Down in the Zero

"Exactly that?"

"Yeah. 'Tell him to call me,' that's what she said."

I didn't say anything. I made the turn onto the road for the house, shoved in the dashboard lighter, fitted a cigarette in my mouth.

"She's a bossy bitch, isn't she?" the kid said.

"Not mine," I told him.

Not my bitch— not my boss either.

I

spread out my notes on the kitchen table, working with what I had. The kid watched me for a few minutes. I expected him to get restless–bored the way they do, but he hung in, quiet.

"You want me to do something?" he finally asked.

"We're looking for a pattern," I told him.

"A pattern?"

"Yeah, stuff all these had in common, you understand?"

"Sure. Like on TV, when they're trying to catch a killer."

"I don't know if we got a killer here, kid. But one thing's for sure— we got enough bodies."

He got to his feet, rubbing his head with both hands. "You want some food?" he asked.

"Sure. Whatever you're having."

He went into the living room to use the phone. I kept my head down, concentrating.

The back doorbell startled me. Randy opened it up, signed something the deliveryman gave him. He opened a couple of paper bags, started assembling stuff on plates.

"I figured you might like Chinese," he said. "I mean…that restaurant in the city and all."

"Sure," I told him. "You didn't give the guy any money. How come?"

"My mother has an account with them. With a few others too. It makes it easier. She says I really won't need cash while she's gone."

"Un huh."

The food was hot. And limp. The soup was thin. The rice clumped, the vegetables sagged. The pork was undercooked. "You like this?" I asked him.

"Yeah, it's great. They don't use any MSG either."

"You need to try some of Mama's cooking someday," I told him.

"What's the difference?"

"Same as between Debbie Gibson and Judy Henske."

"Which is the Debbie Gibson?"

"This stuff."

"Oh." He took a deep mouthful of the food, chewed it experimentally. "So who's Judy Henske?" he asked.

I

t was getting dark by the time I was done playing with the charts I had made.

"You going anyplace tonight?" I asked him.

"Not really. I was just gonna…hang out, you know?"

"Yeah. Okay, I'll see you in the morning."

"Are you gonna do something?"

"Yeah. Take a look around."

"Can I…"

"I'll be back before you," I told him. "And I'll sleep here again tonight, you want me to."

"No, I didn't mean that. I just meant…maybe you want me to come along."

"I'll meet you in the garage at ten," I told him. "Wear some dark clothes."

H

e was there on the dot. Dressed in black pants, black hightops and a black satin Raiders jacket with silver sleeves.

"You have any fluorescent paint around?" I asked him.

"I don't think so. Why?"

"I was worried maybe that outfit wouldn't stand out enough," I told him, pointing at the jacket sleeves.

He nodded his head, turned around and went back to the house. If he was sulking, I couldn't see it. Good. He was back in a minute, this time wearing a heavy black sweatshirt with a hood.

"It was all I could find. Okay?" he asked.

"Perfect," I said.

He started for the Lexus. I held up my hand. "We'll take this one, I told him, pointing toward my Plymouth.

He gave me a dubious look, but climbed in without another word. I turned the engine over. The kid gave me a look. "That doesn't sound stock."

I pulled out of the garage, turned onto the main road. "You know where the bridge is? The one that girl jumped off of?"

"Sure. Take the next left."

The Plymouth tracked flat around the curve, its independent rear suspension communicating to the wide tires. I fed it some throttle coming out of the turn, swooped past a white Cadillac and slipped back into the right lane.

"All right!" the kid said, so softly it was almost to himself.

I gave him a sideways glance. "You like cars?"

"I

love

them. For my eighteenth birthday, Mom let me go to racing school. It was great. They had Formula Fords and everything. That's why I got the Miata— that was one of the cars they used in the school."

"You want to race?"

"Oh yeah! More than anything."

"You gonna do it?"

"Well, not

professionally

. I mean…my mother says I could race on weekends, maybe. Like a hobby. Some of the guys here do it. Like rallyes and gymkhanas and stuff. But that's not real racing."

"You any good?"

"I…think so. It

feels

good, you know? I can't really explain it."

"Am I going the right way?"

"Yeah. You turn at the crossing…I'll show you where it is."

I followed the kid's directions, slowing down when we got close. The bridge was really a concrete overpass between two pieces of rock. It looked like the gap had been hacked out a hundred years ago. No water underneath. No road either, just dark stone. We parked the Plymouth, got out and walked over.

The barrier was stone too. It looked old, weathered, with big pieces chipped away. The railing had a bubble in it, where you could stand and look down— maybe it was scenic in the daytime. The railing was waist–high— you couldn't just fall over, it would take a real commitment.

A car swept by behind us. Not even eleven at night and it was pretty deserted. The paper said the girl went over sometime after two in the morning.

I took out my pencil flash, flicked it over the stone barrier. Nothing. The top of the barrier was flat. It was so clean it looked scrubbed. No graffiti, no chiseled hearts. I bellied up to it, looked down.

Into the Zero.

"Y

ou okay?" It was the kid's voice.

I turned around. "Sure. Why?"

"You were…standing there so long. I thought you were…"

"What? Gonna jump?"

"No! I didn't mean that."

"I'm okay. I was just trying to feel it."

"Feel it?"

"What she felt."

The kid nodded like he understood. But his hands were shaking. I lit a cigarette. Smoked it through. Snapped the red tip into the Zero.

"You want to drive?" I asked him.

H

e started tentatively, getting the feel of the controls— the way you're supposed to. He gave it too much gas coming out and the Plymouth got sideways on the dirt. The kid didn't panic, just turned the wheel in the direction of the skid and powered right out.

"Wow! This bad boy's got some juice!"

"All right, don't get us arrested now."

"I'm okay," the kid said, leaning into a curve. "Where do we go now?"

"We're done for tonight," I told him. "Just head on back."

The Plymouth reached the main road. The kid gave it the gun, the torque jamming him back against the seat. He adjusted his posture, a grin slashing across his face.

"Okay if I take the long way?" he asked.

I nodded. The kid pulled off the highway, found a twisting piece of two–lane blacktop. He kicked on the high beams, drew a breath when he saw they were hot enough to remove paint.

"Can you downshift it?" he asked.

"Stomp the pedal and it drops down. Or you can flick the lever one stop to the right. But watch it, the rear end gets loose easy.

"This is great! How'd you get a car like this?"

"It was supposed to be the prototype for a super–taxi," I told him. "Got an over–cored radiator, oil and tranny coolers, steel–braided lines. It won't overheat even if it sits in traffic for an hour. It weighs almost five thousand pounds— the bumpers will stop a rhino."

"Yeah, but underneath…I mean, the way it grips and all."

"There's no beam axle back there, Randy. It's an IRS, understand?"

"Sure. And big tires. But that wouldn't make it grab the way it does. I'll bet this is what a NASCAR stocker feels like."

"I never drove one."

"Me neither— they don't have those kind of races around here. But I've seen them on ESPN."

"You like that kind of racing too?"

"

Any

kind," the kid said.

He had the Plymouth wailing by then, flitting over the surface of the blacktop. We might as well have been in the West Virginia mountains with a trunk full of white lightning. I reached into the glove compartment, popped a cassette into the slot, turned it on. "Dark Angel" throbbed through the speakers, darker than the night outside, with more hormones than the monster engine.

"Jesus!" the kid yelled. "What's that?"

"

That's

Judy Henske, kid."

He gunned the Plymouth around a long sweeper leading back to the highway, a huge grin plastered across his face, Henske's sex–barbed blues driving right along with him.

"I gotta try some of that Chinese food," he said.

T

he kid parked the Plymouth expertly. It's a gift, driving like that— he already handled the big car better than I did.

"You want me to— ?"

"No, that's okay," he said. "I'll be all right over there. I'll just leave the intercom open, okay?"

"Sure."

Upstairs, I called Mama's. She told me it was all quiet, nothing happening.

"You want Max?" she asked.

"No. Not now, anyway."

"Okay."

I lay back on the couch, closed my eyes. I'd told the kid about the car but not where it came from. A young man gave his life for that car, a long time ago. Spent every minute of his time, every dollar he could lay his hands on— it was his dream. He hired me to find out if his wife was stepping out— he knew something was wrong between them, just didn't know what it was. It was an easy job— the wife copped to it right away. She was stepping out all right. With another woman. Told me all her husband cared about was that damn car— she needed dreams of her own.

I didn't tell the guy the truth. He was a young guy, maybe a year or two older than Randy. I figured he might do something stupid.

It was me who did something stupid. His wife told him the truth, even told him she'd told me. He got hot about it. Told me he wasn't going to pay me for my work. I walked away.

Next time I saw him, he was in the Tombs. Killed his wife. He didn't want to hire me— he just didn't want his bloodsucking lawyer to get his car. Told me he understood why I did it— because I thought it was the right thing. That's why he did what he did, too.

But he knew it wasn't.

I told him he could do the time. It'd probably get busted down to manslaughter— it wouldn't be so bad. He didn't want to hear it. He signed the Plymouth over to me, said goodbye. They had a suicide watch on him, but it didn't do any good. He went into the Zero.

That bridge where the girl had gone over…I could feel the pull.

W

hen I came downstairs the next morning, I saw the kid sitting on the back step to the big house.

"Want some breakfast?" he asked. Looked like he'd been up for a while— his eyes were fresh and bright, hair combed.

"Sure," I told him. "You gonna cook it?"

He gave me a funny look. Opened the door and stepped inside. He showed me a few different kinds of cold cereal. "They delivered milk," he said. "And I could make toast. There's orange juice too, okay?"

"Great."

"What are we gonna do today?"

"I think I need to talk to some parents. Of the kids who died. I got the addresses, figured I'd start around ten."

"It's only eight now."

"So?"

"So…I was wondering…do you think I could take a look at the car? In daylight?"

"Let me just finish this first," I told him, nodding at my breakfast. "Take your time," the kid said, bouncing with impatience.

I

opened the garage doors. The kid backed the Plymouth out onto bluestone. Then he made a slow circle of the car, as respectfully as a child approaching an unknown dog he'd like to pat. He crouched low to the ground next to the rear tires, running his hands over the tread. He got up, went into the garage. came back with a canvas tarp. He laid that on the ground, slid himself under the car. I smoked through two cigarettes by the time he came up for air.

