"He was hiding something and we got nuthin'." Jerry paced about the tiny office allotted to the two men for their war room. An ancient blackboard with indelible traces of previous writing listing everything they knew about the case—nothing significant—hung precariously on one wall. A marred desk with uneven legs and a pair of rejected secretary chairs that used to swivel but no longer did, completed the main furnishings. Bettmeir sat on one, hunched forward and leaning on the rickety table.

"We know he knew Don Tell. Maybe that mutual friend was Roger Cullen." Bettmeir mused aloud.

"They're the same guy!" Jerry gave him a you-useless-twit look.

"He coulda been jerkin' us around."

"Why the hell would he be looking for him when he's dead?" The twit look intensified. "We shoulda pumped him harder before that fag lawyer showed up."

"How do you know he was a fag?"

"'Cause fags are the same as you guys, Ward, they stick together."

Bettmeir made a face. "Us guys? Us guys? Like Asper is what, Polynesian?"

"Screw off. Forget it. You know what I mean."

"Bloody right... Mister Christian." Bettmeir groaned aloud and waved a hand in the air, dismissing the petty argument. "Look, we've still got the disc; is there a computer we can use somewhere?"

Jerry brightened and with a hitch of a shoulder, beckoned his partner to follow.

Rose Tzechuck listened with bored patience as Jerry practiced what he considered his charm approach in exchange for favours. It was embarrassing to watch.

"You are so full of it, Asper. You can use that machine over there. Just don't delete anything."

Jerry winked and blew her a kiss. Bettmeir rolled his eyes in time with Rose's. They were back to normal.

The disc showed two files, one named field day and the other named insurance. Jerry clicked on field day and the two detectives crouched forward as an image program booted up and the title page read the same as the file name. He clicked on play and they both exclaimed aloud as a full colour picture appeared. Rose called over to see what was wrong and they both waved her off with, everything's fine, gestures.

"Jesus!" Jerry whispered. "That's the room we were in at that club."

"The Power Paddock and that's our friend the Cropmaster." Bettmeir leaned closer trying to see the face of the man being disciplined.

"Field day... this Cullen guy had a sick sense of humour. Ouch! See that! That's gotta hurt like hell."

"Blow that up." Bettmeir waited and then asked what the problem was."

"This ain't TV, Ward. Our equipment is hardly state of the art. I hafta copy this to the drive and then export it to another disc and then another program where it can be imported—"

"I don't give a shit if you have to eat the goddam thing on a bun—just do it."

"Testy sucker, ain't ya?"

Thirty minutes later, when the procedure was done and the frame was enlarged on the screen, Bettmeir pointed to the tag on the man's wrist. "Blow that up."

Jerry did.

"What's that say?"

"It's a number."

"What number?"

"Uuhh... six, I think."

"Where's that list from Cullen's apartment?"

"In the file."

Bettmeir dashed back to their office and returned with the file, flipping it open and rifling through the papers, picking out the list of names. "Aha!"

"What?"

There are numbers alongside all the names on the list and six is- oh boy, get this! Number six is Fredrick Stoneman... Carl Dortman's lawyer!"

"No shit? You think that's what they represent?" Jerry magnified the head of the man but couldn't see the face. "It does look like his hair. How many names are on there? Is Carl Dortman's name on there?"

"Nine names and no Dortman. There's a William Partiger, he's number four. Maybe the William, Dortman called?"

"Maybe. Why do you suppose he kept just this one picture?"

"Just the only one we found, Jer. Maybe there're more somewhere."

"What was in the other file?"

"We didn't look. Where's the disc?"

Jerry retrieved the disc and clicked on the file titled, insurance. A list of names and numbers appeared and the detectives saw immediately that it was the same as the printed copy they already had.

"Not much there." Bettmeir complained, running a finger down the screen.

"Nothing?"

"Our very good friend, Chester Hargrave is number three." Bettmeir smacked the screen with the back of his hand.

