.”

“We weren’t responding to that. Our unit was nearby when we heard a ten-ten from Gibson. We decided to roll in as backup.”

“Suspicious person or shots fired?”

Her gaze sharpened on me. “You were on the job?”

“Once upon a time.”

Something changed in her expression. I couldn’t tell whether it got harder… contempt confirmed that I couldn’t hack it in blues… or eased… someone who’d been on the line like her.

“Not my place. You’ll have to ask him.” I guess it was the first. “You don’t look so good. You sure you don’t need a bus? Detective Rossi, excuse me, sir, but…” Or maybe not.

The EMTs looked me over, pronounced me nowhere near fine but surviving. I wasn’t so sure. My vision wasn’t working right, and I had more aches than I could count. Rossi dutifully listened to the same story I’d told Gibson. One of the techs did a field GSR on me.

“Looks negative. The lab will confirm. Weapon’s clean,” he said.

The woman from 1B was brought in to confirm I was, indeed, the man who had held the door for her. Rossi was nice enough to have the cuffs off by that time. By the time I got out of there with a promise that I’d be in the next day to repeat, sign, and swear, I was sweating bullets and it was all I could do not to vomit. At least they gave me my weapon back.

 

• • •

 

It was Friday. I needed to check in and had nothing but a dead escort to show for the week.

On top of that, it was about thirty-six hours since I’d played crash-test dummy, and the soreness was peaking. I swallowed twice the ibuprofen I should have, slathered on the Tiger Balm, and sucked it up. I had a ride to take.

“You were supposed to call.” Mitchell’s flat stare raked up and down. “The beating you obviously got scramble your brains?”

“Aren’t butlers supposed to wear penguin suits?”

That irritated him. I could see the gears turning, trying to decide if he should make something of it. He decided against it.

“You carrying?”

“Nope.” I’d left it in the glove compartment. I knew I wouldn’t be allowed to have it in the house. My hands were in my jacket pockets, and I pulled it wide open to show.

He grunted and led me through to the room I recognized from the pictures. It had large glass doors leading out to a pool and hot tub. The pool was a serene rectangle, undisturbed by anything but an errant leaf in the cool air. The hot tub was in use.

Regan regarded me quizzically as I moved toward them. Sasha smirked and made no effort to cover up her naked breasts.

“You were supposed to call,” Regan said.

“I need to see the layout. Figured I’d kill two birds with one stone.” That was my story. The truth was, I wanted to see Regan’s face when I made my report.

He listened intently as I walked through the events, interrupting occasionally.

“You got through my precautions. I figured you’d be as resourceful when it came to my associates.”

“It’s early days, and sometimes the way to someone isn’t the obvious route.”

That gave him something to think about. “How did you catch Natasha and me?”

“You’re not paying me to talk about that case.”

“If there’s a hole in– Actually, I should say, since there was a hole in my precautions, I want to know what it was.”

“Professional secret. Never know when the next husband you cuckold will hire me.”

I waited to see how he’d take that. He could go all tough guy and probably make it stick. Or he could see it as a challenge. I was betting on the latter. Regan thought he was smarter than the average bear.

“We’ll see. Anyway, so far you’ve managed to spend a thousand of my money on escorts with nothing to show but your face rearranged.” I hadn’t gotten to the part about Emerald yet. I wasn’t going to talk about that in front of Sasha.

A smile creased his face. It wasn’t a nice one.

“You didn’t even get your money’s worth from paying them. You know, Harry, I don’t like it when my money is tossed away for nothing by employees. It makes me look bad.”

Before I could protest that verdict, the malicious smile widened. He put his hand on Sasha’s shoulder. “I paid for the day. Go ahead.” He poked his chin out in the direction of the inside rooms. “She knows the way.”

Sasha went rigid. Utter fury suffused her face. Regan wasn’t looking at her, but I’m sure he knew. It’s what he wanted. It didn’t give me any satisfaction to know I had been right.

You should have read what kind of man he is better, Sasha. Your attitude is a challenge to him, and he’s going to enjoy breaking it.

He was serious. I could take her inside, screw her, and then come back and get my tour. He wouldn’t care in the slightest. For a second, my imagination took flight. Regan would insist she make it great.

