Jared stood hunched and at ease in front of Greenbaum as he listened to his orders. He and Milton Greenbaum had been together for nearly forty-five years and Jared had obediently carried out any and every whim of his employer without question or restraint.

"She worked here under the name of Hatti Ambrose—Shawn nine was her designation."

"I remember her, Milton. She came here through Roger Cullen. That name was an alias; they all are."

"Yes, a big mistake, Jared... a very big mistake."

"I accept responsibility, Milton. I obviously didn't delve deeply enough."

Greenbaum raised a hand. "Not your fault, Jared, in any case it's been resolved, that's apparent since he's dead. One piece of good luck. Cullen concocted his plan after joining and recruited the girl after she started here. I doubt it was premeditated."

"How can you be sure, Milton?"

"Never mind, just know that I am." He tapped his computer case then pressed his fingertips against the desk and pursed his lips. "I want whatever this woman has, Jared. The sex videos I can live with but we must not allow anything regarding the drugs to leak out. Do you understand?"

"Clearly, Milton. I will proceed immediately."

"Good. And tell Miss Ettinger to come in when you leave."

Jared held the door as Cresta, gripping the files, rose from her seat in the waiting area; he closed his eyes slowly as she stepped past into Greenbaum's office.



Vin stood back from the camera and smiled. Rita's session to have new photographs and papers for yet again another persona had ended thirty minutes earlier and when she thanked him and asked when they would be ready, Vin had suggested that he wanted a little something different in payment and they had argued back and forth until he shrugged and began packing up his equipment. Rita panicked and pleaded with him not to go and that she would do as he asked if he promised not to show her face. Vin had set up quickly and stated what he expected, holding the threat of no papers over her until she complied.

Now, as she lay on the bed watching him pack up again, she began to cry softly; none of what had happened was worth what she had gone through. First, joining a club as a dominatrix and subjecting herself and strange men to unmentionable acts then Roger's killing, the botched blackmail plan and now this, performing in front of a still camera for favours—not favours really, he still wanted his money too. The warm tears slid down her cheek onto the pillow. Rita drew in a shaky breath and vowed to toughen her skin, after all everything she'd done up to this point had been of her own choosing

"That was great, babe," Vin sighed. "And I really like the new colour and the boy's cut, goes well with the shade of blue you picked for the contacts." He shouldered his bag and approached the bed, still grinning. "I can make a set of these for you if you like—no charge. I think the one in the mirror with you is gonna be a beaut."

"Just go, Vin. Bring me my papers tomorrow but just go." She turned her head away and knuckled the tears away.

"Sure, whatever. I'll come by about noon. Have the money ready." He picked up the envelope of information from the night table, read the new name and used it purposely to say goodbye.

Rita curled up with her fingers tucked under her cheek, regretting that the first experience she would have as the new Jean Travis was a pornography session with someone like Vin.

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

The woman adjusted her glasses and sniffed haughtily at Jerry's manner. Bettmeir, as usual, tried to placate the parties and get a convivial resolution. He tilted forward and spoke in a soft voice.

"We are conducting an investigation and we need a few moments of Mister Hargrave's time. I think, if you ask him, he'll agree that this is important."

"Sir, I can't make it any clearer. Mister Hargrave is in an important meeting and cannot be disturbed. If you would care to make an appointment I'll try and fit you in as soon as possible."

"Fit us in! Lady, this is a police investigation, if anybody gets fitted it'll be your boss and maybe even you for obstruction." Jerry sluffed off his partner's calming hand. "Now get him out here!"

Several other people in the office stopped what they were doing to witness the confrontation at the head assistant's desk. Mrs. Dowley, normally solid as the rock and businesslike to the point of exasperation, was shakily getting to her feet, as the large detective loomed over her, and tottering across to the entrance to the bank's boardroom corridor.

"Settle down, Jer. We'll get more with honey than with you flingin' shit at people."

"She's doin' it ain't she?"

"Yes but how cooperative will they all be now, see what I mean. Be a little—"

"Don't give me any more of that sensitive crap, okay?"

"Okay."

Mrs. Dowley returned, a little steadier and clutching a Kleenex in her fist. She stopped short of the two men and made a gesture with her hand before stepping around them and returning to her desk.

"See?"

"Yes, Jer." Bettmeir smiled an unacknowledged thank you to the stricken woman and led the way to the boardroom corridor.

"Christ, no wonder I get no interest on my bank account. Look at this place."

Bettmeir nodded agreement as they marched past a wall of museum quality art both on the walls and in the furnishings. Chester Hargrave stepped out of a doorway at the end of the hall and bowed his head slightly then stepped back out of sight.

"Watch out for an ambush." Jer cautioned sarcastically.