"I wish we had a lift," he said. "I asked my mother about it— we got plenty of room. But she said she didn't want a mess.

"Couldn't you rent one someplace else?"

"Yeah!" he said, as if the idea had never occurred to him before. "Could we open the hood?"

"It doesn't open," I told him, sliding behind the wheel. I threw the switch from under the dash, opened the hinges on each side of the car, and swiveled the whole front end forward, exposing everything from radiator to firewall.

"Oh man!" the kid said. "I knew a guy who had a setup like this. With an old Spitfire. But I never saw it on a big car."

"I gotta make some phone calls," I told him, starting for the steps.

He didn't answer, lost in the engine bay, muttering something to himself.

I

slid a cassette into the stereo, adjusted the volume down low, let the music flow over me as I did a final run–through, trying to match the addresses I had with the street map I'd bought in the city— I didn't want to have to bring the kid with me when I went calling on the dead girl's parents, but I didn't want to drive around their neighborhood and call attention to myself either.

Seven kids by now.

I needed a cover story too. I'd have to ask the kid if his mother's name was known around there.

The door opened. Fancy. In her white tennis outfit. She walked over to the couch, sat down, crossing her legs, displaying a round thigh all the way up to her hip.

"I see you have Randy working," she said. "I asked him if he wanted to play, but he said he was doing something with you."

"Maybe some other time," I told her.

"He used to be such a nice boy."

"You mean he used to do what you told him?"

"Yes. That makes a nice boy. A nice man too."

"You already figured out that I don't qualify, right? So what can I do for you?"

"You didn't…" she started to say, just as Randy walked in.

"Burke, where's the battery? I could see the lines, but they just go back. Is it under the back seat?"

"In the trunk," I told him. "Next to the fuel cell."

"You got one of those too? Listen, I got this dynamite idea, okay? Now don't say no before I— "

"We were

talking

," Fancy told him, throwing a hard look his way.

"

You

were talking," I told her.

The kid chuckled. Two bright red dots popped out on her cheeks, dark under the tan. "Yes, master," she purred, her voice thick with sarcasm.

I lit a smoke. The kid shifted his feet awkwardly.

"What's that song?" Fancy asked, cocking her head toward the stereo.

"Judy Henske, right?" the kid piped up. He was on the money. Her fire–throated version of Champion Jack Dupree's ground–zero blues, "My Real Combination for Love." I held up an open palm. The kid slapped it in acknowledgment, a delighted grin on his face.

"You're quite the expert," Fancy said.

The kid ignored her. "Burke, what I was gonna ask you— "

I shook my head. He got it, dropped whatever he wanted. Fancy got it too. "I need to talk to your 'caretaker' for a minute, Randy. How about if you go back downstairs, play with your cars?"

I nodded an okay at the kid. He took off without another word.

"What?" I asked her. "I don't play tennis."

"You don't play much of anything, do you?"

"No."

She stood up quickly. "I could

help

you," she said softly, turning her back to me, leaning her elbows on the top of the couch. "You don't want some of this," she purred, flipping up the short white skirt to flash a pair of red panties. "You'll want some of that." She turned around, facing me, hands on hips. "I know this place. Randy doesn't. You have questions, a man like you. Come over tonight. To my place. And I'll answer them."

I held her eyes, watching for the game.

"What time?" I asked her.

She told me midnight, gave me the address.

I

stood next to the kid, watching Fancy's sleek black car whip out of the driveway.

"That's a costly ride," I said. "What's she do for a living?"

"Do? Nothing, I don't think. I told you— she just plays around with her plants and all. Her folks were rich, probably left her a bundle," he shrugged. Like it was an everyday thing.

"Okay," I told him. "Here's what I need you to do. I'm going to pay a call on that girl's parents. The Blankenships. Maybe they know something, maybe they don't— it's worth a quick look. I'm going to take the Lexus. I want you to lead the way, in the other car, see? Once I go in, you take off. Head back here…the guy may call to check on me. What I'm gonna tell him, I'm working for your mother, okay? She hired me to look into the suicides 'cause she has a kid of her own that knew them, see? They call, that's the story you tell. When I come out, I'll call you, arrange a place to meet. Got it?"

"Sure."

"Okay. I'm going upstairs to change. Be down in fifteen, twenty minutes."

He threw me a half–salute. Then he went back to mooning over the Plymouth.

I

shaved carefully. Put on the gray business suit with the chalk stripe. White shirt, wine–colored silk tie. A black leather attaché case and I was in business. I checked through my stock of ID's, found the business cards that listed me as a private investigator, complete with telephone and fax numbers. I knew a lawyer who let me front him off in exchange for some favors. One of his phone numbers was a dead line— his secretary would answer any calls and cover for me no matter who was asking.

I walked downstairs, ready to ride. The kid looked me over.

"How do I look?" I asked.

"Like a cop. A mean cop."

"Close enough. You ready to ride?"

"Sure. Uh…"

"What?"

"Could I…take the Plymouth?"

"Drive carefully," I told him, handing him the registration papers. "Juan Rodriguez?" he asked, looking at them.

"A close personal friend of mine," I told him.

T

he Blankenship house was small, almost a bungalow, but set well back from the road on a big piece of ground. The curtains were drawn in front— no signs of life. A blue Saturn station wagon sat in the driveway— the garage door was closed.

I pulled into the driveway as the Plymouth moved away ahead of me, the kid driving sedately while I had him in my sights.

The house was white shingle with a gray slate roof. The front door was painted a dark shade of red. I tapped gently with the iron knocker. I was just about to try again when the door opened. The man standing there was about my age, shorter than me, slim–built. His light brown hair was cut short, receding at the temples. He was wearing a white shirt with a button–down collar over a pair of chinos. One of the buttons on the collar was undone. He wasn't wearing a belt. And he'd missed a few spots when he shaved that morning.

"What is it?"

"Mr. Blankenship?"

"Yes. What is it? Are you from the police?"

"No sir. I'm a private investigator. Could I come in and talk to you for a few minutes?"

He stepped back, but not far enough— I had to brush against him as I walked by. The living room was trashed: overflowing ashtrays, containers of take–out food, a raincoat thrown carelessly over the back of a chair. It looked like it hadn't been cleaned in a month. I sat on the green cloth couch, facing a brown Naugahyde easy chair, figuring the chair for his. I reached in my coat pocket, took out a small notebook and a felt–tip pen, looked up with an expectant expression on my face. He was still standing, hands clasped behind him, watching.

"A private investigator? Who hired you…one of the other kids' parents?"

"Yes sir. Mrs. Lorna Cambridge."

"Cambridge? That wasn't one of the names."

"No sir. Her son Randall went to school with some of the kids. He's the same age. She was concerned…frightened, really. And she thought I might be able to look around, maybe be of some help."

"What could you do?"

"I don't know, to be honest with you. It's a mystery. There doesn't seem to be any reason…"

"There's got to be a reason," he said, sitting down in the brown chair. "There's got to be."

"Yes sir. Could you tell me, was there anything in your daughter's behavior that might have led you to suspect…"

"You mean like drugs?"

"That. Or alcohol. Problems in school. With a boyfriend. A pregnancy. Anything."

"Diandra had problems. All kids that age have problems, right?"

I nodded, waiting.

"Her mother and I, we used to get into it about her grades. And she had a smart mouth …at least to her mother." He fumbled in a shirt pocket, came up empty. He felt around with his right hand, located a pack of cigarettes. He put one in his mouth, lit it with an old brushed aluminum Zippo. "I haven't smoked in fifteen years, he said ruefully. "Before this happened…"

"She fought with her mother?"

"Not fights, exactly. Arguments, more like. Her grades were slipping, she broke curfew a few times. And they'd go round and round about the clothes she wore."

"Did she have one of those arguments just before…"

"No. It wouldn't have been possible. My wife hasn't lived here for months. We separated just after Christmas. She kept after me to send Diandra for counseling, but Diandra didn't want to go. She was screwing up, I admit that. Flunking a couple of subjects. Stayed out all night once. I figured…kids. This neighborhood and all. It's a pretty fast crowd. We don't have the kind of money some of her friends' parents do…maybe she was trying to keep up, you know?"

"Yes sir."

He dragged on his cigarette, not tasting it. "Anyway, my wife was hot to send her to this hospital they have for kids with problems. Crystal Cove. Diandra didn't want to go. And I wasn't crazy about it either. But my little girl was really going over the line. I was worried about her too. We met with the director there. Dr. Barrymore. He's a pretty young guy, but I got to admit, he made a lot of sense. Said Diandra needed a time–out period. To decompress, get away from the pressure. So, we finally sent her. The insurance on my job covered most of it. Diandra was dead against it, but the people at Crystal Cove told us that was normal. They said they have lawyers— they could get her civilly committed if she didn't volunteer."

"I see."

"So she went. Last fall. It was supposed to be for only six weeks, but they kept her longer. They said she had deep–seated problems, maybe clinical depression, maybe a chemical imbalance— they wanted to run more tests." He ground out his cigarette without looking, eyes down now.

"She came home for Christmas. She didn't want to go back. The hospital said to expect that. I didn't want to send her. After she went back, I was real down. My wife and I fought all the time about it. She always said Diandra was my girl, not hers. We were…close, her and me. Anyway, that's when my wife left."

"When did Diandra come home?"

"Valentine's Day. That's how I remember it. I bought her a giant teddy bear, a white one with a red ribbon around its neck. She loved it. Put it right on her bed…" His control cracked then— he wiped hard at his eyes, but the tears still came. I lit a smoke, kept my eyes down. I was almost down to the filter before he got it managed.

His eyes came up to mine, red–rimmed but hard. They didn't spare me— his voice didn't spare himself. "Things were going so great," he said. "She was doing good in school again, not running around. I have to work. Long hours, sometimes. Diandra used to say she was a latchkey kid, like a joke between us. She got much more responsible after my wife left…did her share of the housework and everything. And she didn't go near drugs, I know that. When I'm wrong, I cop to it. I called my wife, told her that Crystal Cove had saved our daughter. She'd been right. I thought…maybe she'd come home. But she said it really wasn't Diandra that broke us up— it'd been coming a long time, hiding under the surface. She stuck with me through everything before, but…"

"Diandra was doing fine just before she— "

"Yeah! She was, goddamn it."