Not because he was a good guy. The exact opposite. He’d want to break her just that little bit more. He’d want to demonstrate to me that he could hand out a goddess as if she were the merest bagatelle, table scraps for the help. And he’d demand she bring her A-game because he was a guy who served his guests the best.

She would do it. Not because he’d paid, but because she knew somewhere deep inside what lurked below the surface of his smile, and the consequences if she didn’t.

Sasha was now and forever my enemy. Her humiliation sealed that. But I didn’t need blind hatred. And I could already taste the rancid flavor of self-disgust. I wasn’t that guy. I pushed aside the momentary fantasy as just that, a stupid fantasy brought on by a sex life that didn’t really cover all the bases for me.

“I have two cracked ribs, two fractured fingers, my head was smashed open, and I was pounded in the kidneys and the stomach. I’m going to have to take a pass on that.”

“Yeah? Okay.” He didn’t care. He’d accomplished what he set out to do. “Come on. I’ll show you the office.”

I don’t pray. If there’s a god, he needs to do a better job down here before he gets my vote. But… Please, do not let him stand up naked! The thought of staring at some horny fucker’s johnson would just make the day worse. I was spared.

Leaving Sasha behind, he led me through the house. At the end of a short hallway on the other end was a door. He gestured for me to go toward it. Two steps farther and a loud beeping erupted. I looked back to see him smiling.

“Alarm. You have electronics on you. I don’t allow them in there.”

“That must piss off every millennial. They’re surgically attached to their phones.”

“Millennials don’t come in here. It’s off-limits to my children.” The fact that he had reproduced didn’t make me feel good about the human race. “Cell phones have cameras. I have things I don’t want photographed. Cell phones can also be bugged and hacked without you knowing.” At my raised eyebrow, “Have you heard about Pegasus? No? I’m surprised. I thought you were an investigator. Anyway, google Israeli spy software and Wikipedia will get you up to speed.” At his demand, I set my phone on a small hall table.

It was a fairly ordinary office if you discounted the lack of windows and that the swing of the door told me it wasn’t an ordinary four-panel piece of wood. A desk, a couple of armchairs facing it, a drinks caddy. He showed me where the two papers had been in the center drawer of the desk.

“Can I see one like them? Just in case I only glimpse a corner or something, I want to know what I’m looking for.” He hesitated. “Don’t tell me you don’t have another one. I won’t believe you.”

He went to a safe he hadn’t bothered to disguise. With his back to me, he punched in a series of numbers, rummaged around, and handed me a piece of paper folded in thirds. It was about what I expected: some fancy engraving around the border, the company name in large type, “$1,000” prominently displayed, a serial number, a signature. There was some legal gobbledygook at the bottom in four languages: English, French, Greek by the alphabet used, and something else with a lot of dots over and squiggles under the letters.

“Satisfied?”

I nodded. Then I told him about Emerald. I was watching his face as I did it. I didn’t think he’d killed her… or had her killed. She’d either known something or thought she did, and he wanted resolution. But I couldn’t be certain. There were plans within plans here. I saw only surprise and a faint hint of alarm. I relaxed just a hair.

“Somebody realizes I know and that I’m looking,” he said.

No shit, Sherlock. I decided a little acid test wouldn’t hurt.

“Mitchell’s a killer.”

He didn’t take offense. He didn’t even look shocked at the statement.

“You know I’ll deny I said it, but what you found isn’t his style.” He met my eyes. “Look elsewhere. The clock is ticking. Try not to lose any more leads.”

As Mitchell was escorting me out, I said, “I found a body. Shot twice in the chest from about four feet away. Regan says it wasn’t your style.”

Mitchell made a gun with his thumb and forefinger, put it at the base of his skull behind his ear. “Small caliber with a suppressor, right here when they don’t expect it. It’s what they taught me. Quiet and they’re gone before they know it.” The eyes lit up in laughter. It was chilling to see. “I’m big but you never see me coming.” I knew the pronoun change wasn’t an accident.

Who the fuck taught a psychopath like this?

“Though sometimes you don’t have to be quick and quiet. In the right place and right time, that’s okay too.”

I had a premonition that I’d be looking at that face over a gunsight someday, and I knew I wouldn’t hesitate to squeeze.