They entered the room and were greeted with another vision of extravagance and riches. Polished, leather-topped desk with several matching chairs along with a dark, leather sofa boasting a patina won from the caress of many bottoms surrounded the two detectives, and centered behind the massive desk sat Chester Hargrave resembling the last syllable of his surname.

"Gentlemen."

"Mister Hargrave." They looked at the chairs but they were too far from the desk so they both stood, uncomfortably, like truant schoolboys in front of the headmaster.

"I was attending an extremely important meeting for the bank so I hope your interruption is not a trivial one." The inference was a reference to their previous meeting, which they both recognized with noticeable irritation.

Bettmeir dropped a copy of the list found at Cullen's onto the desk. Chester glanced at it and his eyes slid in and out of focus but he didn't touch it or move.

"Not interested, Mister Hargrave... number three?" Bettmeir's voice was harsh.

"Not really. It's a form of membership identifi—"

Jerry slid a print from the floppy disc onto the desk on top of the list. Chester stopped and stared at his supposedly secret discipline session with one of the club's women.

"Still not interested?"

"Where-" His voice cracked and a bead of sweat broke out on his forehead. "Where did you get this?"

"Kinda thought you might suspect the answer to that."

"I don't- I don't know what you mean." The stern headmaster outmaneuvered by the truant schoolboys. He picked up the picture and let it fall from his fingers, sagging back in his chair. Hatti had lied to him; he should have known.

"Before you dig too deep a hole, Chester," Bettmeir said, a little more kindly. "There are more... and they're not exactly suitable fare for these auspicious offices." Asper turned and raised his eyebrows at his partner, knowing that was a flat out lie.

"Why are you showing me this?"

"It was all found among Roger Cullen's possessions and that, sir, indicates a possible motive."

"Motive? Motive for what?"

"For murdering Roger Cullen. We haven't forgotten that you were the last to see him alive."

Chester gasped and slammed back in the chair, his eyes darting from one man to the other. "Are you mad? Why in God's name would I kill Roger Cullen, he was a member too? There are all kinds of records to prove that. He was my financial advisor, I told you that already..." He ran out of steam and picked up the print again, staring and shaking his head in misery.

"We'd like a look at those records."

"I can't, I'm not authorized."

"Who is?"

"You don't understand, that information can't be released." He was pleading now and the two detectives bore down.

"Fine, tell Godzilla out there that you'll be out of the office for some time." Jerry growled.

"You- you're arresting me?"

Bettmeir made a buzzer sound. "Correct."

"No! No, you can't. Listen..." Chester leaned forward, fingers spread. "You must keep my name out of this. I'll tell you what you need but you must keep me out of this." He saw his reputation shredding before his eyes.

Bettmeir looked at his partner questioningly. They both knew that their word wasn't worth the breath it took to speak.

"Sure, Chester. Fine. Tell us what you know."

He got out of the chair and went around to close the door then stayed by the entrance. "The principle owner is a man named Milton Greenbaum, he lives in a secluded apartment in the Bootheel club. Bootheel is owned by a numbered company and registered in the Middle East through a series of cutouts. All the club's finances are funneled through the same cutouts and they are substantial. "

"What's his connection with Cullen?"

"That's irrelevant. You don't understand." Chester looked stricken with what he was doing. "Think Middle East. Think tons of money." He gaped pleadingly at the two men.

"Tax fraud." Jerry said.

Chester's face sagged. He wondered now if what he had done was even necessary; these two oafs couldn't grasp the obvious if it was in a pop-up book.

"Gentlemen, don't make me say it, think for heaven's sake. Middle East? Money?"

"Drugs." Bettmeir blinked and put a finger to his lips.

"Yes!"

"Bootheel is a front for a drug operation?"

"Essentially. Members get them free... well, not really free, they're included in the- the services."

Jerry made a broad face and shook his head.

"But this Greenbaum imports and sells at the club."

"They aren't sold at the club but they move through there to other sources." Chester returned to his desk, his face was red and his breathing was becoming laboured. "I can't have any connection with this information."

"How does this connect with Cullen?"

"I don't know, so help me but he was always nosing about; he even had that Hatti woman hired and was pretty tight with her."

"You mean Rita Cornell."

"Hatti, Rita, what difference?"

Bettmeir put his notebook away after making copious notes and studied Chester. "We need to see this Greenbaum."

"You can't. He doesn't exist."

"What the hell! You just—

"Listen to me. He isn't on any record you'll find in this city or country. He's a phantom resident living in seclusion in the property of a numbered company. There is no record of the man."

"Well, you know where he is, Chester." Jerry leaned across the desk and glared.

Chester's mouth opened and closed a few times and then he turned almost purple before toppling forward on his desk, his head smacking the printout of his Bootheel performance.

"Holy shit! Is he alright?" Bettmeir felt for a pulse and swore again. Call an ambulance and I'll go and get whatsherface."