"I'm not doubting you, sir. I know she didn't leave a note…?" making it a question.

"No," he said, watching me now.

"But maybe she… I don't know, kept a diary or something. The way girls do. Have you…?

"I tore this place apart," Blankenship said. "The police opened her locker at school too. There was nothing. Even when she was…messed up before, she wasn't suicidal."

"I understand," I told him soothingly. "But sometimes, when a loved one searches, they let certain…emotions get in the way. Do you think I could…?"

His face came up again, a different focus in his eyes. "Who did you say retained you again?"

"Mrs. Cambridge, sir."

"Right. You wouldn't mind if I called her myself, just to be sure?"

"No sir."

He got up, walked over to a small table near the TV, picked up the phone. "What's the number?" he asked.

"Sir, I don't mean to sound like a wiseguy or anything, but anybody could give you a phone number, have somebody standing by in a pay phone, you understand? Perhaps you'd feel better if you checked the number in the local phone book?"

His eyes were even more sharply focused, watching me without a flicker. "What'd you say your name was?"

"It's Burke," I told him.

He punched some buttons, got information, asked for the Cambridge residence phone. Hung up, dialed again.

"Could I speak to Mrs. Cambridge, please?"

…

"I see. When will she be back?"

…

"Okay, well, maybe you can help me, Randy. Do you know anything about your mother hiring a private investigator? Name of Burke?"

…

"Thank you. That's very helpful. Yes. Thank you, we're doing the best we can under the circumstances. And please tell your mother. tell her thanks for what she's doing, all right? Goodbye."

He hung up the phone. Walked back to his brown chair, lit another smoke.

"You ever do any soldiering, Mr. Burke?"

I rapid–processed the various stories I could tell, but none of them fit just right. Something about the way the man looked at me said he wasn't going to take no for an answer.

"Not for the U.S.," I said.

He raised an eyebrow as a question, waited for my answer.

"It was a long time ago," I told him. "In Africa."

"The Congo?"

"No. Biafra."

"You were a mercenary?"

"A freedom fighter," I told him, not even a hint of a smile on my face.

He dragged deep on his cigarette. "You have rank over there?" he asked.

"No sir."

"Get paid good?"

"Not like the pilots did."

"Yeah. I could tell. I can always tell a man that's been a working solider."

"How can you do that?"

"You relax inside the fire. It goes around you, and you know there's not a whole hell of a lot you can do about it. You know your real job is getting out alive. There's no rules."

"You did that?"

"In the Nam. Surprised?"

"No," I told him truthfully. "Infantry?"

"That's right," he said, nodding his head. "A ground grunt. I was just a green kid, but I saw a lot of working pros. Especially when we went over the border. I've seen the look before."

"You can see it in prison too," I said, not even thinking about why I was breaking the rules…telling a source the truth.

"You've been there?"

"Yes."

"And now you work as a private eye?"

"Yes sir."

He took a deep breath, hands clasped in his lap. "Her room's in the back. Look around all you want. You can't miss it— there's a big teddy bear on the bed."

I went over the room with a microscope. No diary, no address book…maybe the cops had them. I checked inside Diandra's clock radio, slit open a tube of toothpaste, opened every book, even checked the teddy bear for seams.

When I came back out, he was still sitting there. "I didn't find anything," I told him.

"I know. But this isn't the only place you're going to look, is it?"

"No sir."

"If you find anything, you'll tell me?"

"I will."

He got to his feet, moving slowly like there was a piece of broken glass inside his gut. His handshake was way too powerful for his slender frame, pulling me close. "You think something happened to her, don't you?" he whispered.

"I don't know."

"I still know how to do things," he said in the same whispery tone. "You find out anything, I'll be here."

In the Lexus, I raised the kid on the car phone.

"Hello," he said.

"It's me. I'm on my way back."

"He called. Did I…"

"Not on this phone," I told him.

As I turned into the bluestone drive, I spotted the kid. He had a green garden hose in one hand, a big clump of sponge in the other. The Plymouth was shining in the afternoon sun, as close to its original dull gray color as it ever got. I parked the Lexus, got out and walked over to him.

"What's going on?" I asked, pointing at the Plymouth.

"I just thought I'd clean her up a bit. Man! When was the last time you washed her?"

"I generally don't wash it. The idea is to blend in, not call attention to yourself. This is a working car, kid, not a showpiece."

"Oh. Hey, I'm sorry. I was just trying to…I don't know."

"I know. You were trying to show respect, right?"

His chin came up, a bit of strength edged into his voice. "That's right, I was."

"Good," I told him. "Doesn't matter around here anyway… no way this beast is gonna blend in."

"I know. It's…cool. I mean, she doesn't look like much of anything, but…"

"There's people like that too," I said. "You don't know what's under the hood until you hit the gas, right?"

He nodded, not sure who I was talking about— never thinking it could be him. "That guy called," he said. "Like I told you."

"Blankenship? Yeah, I was in the room when he did."

"I told him my mother had hired you, before she went to Europe. I said she'd be back soon— she hired you because she was concerned that maybe the police weren't doing everything they could."

"You did good," I told him. "But, listen, remember when I told you not to talk on the cellular phone?"

"I was on the regular line."

"But I wasn't. Anyone can listen in to those calls. Some geeks do it with scanners— they got nothing else to do with their lives, so they stick their nose into other people's. Used to be CB's they listened to, now it's these cellular phones. So when we use them, we keep it short, right? No names, no information. Got it?"

He nodded gravely.

"I'm going upstairs to change. And I'm going to work again tonight. When I come down, we'll get some dinner, okay?"

"Okay. Uh, Burke…?"

"What?"

"What kind of oil do you run in her?"

"The synthetic stuff— you don't have to change it so often."

"Yeah. Is that a dry sump underneath?"

"That's right," I said, looking at him in surprise.

"I read about them all the time, cars," he said, a grin on his flushed face. "I wished they had auto mechanics in school, but they don't. But I sent away for books. I do all the work on the Miata myself. I thought maybe I'd change the oil and filters, put in some new plugs

"It's running fine, Randy."

"I know, but…"

"What the hell," I told him. "It could always run better."

He took off like a kid with a puppy.

"What is this stuff?" I asked him, spearing a bite–size chunk of white meat off my plate.

"It's coq au vin. Like chicken with sauce on it. There's a French restaurant in town. They deliver too. I thought maybe you'd rather have something like a real meal."

"It's good," I said. "That was thoughtful of you."

The kid ducked his head again. We ate in silence for a bit, part of my brain still working over what Blankenship had told me.

"You know what a gymkhana is?" the kid asked.

"Where they race around in a parking lot?"

"Well, sort of. A real one, it's like a slalom, only flat. They set up pylons for the course, and you run through it for time. If you hit a pylon, they add time to your score, see? It's tricky. Not like real racing. I mean, they only let one car at a time go through. But it's slick. All kinds of cars do it, 'Vettes, Ferraris, one guy even has a Lola he brings."

"What do you get if you win?"

"Trophies. I mean, it's not for money or anything. But it's real serious— the drivers really go at it."

"You ever do it?"

"Sure. In the Miata, once. It was…okay. I mean, all the kids go there just to hang out."

"Do they bet on the races?"

"Bet? Gee, I don't know. I mean, we don't. But maybe the older guys do…we don't mix with them much."

"Did any of the kids who killed themselves race there?"

"No. At least I don't think so. I mean, that's not why I asked about it. I was thinking… maybe…if you wouldn't mind…"

"What?"

"Could I run the Plymouth in one? There's one next Sunday. I never saw a big American sedan run one— it would be boss, you know?"

"Can you get hurt doing it?"

"Nah. You could spin out, that's the worst. They make you wear a helmet, that's all."

"You really want to do it?"

"Yeah! Big–time. It would be— "

"Okay."

"You mean it?"

"Sure."

"Great! We could drive over early, get in a couple of practice laps, then we could— "

"Hold up, kid. What's this 'we' stuff?"

"I just thought…seeing how it's your car and all, you'd want to…"

I watched his face, seeing how different it looked from when I first met him. Thinking about why kids kill themselves. "Good idea," I said. "Let's do it."

"Gardens," Mama answered the phone like always.

"It's me. You hear anything from Michelle?"

"Yes. She say, take Mole longer to read what you show him."

"Longer than what?"

"I don't know. You ask, okay?"

"Okay. Anything else going on?"

"Very quiet. You?"

"I'm not sure."

"Very pretty stones," Mama said. "Look careful."

I learned to sleep in chunks a long time ago. Grab it when you can. I know that REM is the true deep sleep, the only kind that restores you. That's where you dream. I don't remember most of my dreams— it's one of the few things in my life I'm grateful for.

It was after eleven when I came around. I took a shower, thought about shaving again, decided the hell with it. I listened to some music while I was getting dressed in the outfit Michelle bought for me. The broken blank eye of the television stared at me— I guess I really only watch it with Pansy— she loves it.

I held my pistol in my hand, turning it over like it would tell me something. I couldn't leave it in the Plymouth with the kid driving it around, and there was no good place in the Lexus to stash it either. Finally, I just wiped it down, wrapped it in a sheet of heavy plastic and put it inside the toilet tank. It wasn't a world–class stash, but even if someone turned it up, it wouldn't connect to me. The piece was ice–cold— came right off the assembly line at the factory, never went through a dealer's hands. The serial number would never have been registered. I got it from Jacques, Clarence's old boss. Specialty of the house, guaranteed not to alert any law enforcement computer. If they found it, they'd have a hell of a time proving it didn't belong to whoever stayed here before me.

Fancy's house was in the same neighborhood as Cherry's, that's what she said, anyway. The same neighborhood turned out to be about five miles away— people measure differently out here. I found it easy enough: a big modernistic spread, all redwood and glass in front. It was midnight plus two when I pulled into the long drive. I angled the Lexus toward a long, wide building that looked like a six–car garage…where she'd told me to park. The doors were closed. I opened the car door and stepped out, getting my bearings.