 

• • •

 

“I’ve got too many moving parts,” I said to Jess. She was sitting in my living room because I didn’t have the will to go into the office. Since it was a Saturday, that was easy to rationalize even though weekends weren’t a real thing for my business. “I think there were thirteen people at that party.”

Jess frowned. Unlike me, she was superstitious though she’d never cop to it.

“Unless he’s playing some very deep game, I think we can eliminate Regan. Sasha’s not avoiding him”–I didn’t go into details about our last encounter–“which I think she would if she were the one. Luiza struck me as genuinely scared. That brings us to ten.”

“I think you can eliminate Emerald,” she said. “I know she could have taken the papers and then been killed for them. But Occam’s Razor says no… she really did have some information to give you and was killed because of that.”

I nodded. I had come to the same conclusion.

“And while we can’t eliminate Bertram,” I said, “if our theory that he’s a partner is right, it probably wasn’t him. So that leaves eight people to focus on.”

There was a sharp rap on the door, repeated after four seconds by a louder pounding, then again.

“Okay! Okay! I’m coming.”

“You stood me up– What the fuck!” Lexie’s tirade was interrupted by seeing my face in all its glorious Technicolor.

“I got mugged.”

“Oh my God!” She pushed into my apartment. “I tried to call yesterday, but you didn’t pick up. I thought you were with some other woman.”

“Only the nurse and a female police officer.”

“Oh, poor baby, let me–” The motion of Jess standing drew her attention. “Oh, it’s you. Thanks for stopping by, but I’ll take care of him now.” Jess’s dislike of Lexie was reciprocated, mostly because Lexie didn’t like people who didn’t like her.

“See you Monday, Harry.”

“You poor baby,” Lexie repeated as the door clicked shut. “Lexie will kiss it and make it all better.” I had no doubt as to what that meant, and kissing was the least of it.

“I have two broken ribs and my mouth is kind of mashed up.”

“Don’t you worry. I am a woman with skills. You won’t have to do a thing.”

I didn’t. She settled me into the couch, then went for the bottle to refill my glass. Plus pour herself one from the other bottle. She flipped off lights as she went, leaving only a single lamp next to me lit. She went to the stereo and rummaged through the albums.

“You and your vinyl,” she teased. “So old-fashioned.”

The stark black and white cover told me what was coming. She took a long swallow of her drink, then flicked the little lever that lowered the tonearm. The simple guitar chords started. She cranked the volume to a level just short of complaints from neighbors, then the drums kicked in with a pounding beat, and Brian Johnson’s voice opened “You Shook Me All Night Long.”

And for three minutes thirty, she did. She didn’t have a pole to work with, but she did have a chair and the floor.

Buttons popped, slowly and steadily. Nothing underneath it. Lexie didn’t always do bra in the privacy of our apartments. She left the blouse hanging, her motions occasionally giving me glimpses of what lay underneath. In case I was oblivious, a finger dragged slowly across a collarbone and rose over a swell, then down across a belly button to the waistband of her skirt to make sure I knew where to look.

She turned. A booty pop and then those fingers teased open a zipper. A shimmy of her ass and the fabric fell around her ankles, revealing a fire-engine red G-string… nothing so puritanical as a thong for her.

She strutted toward me. Three-inch heels planted shoulder-width apart, hips swaying in time to the song, she teased the blouse off one shoulder, then the other. She let it drop. She took another step forward, almost straddling my legs, rocking her pelvis forward as her hands cupped her breasts. I reached for her.

“Ah, ah, ah! Please do not touch the performers,” she admonished with a voice like a club manager. “They may touch you, but your hands must remain on the couch, or you will be asked to leave.” I pulled them back.

“How ’bout a lap dance, mister. Twenty-five bucks. Or since this is the VIP room, there are even more extras if you want.”

“Let’s go for the extras.”

She smiled and settled slowly to her knees. She reached for my zipper. As I moved to help her, an arched eyebrow sent my hands back to my sides. “Second warning,” she breathed with a smile. She worked me free of my pants.

“For a good customer like you, half-and-half will only cost you a hundred.” She giggled and then leaned down and sucked me into her mouth.

