Rita lay on the bed thinking about her situation. Roger had been so charming and smooth when he first met her at the sports bar, ordering his drinks with poetic embellishments and flirting outrageously. They had seen one another a few times away from her job and as the relationship grew, Roger began introducing her to the darker side of the city and the denizens that inhabited it. When he first told her about Bootheel she laughed and told him to be serious but he insisted and expanded on the activities to a point where she felt she had to see for herself. That was when Roger, with his connections and recommendation, suggested she seek employment there.

They talked about it several more times until he convinced her to try and she went along with it in the spirit of changing to a new and exciting lifestyle, including the change of name he said was normal for the women who worked there. Roger became a frequent client, asking for her each time and she soon fell into the rhythm of his simple yet provocative and interesting requirements.

The scheme had come up without her even realizing at first what he was talking about. His way of presenting the plan seemed more like innocent fun. It wasn't until he presented her with a burner phone that she felt the dangerous thrill of complicity. Roger gave her names and times and told her what to shoot and how they would exact healthy payments from the membership of deviant clients—and then she caught a glimpse of the real Roger Cullen.

She sat up and slipped off her sweater then stood and dropped her skirt to the carpet. Hatti Ambrose did love Roger Cullen but they were both dead and now Rita Cornell was stuck with Jean Travis who was facing yet another makeover and losing her grip on securing a financial future. She padded into the livingroom and slipped the disc from the player and as she did she prayed that somehow she hadn't lost the pictures. Quickly, she slid it back in turned on the player. Stepping through the menu she discovered that the only file on the disc was still the one she'd shown Cresta.

She'd given the Gates woman the wrong one all right, the one with all the files!

******

Cresta couldn't decide which way to go in dealing with Hatti, now Jean. There was no way she was giving the woman any money; anything to do with Hatti/Jean or the blackmail scheme she and Roger concocted was simply not on. Her first choice in calling Chester should have been, in retrospect, the most effective. William was a weak second and apparently not panning out; now she would have to resort to her second choice and that raised the entire operation to a new level. It would take some deep thinking. She checked her watch and began to get ready for work.

When she arrived at the club, Jared, the establishment's walking stick major domo, greeted Cresta by her title and handed her the telephone message slip.

"Thank you, Jared. Has anyone arrived yet?"

"Member seventeen is waiting in the medieval cell; he asked for an additional fifteen minutes."

She nodded, walking toward her office. "Send him Shawn Two and tell her to be particularly aggressive... but careful. I'll look in shortly." Just as the members were known only by numbers so were the women that worked in the club sessions. The difference was that all of the woman had the same name... just a different number.

Jared bowed and retreated silently.

The message seemed urgent and Cresta closed and locked her office door before dialing her cell phone.

"Cropmaster?"

"Yes."

"Thank goodness. Something has come up. I need advice... your advice."

"About?" "Roger Cullen."

She inhaled sharply and cursed at her reaction. "Are you aware that calling me here is particularly dangerous?"

"Yes... but we need to talk and not at the club."

Cresta made a face, wondering what William Partiger needed that couldn't be discussed at a session.

"I'm afraid you know that's not possible." None of the members knew her identity outside of Bootheel and she wasn't about to change that rule.

"But your call—"

"Was strictly a client service... a friendly warning. Nothing more." She wished now that she'd left William out of the equation.

"How then?"

"Book a session and I'll see to it that we have some time alone."

"Tonight then. It has to be tonight."

"I'll look for your number on the list." She replaced the receiver slowly and rubbed her chin. William would have to be placated.

************

William sat across from Carl, hands on knees, eyes drilling his partner. He knew without asking that Carl was drifting into territory that could mean nothing but trouble for him and his morning call to the club was a desperate attempt to prevent just that. Carl had arrived home from the police station in a state of uncontrollable stress. He refused to even discuss what happened, opting for a huge gin and tonic, a hasty shower and a wailing plunge into his bed for a troubled night's sleep. In the morning, William made breakfast and remained calm as he roused his partner and escorted him to the table, plying him with food and beverage. Now he waited, nerves twanging.

Carl fanned his face with a silk hanky and took a large gulp of his juice drink.

"It was horrible. That one detective was a monster, insulting me and mimicking everything I said, you have no idea, William."

"No I don't... and I need to, Carl. What did you say to them before the lawyer arrived?"

"Nothing! I'm telling you, all they did was insult me!" The hanky picked up speed.

"What were you doing out at that house?"

"I was trying to track down Rita... for you."

"Why there? How did you find that place?"

"Because I learned that she used that address some times." Carl rose and went to replenish his drink without answering the second question.

"Learned where?"

Carl turned and adopted an indignant pose. "William, is this some kind of interrogation in my own home? I just went through this with the police." He palmed his forehead, sniffling.

"It's a simple question, Carl."

"Not so simple when you ask like that, William." Carl turned his back and felt his stomach churn. "Just some people I know that knew about Rita, nobody special."

Silence.

"Anyway, it turns out that it was Roger's place rented under an alias." Carl returned with his fresh drink and sat down, trying a smile. "And you'll love his choice... Don Tell! Isn't that priceless?"

William swallowed and stood, arching his back and moving slowly to the window. He looked without seeing at the stream of traffic far below and the pixel-like images of pedestrians flowing back and forth along the street. That house! How would he know about that house? Carl was hiding something he knew, mainly because he was doing the same thing and his suspicions were that the secrets were disconcertingly similar. He heard Carl calling to him and he took a deep breath before turning.

"Are you angry, dear?"

William shook his head.

"I'm glad, I couldn't have you angry with me after such a traumatic day."

"Did you learn anything before- before the police took you in?"

"One thing. Roger- or should I say, Don Tell," Carl grinned, "had one male visitor at the house on occasion but no women, at least none she was aware of. The landlady- by the way did I mention she was a little person?" He waved a hand. "She was a piece of work. She said the man was always in a beige windjacket and dark sunglasses and that he stayed about two hours each visit."

William sat stony-faced as he listened to Carl go on about the woman, the house, her attitude and finally his confrontation with the police.

"Did she describe the man?"

"Tall, young, dark-haired... sounds like you, dear." Carl laughed and took a sip from his glass. "You don't suppose that was Roger's love nest do you?"

Now more than ever William needed to speak with Cropmaster. He coughed to clear his throat. "I think I mentioned he had a foot in both camps."

"You did, didn't you." The two men stared at one another.