"You're late," a voice said from the darkness. Fancy. In a pale blue T–shirt that draped to mid–thigh, standing barefoot a few feet away. She stepped forward, no real expression on her face.

"Come with me," she said, turning to walk away.

I followed her along a slate path around the back of the garage, past an Olympic–size swimming pool glowing a muted gold from underwater lights. The big house was to our left, but Fancy moved in the opposite direction, past a low structure that looked to be all glass.

"Is that a greenhouse?" I asked her.

"No, that's the pool house. Where people change into their bathing suits before they swim."

"It looks too big for just that."

She made a face over her shoulder, kept walking. One more turn and we were facing three little houses standing in a triangle maybe a hundred feet along each line. Two were dark; one had a soft orange light glowing next to the door. As we walked closer, I could see it was some kind of Japanese paper lantern over a bulb.

Fancy opened that door, stepped inside. "Over there," she said, pointing to a long white leather couch.

I sat down. Fancy went to the far corner of the room, did something with her hand, and a small cone of light hit the dark carpet. I could see it was a long black floor lamp with a gooseneck top bent toward the floor. Fancy stood watching the light for a second, hands on hips. Satisfied, she turned and came over to the couch. She sat, then curled her legs under her, turning so she was facing me.

"Could we start over?" she asked.

"Why?"

"You liked me when you first saw me. You did, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I did."

"How come?"

"I liked your look."

"My face? My body? What?"

"Not your looks. Your look. Understand?"

"No. Tell me. Please tell me," she hastily amended, like she'd made a fatal slip.

"You looked like a…merry girl. Bouncy. Sweet. A true–hearted girl."

"And I…showed you how I play. So you don't like me anymore?"

"I don't care how you play. I just don't have people playing with me."

"Are you scared?"

"Of what?"

"That you'd like it."

"I like a lot of things— the only things that scare me are the ones I need."

"And you don't need much?"

"I've had a lot of practice."

"Because you were poor?"

"I was born broke," I told her. That's the best way to lie to strangers— tell them the true truth.

She got up, walked over to a big–screen TV facing the couch. She bent over at the waist, cued a VCR, ran her finger down a stack of cassettes. When she found the one she wanted, she shoved it into the slot. Then she plucked a remote from the top of the TV set, came back over to the couch holding it in her hand.

"You want a cigarette?" she asked.

"Sure," I said, waiting.

"I don't have any," she said. "I just meant it was okay to smoke here. That's an ashtray," pointing to a flat silver dish on the top of a black lacquered coffee table.

I took the pack from my jacket pocket, shook one out, put it in my mouth. I opened the little box of wooden matches, the one with the name of the nightclub in Chicago I'd never been to. I leave them places, throw trackers off the scent. She put her hand on mine, said "Let me do it." I handed her the matches. She pulled the cigarette from my mouth, put it between her lips, struck the match. When she got it going, she handed it to me.

"Thanks."

"You didn't say anything about the taste this time," she said, soft–voiced. "I really liked it when you did that. Flirting. It's sweet fun. People don't do it much anymore. What you said…that was a line, right?"

"No. I never said that before in my life. It just happened."

"I bet."

"Don't bet. You haven't learned to tell the truth when you hear it by now, all you'll ever be able to do is play— you'll never be for real."

"I'm sorry," she said, dropping her eyes. "Did you mean the other stuff, what you said before? About me looking like a merry girl?"

"Yes."

She shifted her body so she was facing the TV set. "I don't just play— I work too," she said. "Watch."

She hit the remote. Chamber music came from the speakers. The screen background was a neon blue. Black letters popped up: A LESSON FOR MELISSA. Credits rolled over the music. CANE PRODUCTIONS, trick lettering— the "P" in "PRODUCTIONS" formed a stylized cane. Some other stuff. The camera dissolved to…Fancy. In a high–necked, long–sleeved, dark velvet dress with a gathering of white lace at the throat, tight bodice, full skirt. She was seated on a flat bench, both hands in her lap. "Get in here, young lady!" her voice cracked out from the speakers.

"Yes, mistress," said the woman walking on screen. A young woman, medium–height and slender, with long straight hair. She was wearing a schoolgirl outfit— dark plaid jumper over a white blouse, long white socks almost to her knees, flat–heeled shoes with Mary Jane straps.

"It's a standard script," Fancy said, pushing a button on the remote. MUTE appeared in yellow letters at the bottom of the screen.

There was some exchange of conversation between the two women, then the slender girl lay across Fancy's lap. Fancy pulled up the other girl's skirt and spanked her for a long time, occasionally stopping to say something. The camera shifted, zooming in from screen left to display the other woman's underpants. Back to a close–up of the woman's face, contorted in mock pain. Pulling away to a long shot: Fancy pulling down the other woman's panties, now smacking her with a hairbrush. The cameras danced around the show— at least three of them, an expensive setup.

The scene seemed to go on and on, with the slender woman turning her head once in a while to say something. The camera lensed lovingly over her bottom, now a bright red. Finally, in response to something Fancy said, the woman slid off Fancy's lap, Fancy hooking a thumb into the panties so they slid off the other girl's legs as she stood up. Fancy pointed screen right. The other girl walked off. The closing shot was of the other girl, standing in a corner, her face to the wall.

There were no actors' credits at the end. Just the Cane Productions sign and a P.O. box in Atlanta where you could order a catalog.

Fancy hit the remote and the screen went dark.

"That's me," she said.

I lit another smoke, waiting for the punch line. Fancy got up, rewound the cassette, popped it out of the VCR and put it back into a plain case. The case went into an open spot on the bookshelf. She came back over to the couch, sat down again.

"What do you know about me now?" she asked.

"I know you're a pro domina," I said. And a blackmailer— where were the cameras hidden in the little house?

"That's right. You think it's so bad?"

"Bad how?"

"Bad like…sick, okay?"

"It's a fetish," I told her. "There's lots of them. They're bad if they hurt you inside— if you hate yourself every time you do it. Or if they get in the way of what you have to do. Or if you use force to make someone do it with you. Otherwise, what's the difference? Some people get pumped up by high–heeled shoes, some like to dress up like cowboys. If you have to pay for it, it just costs more, that's all."

What a risk to be so needy. If you have a special way you need to play, how do you meet others like you? Coded ads in the personals columns? Advertise in the freak sheets? How could you ever trust them with your secrets?

"You know about it?"

"Not a lot."

"It's a great business. Completely legal too. It's not just the videos— we have still photos, audiotapes, even custom stories."

"Stories?"

"Yes, a customer can set up a scenario, and we have people who will write them a special story. Just for them. Even put their name in it if they want. It's all on computer, in different fields. We can give the customer any setting he wants: schoolmaster, girls' dorm, sorority house, husband–wife, daddy–daughter…anything. And we have standard ones too, not custom. Like pamphlets."

"What does it cost?"

"It varies. The videos are forty–five dollars, the pamphlets are five. The custom stuff costs the most."

"Yeah. Always does. Special costs more than straight on the street too."

"I'm not a whore," she snapped. "And I'm not a degenerate. I don't slam dope, I don't booze, and I didn't get this shape from snarfing sweets. Don't you dare look down at me.

"I'm not, I— "

"Just listen," she interrupted. "I'm an actress. A role–player. I'm like a therapist too, for some of them. It relieves tension…like a massage. The girl–on–girl stuff is the most popular. Everybody in the scene says I'm a star."

"Whatever you say."

There's plenty of honest whores — whores who don't take your picture with hidden cameras.

"It's true. It's a business. A good business."

"Most of your customers are men?"xW

"For the live scenes, sure. But we get women too. Couples, even. And we have plenty of women buyers for the videos. Some mostly buy…kid stuff."

I turned my head so I was looking deep into her eyes. She held my stare for a minute, then she nipped at the palm of her hand, just below the thumb, and cast her eyes down. "Audio and custom," she said. "That's mostly what they want. There's a woman in Iowa, she advertises in all the magazines. You want to see?"

I didn't react. Why would I want to see? This was coming too quick, secrets piled on secrets. When that happens, there's always a trade lurking close.

She got to her feet, walked out of the room. She was back in a minute, holding a slick–paper magazine with a black and white photo of a woman bending over on the cover— there was another person in the photo, but all you could see was the paddle in their hand. I stood up, joined her under the light. She thumbed through rapidly, looking for the ad. It was marked with a red ink star, hand–drawn. I held it close to read the small type:

Proverbs 13:24(!)

Next time your kid has a good one coming, make a full–size cassette of the chastisement and send it to me. I pay $50 for fifteen minutes, more for longer. Good sound quality a must. I travel frequently, with my own equipment. Write to make arrangements.

Only a P.O. box was listed, no name. A new kind of kiddie porn, legal too— I'd never heard of it before. Freaks carefully recording their own children getting whipped. To entertain other maggots. For money. I felt ice–picks of fire in my chest.

"Why did you show me this?" I asked her, my voice flat and level.

"Cherry told me. A long time ago. She said that's what you do."

"That?"

"No. She said you…hunt people like that. She knew you a long time ago, that's what she said. And she ran across you a few times. Not in person. Your name, what you do. She said she had your number, but I was always afraid to call. When you walked in the kitchen, I knew it was you. Even before you said your name. I thought you'd be…bigger."

"Why?"

"Cherry always said if Randy got in trouble, she'd call you," she finished, ignoring my question.

"You think Randy's in trouble?"

"I think he thinks he is. He's a cowardly little kid, always scared of something. All those suicides, I know they made him afraid— he told me once.

"So what's this whole show about? Where do you think I fit in?"

She turned away from me, walked back over to the couch. "I hate them," she whispered, almost choking on the words.

"Who?"

"People who hurt kids. Especially their own kids. I know all about this stuff. Spanking. I'm an expert on it. It's not for discipline, it's for sex. Some people get turned on by it, some people get off on it. A good submissive, she can come just from getting spanked. There's men like that too. They whip their kids for fun. Their own fun. And it hurts the children. Because they know. They know why they're getting it. It's a sex game. And it stays with them. I know a woman, she's over thirty and her father still spanks her. What's that for?"