I tried not to think about the implications of her using that term. Instead, I enjoyed the warm sensation of her mouth and tongue as they rode up and down my dick. She took it slowly, dragging each stroke from the base up to the tip, making a little pop as she let me spring free, only to plunge and swallow the length again. One hand kept time, two fingers and a thumb making a tight circle that contrasted with the soft wetness of her mouth. The other cupped my balls, juggling them with the lightest of pressures.

My breathing got deeper, syncing with the motion of her head, in on the upstroke, out as I was encased again. I felt the tingle start. I must have given some sign because she rocked back. Using my knees for balance, she stood, then walked herself forward to straddle me and knelt on the cushions.

“Now the other half.”

She leaned forward and put one hand on the back of the couch for balance. With the other, she hooked her G-string with her thumb to pull it to the side, revealing shaved kitty. Her fingers guided me to her soaking entrance. She lowered an inch, no more, just enough to capture me.

Then she placed her second hand on the back of the couch, leaning forward so that her breasts were no more than an inch from my mouth. Slowly, looking down so she could watch my face, she lowered herself another two inches. Back up to draw more lubrication out, then another two inches. Little by little, she impaled herself fully.

“Okay?”

I nodded.

With infinite slowness, pausing if I winced even a little and waiting for my nod, she fucked me.

Minutes in, I realized I wasn’t wearing a condom. I didn’t care. This woman did have skills.

I came with a clench of muscles that probably hurt me somewhere, but I didn’t notice. With my face buried in the pillows of her chest and my hands gripping her ass, I let go in the tight embrace of her pussy.

We stayed there for a long moment, and then she slowly lifted, causing me to suck in my breath as my body shifted in a way that caused my side to catch painfully.

“Sorry! It’s just I’m gonna drip,” she giggled. I lay there while she went into the bathroom.

“You owe me a hundred,” she said when she came back out.

“My wallet’s on the counter,” I joked back.

I was surprised to see her pick it up. She extracted a number of bills. “And it’s customary to tip,” she said and pulled two more. She wrinkled her nose at me.

“Oh, don’t freak out. There’s a very naughty store up by one thirty-ninth. I’m gonna buy myself some presents that are actually presents for you if you get my drift…” She winked. “I’m gonna go now. Your bed’s too small if I don’t dare touch you ’cause of your ribs.”

Fully dressed, she came over and kissed me. “Later, lover. And by the way, you look silly sitting there with Little Harry hanging out.” She laughed again and was gone.

I didn’t particularly mind that she’d taken money if it was going to buy some things I’d like to see her in… or use on her. I was somewhat disturbed at the “it’s customary to tip.”

 

• • •

 

I was out for breakfast at my usual haunt when Jess called.

“There’s a woman here to see you. When will you get here?” Her tone was as bland as an oyster cracker. I didn’t ask her what she was doing in the office on a Sunday. Something was up.

I met her eyes as I opened the door fifteen minutes later. They slanted left to where the couch was.

I turned to see the brunette who had graced Charlie’s lap. The view in that photo, looking back toward the camera, had told me she owned at least one black thong and an amazing ass. In person, I could add the rest of it to the plus side of the ledger. Of course, Regan had told me he liked them curvaceous, so no surprise.

While I was studying her, she was doing the same to me. I doubt a face that showed half the rainbow where it wasn’t covered by gauze reassured her. I could almost see the gulp before she decided.

“Mr. Morgan? I’m Gia Alessandra. I’d like to hire you. Emerald and Kimi… now I think I’m going to be next.”

“Um,” I said. “Why don’t you go on into my office? I have something I need to talk to my assistant about first, but I’ll be right in.”

As the inner door clicked shut, I raised my eyebrow at Jess. “And Kimi?”

“You know as much as I do,” she said quietly. “She wouldn’t tell me anything beyond her name. I gave her coffee, and she sat there looking at her phone.”

I stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. Two clients on the same case was a disaster waiting to happen. On the other hand, Gia might be the crack in things I needed.

Jess’s lip curled. “Of course you’re going to say yes. She’s a damsel in distress, and you’re an idiot. Besides, look at her. You’re all about brunettes these days.”

“You’re a brunette.”

“You and that keen eyesight of yours. You should be a PI.”

I snorted.

“By the way,” she said as I turned toward the inner door, “I’m pretty sure that nailing a client is a bad idea, Harry.” The uncharacteristically waspish tone wiped the smile off my face.

 

─────────