Jerry threw up his hands. "Why would he tell us about this club in the first place when he's a member? It doesn't make sense. Didn't he think we'd investigate?"

"There's nothin' illegal there, Jer. But I bet old Chester doesn't know somebody has been takin' pictures of his buddies... and maybe even him. I think we need to revisit Mister Hargrave, my gut says whatever happened to Cullen has something to do with this club, partner."

"We better find something that has to do with something—and soon."

"After lunch we'll do something?"

"Good idea. Let's make it deli today."



Cresta squared her shoulders and rapped lightly on the oak door. A voice called out for her to enter and she stepped into the inner sanctum of Milton Greenbaum, the anonymous owner of Bootheel. The only other time she'd been in this office was when she auditioned for her present position, an ordeal that was made acceptable only by the amount of money offered with assurances of autonomy in the position.

Greenbaum had personally critiqued her performance with a man who seemed to be kept around for just such purposes. She reflected on the fact that she had never seen that man since. She walked to the front of the large desk and stood patiently. Square panels of dark stained wood made up the wall behind her employer and in a number of the squares she could see photographs of men, she recognized as members, smiling grandly on golf courses and on the decks of fishing boats or around lavish resort pools. Greenbaum was in the centre of all of them.

He was watching the screen of a laptop, flicking the mouse occasionally and grunting with either pleasure or disdain, she wasn't sure. The glow from the screen gave him an evil complexion and when he finally shut the lid and looked up, Cresta gasped a silent breath at the pallor of his skin and the red rims under his eyes.

"You asked to see me." The statement was issued in a dead, flat monotone.

"Yes, Mister G, I need to discuss something with you... personally."

He laced stubby fingers over his ample stomach and waited.

Cresta cleared her throat and took a breath. Greenbaum's eyes followed the movement of her chest. "I received a telephone call from—"

"Sit. Over there." The interruption indicated little interest in what she was saying, instead it spoke volumes about his character—the seat was across from his chair providing an unbroken sight line and when she sat, she saw the reason. Every move of her legs was tracked with a beady-eyed lust.

She crossed her legs and drew another breath before starting again.

"The call I received was from an ex employee—Roger Cullen's recommendation—she has some uh, videos of sessions in the club and is asking for money."

The eyes snapped up to her face and held as the muscles in his jaw rippled beneath the pale skin.

"Videos of whom?"

"Various members apparently." She debated telling him that she'd seen them and decided against it.

"Why did she call you? Who is she? Her name?"

"Hatti Ambrose, she was Cullen's—"

"Why call you?" The voice was granite.

"Well she wouldn't know the members by name and the only way to threaten them would be through the club. I'm really the only person she knows. She doesn't know me really... I mean I'm—"

"What did you agree to?"

"Nothing!" Cresta sat forward and the eyes dropped to her knees. "I wouldn't dare. She obviously wants money—a lot. I've come to you, Mister G."

"What is our option?"

Cresta relaxed again and the eyes probed the move.

"I'm not sure. She uh, she said she would tell the police about... something about the uhm... drugs."

Greenbaum rocked forward on the chair and the air wheezed through his nose. He stared at her so hard and so long she thought he was going to become violent.

"She must have filmed something... somehow. I don't know how. I was the only one present for that part of any member's session." Cresta realized the implication of her statement and she licked her lips nervously. "I- I don't know how else she would know."

"Cullen?"

"No, at least I don't think so. He never used drugs here."

"I want a list of the clients she had and I want Jared in this office now." Greenbaum rose from behind the desk and Cresta stood at the same time. She'd forgotten how tall he was and was happy to be making her exit.

'Bring the list yourself. No one else is to know about this. Understand?" His hand gripped her elbow and he pulled her close to him.

"Yes sir. No one else." She blinked and held her breath as he ran his other hand over her shoulder and down her side, finishing with a tender squeeze of her buttock.

"Don't make me wait."

She nodded and hurried out of the office. Nothing she'd done in the club as part of her job had made her feel so eerie; her skin crawled and the fear she felt dried her mouth.