"You know what it's for."

"That's right, I do. And I hate them. I thought if you knew about it .

"You want to hire me? Is that it?"

"Hire you? You mean, you do it for money?"

"I do some things for money."

"I thought…I mean, Cherry said…you did that. She told me. About that mercenary who raped kids. He wanted to go to South Africa. And you…made him disappear."

A thin, cold fluid ran up my spine right into my brain, freezing my face into show–nothing survival.

Cherry had my number. Had it all this time.

Cherry. South Africa. Diamonds. Sure. She wasn't getting rich with hanky–spanky blackmail, that wasn't her game. But how much would a man pay for a tape of him confessing to homicide?

I could feel the tape recorders. Voice–activated, reel–to–reel with overlapping backup, microphones planted all around. Felt the fever–spike of fear whip through me and land in my gut, screaming Stay safe! I turned to Fancy and chuckled. "Yeah, sure. That's me all right. Burke, the masked avenger."

"But…"

"Hey, give me a break," I said, laughing harder now. "I'm not saying I never did anything wrong in my life. I'm a hustler. A thief. But kill somebody…forget it. That's not my speed. Cherry was just pulling your chain. I haven't seen her in a hundred years, but even then she was a world–class bullshit artist."

Her face was white under the artificial tan, hands shaking. "I thought…"

"What? That I was some kind of vigilante for kids? Because fucking Cherry told you?"

"Yes!" she sobbed, her face in her hands. I watched her cry for a minute, her body shaking under the blue T–shirt.

"Cut it out," I told her. "That's a fairy story. You're too old to think there's a Santa Claus."

She leaned her head against my chest, still crying. I put my hand on her shoulder, pulled her into me. Held her while she cried.

The outfit Michelle bought for me would look good in the movie the blackmailers were making, but even a Grand Jury of cops wouldn't indict Ice–T on the contents of the audio track.

The light was on in the kid's bedroom— I could see it as I turned into the garage. Maybe he was scared of the dark.

I took off the camouflage clothing. It was about two–thirty in the morning. I wasn't sleepy— too much to sort out.

What Fancy told me was true. It takes a player to know the game. Even the child molesters who call what they do "intergenerational sex" know what "domestic discipline" is all about. But why would Cherry tell Fancy about what I do? What I did. How much did she know? Or was it all a bunch of guesses, needing my own words to drop me for the count.

Today, people don't think about working to get rich. Or stealing either. It's all upside down now. People hear someone they know was in a car accident, they envy them…what a great lawsuit. Lawsuits and lottery tickets, that's the way you do it now.

You don't run across straight blackmail much anymore. Why risk doing time when you can make a bigger score from selling secrets to the media? Treason is fashionable today. You have an affair with someone famous, there's a cash market for letters. For tapes, whatever. It helps if you're willing to pose nude later— show the people what the famous man wanted so bad.

The important thing is to do it for the right reasons— because you got this desperate need for the public to know the truth— the media likes its whores better when they dress up.

There's a bounty on famous people. Everybody knows where to go with the tapes.

A celebrity's sister sells her diary to the garbage press. Sells her own sister. A young man writes a book about how some industrialist needed bondage to get off— a private game turned public for cash. A spoiled–stupid little girl pleads guilty to attempted murder of an older woman. She says she was having an affair with the woman's husband, that he told her to do it. He says it never happened, the girl is delusional. She's out on bail before she goes away to prison. She goes to see her boyfriend, another older guy. They talk, play with each other. She says spoiled–stupid stuff, jokes about the shooting, tries so pitiful–hard to be cool, sound tough. The boyfriend has a video going the whole time, sells it to a TV show.

I guess that makes him famous too.

It's not against the law, selling secrets. Why bother with extortion? Threats to expose are a waste of time when you can score more by actually pulling the trigger.

Save those letters. Tape those calls. When I was first coming up, the worst thing you could be was a rat. Now it's a respected profession.

There's a bull market in betrayal.

But the tape I took from Cherry's hidden safe…I didn't recognize the man in the video— whoever he was, he wasn't that famous. Private blackmail. Leave the cash in a drop and you'll get the negatives…you don't see that stuff much anymore. There's money in it, sure. But not enough to buy fistfuls of gems.

Unless it was a pyramid. Show some sucker who works for the government the tape. You want the tape back? Maybe we need to talk about being the low bidder on a defense contract. Or a judicial appointment. Or…

No, it didn't add up. You can't be sure your target has any particular fetish. It takes years of work to set something like that up.

So why would Fancy show me her video? Why would she talk about kids?

I didn't have enough. Like trying to cross a fifty–foot chasm over a forty–foot bridge— I could be jumping to conclusions.

If I did that, I didn't want it to be an accident.

The kid was outside when I got up the next morning, waiting around downstairs like he had something on his mind.

"I saw your light when I got in last night," I said. "You leave it on when you went to sleep, or what?"

"I was awake. I was going over some stuff I had."

"About race cars?"

"Yeah." He shot me a smile. "I was wondering— "

"Look, I gotta make a run into the city, okay? I won't be long, probably be back before this afternoon. Can we talk about it when I get back?"

"Sure, I was just— "

"Randy, is it important, kid?"

"Not that important."

"You get a call? Somebody say something to you?"

"Nothing like that. It can wait, all right?"

"Sure. Keep the phone with you if you go out."

"I will. Uh, Burke…?"

"What?"

"Could you take the Lexus? I thought I'd…"

"You got it," I told him.

The Lexus was right at home in the commuter traffic, common enough among humans who worship products. I took my time, not pushing it. When I turned off at Bruckner Boulevard for Hunts Point, the Lexus fit in just as well— they're as popular with the dope boys as Mercedes used to be.

I motored past the deadfall near the filthy water, watching the rapacious gulls circling. Meat–eaters all, they battle with the wild dog packs for the refuse from the nearby meat market, unafraid of earthbound humans who occasionally trespass.

"Nice car, Burke," Terry greeted me, running his palm over the sleek flanks of the Lexus. If the dogs noticed the upgrade in my transport, they didn't let on. I told Terry the Lexus wasn't mine, but I'd be driving it for a while. He nodded, holding his eager kid questions, imitating the Mole's way of doing business. I showed him the pistol. He nodded again, sagely pondering the obvious problem. "I got something that'll work. Wait here, okay?"

I fired up a smoke, watching the dogs work their way across the junkyard in the studied Z–pattern of the predator pack. They were like the Mole too— they were used to humans, but didn't like many of them.

The kid came back with a flat piece of black metal. It had a pair of black rubber grippers bonded to the back, two heavy suction cups on the front. He walked around the Lexus, finally found the place he wanted under the fender— he showed me the exact spot. I fitted the metal piece into the spot, pushed down. Nothing.

"Push real hard, Burke," he said.

I locked my forearm, shoved with all my strength. I felt it pop home, lock in place.

"You want to take it off, you have to push this little button on the side…see?" He guided my hand to the spot. I pushed, and the metal bar dropped into my hand. I put it back in place, shoved the gun's barrel between the rubber grips. It held like it was welded.

"Can I get the gun out without taking the whole thing off?" I asked him.

"Sure. Just grab the handle and pull in the direction of the barrel— it works like a fulcrum, see?" He pulled it out as easy as drawing from a holster.

"Pretty slick, Terry."

He blushed like a kid with a perfect report card. It was another minute or so before I realized he wasn't going to say anything. Waiting the way his father always did.

"Mole around?" I finally asked.

"He's got…someone with him."

I looked a "Who?" question at him. The kid shrugged. Whoever it was, it wasn't Michelle.

"Should I…wait, or what?"

"I'll see," Terry told me, moving off.

He was back quickly, mouth working so he'd get the message just right. "Mole says, the man with him is someone he works with. Not your business. You can trust him. Come down if you want."

I knew the only kind of people the Mole worked with. Knew where his priorities were. But I was just curious enough, just enough in a hurry.

"Let's go," I said.

Walking over, I handed Terry the key to the Lexus. "Can you make a copy?" I asked him.

He gave me another one of those "Are you kidding?" looks teenagers do so well.

The Mole was in his bunker, his pasty white skin shining like a mushroom in a cellar. His workbench was littered with printouts from the computer. A pad at his elbow was covered in his tiny, crabby handwriting, mostly with numbers and symbols I didn't recognize. A short, wiry man was standing next to him, dressed in a simple khaki summer suit. He was dark–skinned with thick, curly black hair and a mustache, dark brown eyes regarding me neutrally.

I greeted the underground genius— he grunted an acknowledgment, absorbed in another list of symbols scrolling down the screen.

I took the pad from his desk, puzzling over the Mole's strange writing.

"It doesn't print graphics," the Mole said, glancing over his shoulder at the printer.

"Ah, Mole…"

He turned to look at me. "This is Zvi," he said. "My cousin."

The dark–skinned man stepped forward, extending his hand. "Cousin" told me the whole story— Zvi was an Israeli, an operative in one of the dozen agencies they had working all around the world. High–placed too— if he knew where to find the Mole. Zvi was the Mole's landsman — of his blood, not of our family. Even his grip was neutral, promising nothing.

"Did you…?" I began.

"I showed the disks to Zvi," Mole said, his eyes ready for a challenge. I didn't react— he'd told me the rules a long time ago. If his country could use something, he'd turn it over no matter what.

"One set of data is my area," Zvi said, his voice neutral as his handshake. "The other is not."

"Which is yours?" I asked.

"This one," he replied, holding up the red disk. "Look at the printout."

I picked it up. A fan–folded sheet with rachet–feed perforations along each side. It ran to dozens of pages all told. Looked like ID information: names, addresses, height, weight, hair and eye color…couple of hundred names, at least.

"What is this?" I asked.

"It's a before–and–after," Zvi said. "See this man," he said, indicating with a pointing finger.

I looked. R21ANDERSON, ROBERT M.669 EAST 7933–C NYC74190lRNXBLUSMT=CAT2. Height in inches, weight in pounds, color of hair and eyes. More numbers followed: a pair of nine–digit sequences, one separated by dashes, the other solid. Social Security and passport, sure.

"What's this SMT CAT2 thing?" I asked him.

"Scars, Marks and Tattoos. I don't know what the Category means— it would be in their coding. If they're operating at this level, they'd have a way to alter things like that too."

"So?"

"So he could be this one now," he said, pointing to another name, different in everything but the height, with a Houston address. "Or this one," showing me still another, this time living in New Zealand. "This is a record of new identities. People who disappeared."

"What about fingerprints?"

"There's new technology. And even without it, people at this level don't get fingerprinted unless they're already caught— your local agencies don't really have a strong Interpol interface. They'd need a document generator too, probably on–line with government computers."

"How do you do the before–and–after? How do you know which is which?"

"There's a program that would do it. A sorting program. That's what the code is before each one. See? The R21 here. The MM8 there? That's what the computer would do, match them up."

"Could you crack the code?"

"It would take months, and even then we couldn't be sure, not without a reference point. We'd have to know at least one correct match to check."

"So what good is it?"

The Israeli lit a short, unfiltered cigarette with a butane lighter. Rubbed his face as though in concentration on my question, but I caught his glance at the Mole. The Mole moved his head maybe an inch, but it was enough.

"We know one of the people on the list," the Israeli said. "He vanished almost three years ago. We would like very much to locate him."

"How did you…?"

"I called them," the Mole said, taking the list from the Israeli, his stubby finger touching the paper next to a name. The name didn't mean anything to me— the Mole was telling me what the Israeli's job was— Zvi was a hunter.

"A sorting program is a simple thing," the Israeli said. "It would be a macro… a series of keystrokes stored in sequence. When you invoke the macro, the whole sequence runs.

"I brought everything when I— " I said.

"I know," he interrupted. "It would be somewhere else. Did the…place where you got it have a computer? A small one would be enough, even a laptop."

"I didn't see one."

He looked at the Mole again. The Mole looked at me. "What was on the other disk?" I asked him.

"An experiment of some kind. A scientific experiment. This much I could tell, only— there are a number of subjects, each subject is given the same…thing. The thing could be a substance, a stimulus…I can't tell. Then there are results…something happened to some of the subjects, I can't tell what. The rest is all probabilities, chi–squares, standard deviations."

"Yeah, okay," I said, puzzled. "Do you know what…?"

"I told you everything I know. The subjects have codes too."

"So there's a sorting program for them too?"

"Maybe." He shrugged his shoulders.

"I could take a look around," I said.

"You wouldn't know what to look for," the Israeli said. "You wouldn't recognize it if you saw it."

I lit a cigarette of my own, buying time, thinking about what I'd just learned. The Israeli sat stone–still, as if any movement would spook me into the wrong decision

"What do you want me to do?" I finally asked.

"The…place where you got this from…could you give us the address?"

I exhaled through my nose, watching the twin streams of smoke in the underground bunker.

"The Mole can copy this for you," I said, handing over the key to Cherry's house. "I'll call…here…when it's clear. You'll have a minimum of three hours. After dark better?"

"It doesn't matter," the Israeli said.

I gave him the address.

I left the two disks with the Mole, picked up the key to the Lexus, confirmed that Terry kept a copy for himself, and headed back to Connecticut. It was way ahead of rush hour— the drive didn't take long.

But I had time to chew on it, work it through. They hadn't told me the whole story— I didn't need to know it. That was their business, not mine.

I've got my own business too. I hadn't told them I recognized one of the names on the printout.

Bluestone dust was still dancing in the driveway when I drove up. The kid was lying under the Plymouth— I could see his sneakers sticking out. He pushed himself free, rubbing something off the front of his sweatshirt.

"I changed the oil and filter," he said. "Hey, what kind of injectors are you running? I checked my hooks— that's a four–forty in there, it came with carbs, right?"

"I guess so…I don't know."

"But…"

"Randy, I'm telling you the truth. The car's pretty much the way I got it. I didn't build it— I just drive it."

"Yeah, okay. Burke…"

"What?"

"She was here. While you were gone."

"Fancy?"

"No. Charm. She asked about you."

"Asked what?"

"How come you were here. What you were doing, you know."

"No, I don't know. What did you tell her?"

"That you were the caretaker. To, like, look after the place while my mother was away."

"So?"

"So she…didn't believe me, I think. She gave me a look, like I was lying. It was…I dunno…kind of scary."

"Did she go upstairs, Randy?"

The kid hung his head. "Yeah."

"You told her it was okay?"

"No. I told her she couldn't. She said I wasn't going to stop her…and I'd better not tell you she was there either."

"All right, take it easy. How long was she up there?"

"Just a few minutes. Then she went over to the house."

"You go over there with her?"

"No," he said again, his face still down.

"Stay here," I told him, heading for the stairs.

If she'd tossed the place, she was good. I could see the search–signs, but they were faint. Subtle.

It only took me a minute to find the listening device inside the handpiece to the telephone.

Downstairs again, I ignored the kid's look, walked past him over to the big house. The back door was open. I let myself in, moving quiet. Cherry's bedroom looked the same. I worked the buttons on the intercom and the sliding door opened in the marble wall to the bath. When I looked inside, the compartment was empty.

I stepped out of the bedroom, heard a noise downstairs. I moved back down the corridor, into one of the bathrooms, flushed the toilet, counted to ten, and came down the stairs.

The kid was sitting at the kitchen table pouring himself a glass of milk, a box of chocolate donuts standing open in front of him.

"Hey, Burke. You want a donut?"

"Didn't I tell you to stay by the car?"

"I thought…you meant until you were done in the apartment. I didn't…"

"Don't think so fucking much," I told him. Then I walked out the back door.

Back in the apartment, I took out my notebook, started to go over the list of parents of the kids who'd died. Blankenship scanned legit to me— maybe I'd get lucky with one of the others.

I picked up my tapped phone, dialed Fancy's number. She answered on the second ring.

"Hello."

"Ten o'clock tonight," I told her, my voice flat and hard. "Get your fat ass over here. And don't be late, understand?"

"Yes," she breathed soft into the mouthpiece.

I hung up on her.

Just past four, I heard a tentative knock on the door. I looked through the glass. Randy. I walked over from the couch, let him in.

"What?"

"Burke, I'm sorry. About Charm. And about…not staying where you told me. I was gonna…be different. The car…I can't explain it."

"Sit down," I told him gently, stepping back from the door.

He crossed over to the couch, leaving me the easy chair. He sat there for a minute, collecting himself.

"My mother told me about you," he said.

"Told you what?"

"She said she knew you a long time ago. When she did you that…favor, remember?"

"Yeah."

"My mother doesn't talk to me much. She never did, really. She said she wanted me…real special. That's why she went through all that, with the artificial insemination and all. She's not around here very much. She always says, someday she'll tell me things. She never says what things. Just…things. Things I need to know. I guess…"

His voice trailed off. I lit a smoke, not saying anything, letting my body language tell him it was okay, I was listening, patient, all the time in the world. He took a little gulping breath, got going again.

"Anyway, my mother told me you were a…tough guy. I mean, real tough, not like a weightlifter or anything. Dangerous, that's what she said. Burke is a dangerous man."

You tell a lot of people stories about me, don't you, bitch?

I kept my face quiet, mildly interested, waiting for him to continue.

"She knew you when you were, like, my age, right?" the kid went on. "She said that's the way you were then, too. She said you were a man of honor— that you'd honor a debt. She really told me about you a long time ago. When she went away. I was just a little kid, like ten or something. She said, if anyone tried to do something to me, I should call you. Just call you and tell you, and you'd fix it. For the debt."

"Do something like what, Randy?"

"Like…I don't know. She didn't say. She would…leave me with people. Caretakers, she called them. She always did that. It was them she meant, I think. But I know what she said. If anybody makes me scared, I should call you."

"Did that ever happen?"

"No, not…really. But my mother thought it might, I could tell. I was in her room once, just playing around. I found a maid's outfit. You know, like a black dress with a white apron? I thought it was Rosemary's. She was the maid we had then. From Ireland. So I put it in her room, on the bed. My mother saw it there. I heard her yell for Rosemary. When Rosemary came upstairs, I hid. I was scared, my mother sounded so mad. She asked Rosemary why she took the outfit. Rosemary said she didn't, and my mother slapped her. Right across the face. She told Rosemary to put it back in her room. Then when Rosemary came back, my mother slapped her again. I never told her it was me.

"It was a long time ago," I said. "Don't worry about it."

"My mother asked me later, did Rosemary ever do anything to me? Like…punish me or something. I told her no, Rosemary never did that. That's when she said the thing about calling you, the first time."

I played with my cigarette, letting him drive his own car.

"When I called you, I was scared. Like something was gonna happen, but I didn't know what."

"The suicides?"

"I guess so. There's…something else too. I can't tell you. But I knew if you were around, it wouldn't happen."

"That kid Brew?"

"No!" he snorted a laugh. "Not him. Anyway, when I started to…do stuff with you, I thought I could…maybe help, I don't know. I don't smoke dope anymore," he said, looking straight across at me, eyes clear. "I don't booze either. And I'm not gonna tank, next time they have a party. I want to do…something."

"Drive?"

"Yes! When I drive, it's like I'm the car. It feels…connected. I don't know. You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

"No. No, I don't. All the great drivers, that's the way they talk about it…like it's all one piece."

"Did you know any? Great drivers, I mean."

I couldn't tell him. I started to lose it for a second, but I reached down and grabbed hold. I fussed with a cigarette until I had it under control. "I did time with one of them," I told the kid. "Long time ago. He was a great, great wheelman. Drove on some of the biggest hijacks in the country, bank jobs too. The Prof knew him better than me, but I talked a lot to him too."

"You mean like a getaway driver?"

"More than that, kid. He was stand–up, see? No matter what happened inside, Petey wouldn't leave you there. He'd be waiting at the curb when you came out."

"But when he drove…"

"Driving, that's only a small piece of it. I had this pal once, Easy Eddie. One time we were out riding, nothing special. But what he didn't tell me, he was holding dope. Heavy weight. And we got stopped. Now it worked out okay— the cops never saw it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But if they had, it would have been Kaddish. Easy Eddie and me, we were as close as brothers. He was a stand–up guy. He didn't mean any harm— never thought about getting me in trouble. If we'd gone down for the dope, he would have taken the whole weight."

So?"

"So he was real sorry about what happened. And I never rode with him again."

Randy's face changed colors as it hit him. "I get it," he said.

"Do you?" I asked. "Here's what a guy told me when I was just coming up. About working in a crew. You can't be counted on, you can't be counted in, understand?"

"Yes."

"Being a wheelman, it's not just about driving, Randy. Next time I tell you to stay someplace, you do it. Okay?"

"I will," he said, a bit of steel under the softness of his voice.

I had plenty of time before Fancy. "I need to make a phone call," I told the kid. "Want to drive me?"

"Sure," he said, starting for the Plymouth like there was no other choice. He didn't say anything about there being plenty of phones in the house— maybe he was a faster learner than I thought.

"Where to?" he asked, adjusting the rearview mirror, rocking gently back and forth in the driver's seat, getting the feel.

"What I need is a pay phone, all right? An outdoor phone, if you know where one is."

"There's some on the highway. In case someone has a breakdown."

"Let's ride."

He pulled out of the driveway without spinning the rear wheels, nursing the throttle, but as soon as we hit pavement he dropped the hammer, road–running at double the speed limit.

"Back it off," I told him. "The trick to driving, the real trick, you got to blend, understand? Any fool can drive fast— the game is to drive fast smooth, see? Especially in the city. A real pro, he can drive faster than it looks like he's going…the way a karate man can close space on you before you realize it."

"Okay," the kid said. He motored along in silence for a few minutes. "Can I try it?" he asked.

"Try what?"

"Blending. I'll go through town first, okay?"

"Sure."

The kid had a sweet soft touch with the wheel, piloting the big car in the light traffic with assurance. He pulled to a smooth stop behind a chocolate Porsche coupe, waiting patiently for the light to change.

"Give yourself more room," I told him.

"What do you mean?"

"You're too close to the Porsche. If he stalls, or just decides to sit there, you can't go around him without backing up first, see?"

"Yeah," he said, nodding.

"Drive with a zone around you, like a pocket of air. Another car comes in the zone, you adjust, understand? It's like you always leave yourself an escape route, never get boxed in."

He turned off to the highway, stayed just past the speed limit, looking over at me for approval.

"On the highway, stay with the packs, all right? Always keep cover around you. You want to pass, make sure there's another clump out ahead of you."

He nodded again, rolled into the middle lane behind a Subaru wagon. The kid held his position for a bit, then he pulled into the left lane, circled the Subaru and pulled in behind a three–car train in the middle lane.

"You got it," I told him. "Remember, this car is a crate. That's what it looks like, that's what people will see. Only time you show what it can do is when you got no choice."

The kid ignored the speedometer, driving by the tach and the oil pressure gauge. Another few minutes and he pulled over by a freestanding pay phone.

"See that switch?" I asked him, pointing to a toggle under the dash. "You throw that, the brake lights will disengage. You can leave it in gear with your foot on the brake, nobody watching will know you're ready to go.

He threw the switch as I got out, left the motor running.

I tossed coins into the slot, made the connection.

"Gardens," Mama answered.

"It's me. I need to talk to the Prof. Can you reach out, ask him to be at the phone anytime after midnight?"

"Sure. Everything okay?"

"Getting tricky. But I can see a light, maybe."

"You want Max yet?"

"Not yet, Mama."

I stepped back into the Plymouth. The kid had it rolling away before I had the door closed, merging with traffic like a pigeon joining a flock.

"Nice," I said.

He flushed, didn't say anything.

"You need me for anything tonight?" he asked.

"No. I got stuff to work on. You?"

"There's a party. At Roger's house."

"Party?" This kid was so damn in–and–out…one minute panicked, the next partying.

"It's cool. There's a…girl I know. Maybe she'll be there. I thought maybe I'd ask her if she wants to come along Sunday. For the race."

"Why don't you just call her and ask her?"

"Well, I don't really know her that well. I mean… she doesn't exactly know who I am. I met her and all, but…"

"I got it. What's her name?"

"Wendy. She was in classes with me at school. Then I didn't see her when she went to college. She…writes poetry. I read some once— it was in the school magazine."

"You like her, huh?"

"I always liked her. But she doesn't hang with my crowd. I mean, she smokes dope and all, but she doesn't tank or anything. She's very deep."

"So what makes you think she'll be there tonight?"

"She's close with Scott's girlfriend Denise. I just figured…it's worth a shot, right?"

"Always is," I told him. "You want the Plymouth?"

"Oh no," he said. "I don't want anybody to know what I'm gonna be running on Sunday. That's a surprise. I'll take the Miata."

"Good luck, kid."

"Thanks."

"Take the phone with you."

"It's right here," he said, tapping the pocket of his jacket.

I heard the rasp of the Miata's exhaust a little past nine. I prowled the apartment, probing the edges of my plan in my mind, looking for weak spots. The bugged phone— I couldn't tell if it was a line tap or a full–house microphone. There was the intercom too. Maybe the Mole could figure out what was what, but me, I'd play it like the whole thing was an audio zone.

Ten o'clock came and went. No Fancy. I smoked a cigarette, wondering if I'd miscalculated. A nervous tap on the glass. I went over, let her in. She was wearing a white T–shirt over a pink linen skirt, carrying a matching jacket in one hand and a big black leather purse over one shoulder. She stood there in white medium heels, head slightly down.

"I'm sorry I was late," she whispered.

I glanced at my watch: six minutes past the hour. I reached out and took her right hand, held it in my left with her chubby palm up.

"I don't want to hear your excuses, bitch!" I said, and slapped her upturned palm hard. The sound was clear in the quiet apartment— I hoped the microphone got it.

Fancy looked up, firelight in her big gray eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again.

"Come over here," I told her, jerking her by the hand toward the couch. She came compliantly, breathing harsh now. I walked her past the couch toward the back bedroom. In the doorway, I pulled her to a halt.

"You know what, bitch? I think you'll get the message better if I teach you someplace else…like outdoors. Would you like that?"

"Yes," she said, real soft.

"Come along," I told her, switching my grip from her hand to her wrist. I walked her back to the door, pointed down. She took the stairs, stopped at the bottom and waited. I took her into the garage, opened the passenger door to the Plymouth. She stepped in, held the pose way too long. When she figured out I wasn't going to smack her offered rump, she sat down. I crossed to the driver's side, started the car and backed it out.

She didn't say a word on the drive, sitting like a girl in church, hands in her lap. I found the place I wanted, one I spotted on my recon visit a few days ago. A stand of high trees maybe a hundred yards off the highway with a creek running past. I guess it belonged to somebody, but I didn't see a fence. I turned off, parked so the Plymouth's nose was pointing back out the way we'd come, killed the engine.

"Sorry about all that," I told her, handing her my pack of cigarettes.

"I …don't understand," she said. "I thought you were going to…"

"People were listening," I told her.

"Where?" she asked, a shocked–scared look on her face.

"Back at the apartment. At least I think so. Cherry's got some kind of intercom hooked up," I told her, not mentioning the phone. No risk there, Randy knew about the intercom himself.

"But why…?"

"If anyone's listening, they would have thought you and me were gonna play, right?"

"That's what I thought too."

"Light that for me, will you?" I said. She fumbled in her purse, came up with a silver lighter that looked like a lipstick. Fired it up, handed it over. "Thanks, girl. Look, did you mean what you said? About helping me?"

"Yes."

"If you did, now's the time," I said, putting it right to her while she was off–balance. "Can you get me into Rector's?"

"Rector's? Sure. I could get you a guest pass. But I couldn't go as your slave— they don't know I switch. I don't, actually."

"Switch?"

"Be a submissive. I don't do that. If any of my…clients saw me there wearing a collar, it might turn them off."

"I wasn't— "

"But I wasn't lying," she went on like I hadn't spoken. "I mean, in your bedroom, that first time. I gave you your choice because I thought it would turn you on but I…got wet when I made the offer. And I came tonight expecting…I don't know. I wanted to try it. And when you slapped me, it worked."

"The slap was for the sound," I said. "So anyone listening would think…"

"I was late on purpose," she replied, as if she hadn't heard me. "To give you an excuse. To punish me."

"Look, Fancy, I don't want to get into Rector's when they're having one of their parties. Isn't there any after–hours for a joint like that? In daylight or something?"

"It closes at four. There's a cleaning crew after that. And it doesn't open up again until eight at night. I…go there sometimes in the day."

Sure you do— nothing like a quickie during lunch hour when you're in the blackmail business.

"By yourself?" I asked out loud.

"No…"

"So even if someone saw you go in with me, they wouldn't think anything of it?"

"Yes, that's true, but…"

"But what?"

"What do you want in there?"

"I want to look around. I think one of the people who goes there may he involved in the suicide thing," I told her, lying glibly. What I wanted was a good look— maybe Cherry had another hiding place. Or a laptop computer.

"How long would you have to be in there?"

"An hour. No longer."

"All right. I'll do it. I have the keys. It'll take a couple of days…"

"That's okay. Perfect." I put an arm around her shoulders. Her breasts strained against the T–shirt as she turned toward me. I dropped her hand to her hip, pulled her close.

"Don't," she whispered. "Please don't…kiss me. I hate that."

I snapped my cigarette out the window with my left hand, watching the red tip sail toward the creek. She put her face into my neck, I could feel her breath against my throat. "I don't want to neck," she said urgently. "It's too…innocent. Like kids. I don't want to be a kid. Tell me what to do. Tell me what to do— order me to do it."

"Fancy…"

"Please!"

I took a deep breath through my nose, smelling the mossy darkness. Then I slid across the seat toward the middle, touching her hips with mine.

"Get on your hands and knees," I told her.

She did it, facing out her window, back arched.

"No, stupid bitch," I said, hard–voiced. "Turn around."

She did that too, pulling herself around with her hands on the back of the seat.

"Unzip my pants," I said.

Her dark hair fell all around her face as she bent to do it. The zipper sound was like fabric tearing.

"Take it out." My cock sprung free, standing up rigid. I put my right hand on the back of her neck, shoving her down across my lap, flattening my cock against me. She moaned as I roughly pulled her skirt up around her waist. The pink silk bikini panties were just a thin strip across the width of her bottom— I hauled them down past her knees.

"Don't take them all the way off," she whispered. "It's better if they— "

"Shut up," I said, pulling the panties down more, leaving them hooked over one ankle. I turned slightly sideways, put my thumbs under her heavy breasts, wrapping my hands around her back. I picked her up, dragging her against my chest. Then I put my left hand on the inside of her right thigh and pulled her leg over so she was straddling me. She was sopping wet but it was still a tight fit. I set myself, rammed up hard. She grunted, penetrated. Her breasts pressed against me, her face next to mine, looking out over the back seat. I could feel the wetness all around me, smelled the blood beneath her skin.

"Wiggle your butt, bitch," I whispered.

She ground into me, humping like she was going to buck herself off, muttering words I couldn't understand. I stroked her back, then gripped her shoulders from behind, slamming her into me with each downstroke. I heard a deep, sharp intake of breath.

"Don't make a goddamned sound," I told her.

She let go with a rush, a split second before I did.

Holding her, I could hear the soft slapping of water over rocks in the creek. She was crying softly, gulping like a kid does, trying to get it under control. We stayed like that until my cock softened and gravity pulled it down…out of her.

She wasn't going to move. I gently pushed on her left shoulder, turning her around as I took her off my lap, felt the slight adhesive tear from the dried fluids bonding us.

She slumped against me. I zipped up my pants, ran my hand over the front of her thigh.

"Pull your skirt down, Fancy."

"Sleepy," she said softly, curling up, putting her head in my lap. I patted her back. She squirmed into a comfortable position, pulling her knees up to her waist.

I lit a cigarette. She didn't stir. I looked down. She was on her side, quiet, the pink panties around one ankle. I tugged her skirt down almost over her hips, the way you cover a sleeping child.

Sitting there, I went someplace else in my head, searching. There was a thread somewhere. A strong thread, so deeply woven that if you pulled it, the whole fabric would unravel. I knew it, but I couldn't see it.

When Fancy played her domina games in that white room, was anyone else in on the profit end? Even if there was, a blackmail racket didn't explain things. Not all of them, anyway. Blackmail's a high–wire act— one slip and they sponge you off the concrete. And blackmail wouldn't pay the kind of money Cherry was showing.

If she was on to the new identities of people who disappeared, that would buy her a whole lot more of those gems that I'd found. But how would she know?

And how did Charm know about Cherry's stash if she wasn't working with her?

Why would Cherry tell Fancy about me? Why did she tell Randy? There's a tropical spider, I don't remember its name. What this spider does, it climbs into another spider's web. But it doesn't get trapped, it waits. The spider who spun the web feels the vibrations, runs over to wrap up its prey. Then he's lunch.

Fancy rolled her head back and forth in my lap like she was wiping her nose. She sat up, tugging her skirt down the rest of the way, smoothing it over her thighs. She reached down, plucked the pink panties from her ankle, put them into her purse.

"You were going to stay here all night?" she asked.

"I didn't want to wake you."

"That was sweet…but I wasn't asleep."

"You were…peaceful."

"Can we go outside?"

"Sure, if you want."

She took off her heels, slid over against me. I opened my door, climbed out. Held out my hand. She took it. We walked down to the creek in the darkness. Fancy found a fallen tree, the tips of its dead branches dangling into the creek. She tugged on my hand until I sat down next to her. Then she let go of my hand, spun so her back was against me, stuck her legs straight out on the tree, balancing easily.

"That was my first one," she said, facing away. "My first real one.

"Your first real what?"

"Climax. At least that's what I think it was. I could feel it inside. Hot bolts, like lightning crackling. Then…whooosh!"

"Good."

"Good? That's all you can say?"

"I don't know what to say," I said to her back.

"Did you really want me to help you?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you said you wanted to."

"Get you into Rector's? I didn't say anything about that."

"That isn't all of it," I told her, improvising, steering it away.

"What, then?" she asked, spinning to face me.

"I have to talk to some people. People from around here. The parents…of the kids who died. I figured, some of them would get suspicious. I'm going to tell them Cherry hired me. Because she was concerned about Randy and all. I thought you could back that up, maybe come along with me while I worked."

"You really do…want me to help?"

"That's what I said."

"When do we start?"

"Tomorrow," I said. "And, Fancy…don't tell anybody about this, okay?"

"Who would I tell?"

I drove back to the apartment, Fancy sitting close to me the way girls did years ago, before seat belts.

"Can I come upstairs?" she asked. "Not tonight, child. I've got to go out again."

"Don't call me 'child.' I hate that. I'm not a child."

"It doesn't mean anything, Fancy. It's just an affectionate term."

"I like 'bitch' better."

"Okay."

"In front of people, you understand? It's a property word."

She got out of the Plymouth, opened the door to her black NSX. "Tomorrow, okay?" she murmured, coming into my arms.

I gave her a squeeze, patted her bottom. "I'll call you, bitch," I told her, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead before she could protest.

The black car pulled off. I glanced over at the garage— the Miata was still missing.

I dropped the coins, dialed home base.

"You speak to the Prof?" I asked Mama when she answered.

"Right here," she replied.

"What you done, son?"

"I'm not sure, Prof. I got something…maybe a big score. Not on the phone, okay?"

"Keep it tight— we fly by night."

"You can get out here?"

"Name the place, I'm in the race."

I told him take the turnpike, grab the first gas station past the Greenwich tolls. Midnight tomorrow.

"I'll be at the spot. On the dot."

"How'd it go last night?" I asked the kid. He was sitting at the kitchen table, tearing into his third bowl of cereal like he needed the fuel.

"I'm…not sure. It was different. Not the party. I mean, that was like it always was. Me, maybe."

"You get to see that girl? Wendy?"

"Yeah. She was there. We…danced. Outside."

"I didn't think you all went in for dancing at those parties."

"We…they don't. The music…you really can't dance to it unless you're wrecked. We went outside, on the patio. I asked her to dance. Not to the music, just to dance."

"You can do that?"

"Dance? Sure. My mother sent me for lessons when I was a little kid. Ballroom dancing, like. I can do all the old stuff."

"Sounds pretty good."

"It was. Really good. We didn't stay there. I took her for a drive. We just drove around. I told her…about racing on Sunday. She said she'd be there. It was…I can't really explain it. She showed me some of her poetry. In this big notebook she's always carrying around. I never knew what was in it."

Something in his face. "What?" I asked.

He looked across at me. "One of the poems…it was about suicide. I got upset. Scared. I asked her, did she ever consider…doing it? She told me she didn't, not really. But she thinks about it. She said a lot of people do. Not 'cause things are bad…just 'cause there doesn't seem any reason. For anything."

"Randy, was she ever at Crystal Cove?"

"No. I asked her. She said it was none of my business at first, got mad at me a little bit. So I didn't say anything. But later, she asked, was I really scared for her? I told her I was. It was true. She…kissed me then. Just before I dropped her off at her car. And she told me she was never there."

"It sounds all right."

"I know. But that poem…it was all about suicide, I know it was. 'Sweet Darkness,' it was called."

"If she's a poet, she lives a lot in her mind, kid. It doesn't mean she's going over."

"I know. But…she's gonna be okay. I'm gonna…stay close."

"Good."

"Today, I mean. We're going to go to The Hills. It's like a park. Have a picnic. You think that's dumb?"

"I think it's righteous."

"You don't need me for anything?"

"Just take the phone with you."

He tapped his side pocket again. I finally realized where I'd seen that gesture before. The black kid with the 8–Ball jacket.

I considered my lawyer suit, finally rejected it in favor of Michelle's outfit. If Fancy was going to come along with me, I wanted to look like I might be in her circle.

She opened the door to her cottage before I knocked, holding a giant fluffy white towel in front of her, water beading on her shoulders.

"Am I early?" I asked, stepping inside.

"No, you're right on time. I was waiting…so you could tell me what to wear.

"Just put on…"

"No, come on — tell me." She walked toward a back room, still wrapped in the towel. I followed close behind. The cottage had an extension in the back, a greenhouse, built right in. The summer sun slanted through the sharply sloped glass. Fancy kept walking, all the way to a bedroom. The walls were a soft pink, the bed was covered in a quilt of the same shade. She opened a closet. "Tell me," she said again, a pleading undertone to her voice.

I pawed through the racks, picked out a rose silk outfit. It had a simple collarless bolero jacket, with a straight skirt underneath.

"This," I told her, holding it out to her. She stood there, holding the hanger. I found a plain–front white silk blouse with a loose turtleneck collar, held it against the rose silk. "This too," I said.

"Burke…"

"Get dressed, bitch. I want to get going."

She turned away, dropped the towel. I walked out of the room, heading for the greenhouse.

It was peaceful in there. The walls were lined with shelves, all kinds of plants. One shelf was a neat row of bonsai. Orchids were bunched in a corner, standing under a gentle mist from some kind of machine. I was fingering a big green plant loaded with small, hard buds, not quite ready to burst.

"What's your favorite?" Fancy's voice behind me.

"Favorite what?"

"Plant. What kind of plants do you like?"

"Blossoms," I told her. "Any kind of blossoms."

"Yeah …" she mused. Then she stepped between me and the plants. "How do I look?" she demanded.

"You look great, Fancy."

"You want some coffee?"

"No thanks."

"A drink?"

"No."

"Well, are we ready to go?"

"Just about. Let me look over my notes for a minute."

I walked back to the front room, sat down. She sat across from me, knees close together, hands in her lap.

"How's Randy doing?" she finally asked.

I looked up. "Seems like he's doing real good. Had himself a date last night. I think he took her dancing."

"Oh, he's a good dancer. I made him dance with me once, at a party Cherry gave.

"Yeah, he's got it all over me there."

I wonder why I never met a woman who couldn't dance. Maybe it's genetic.

"What do you mean? You can't dance?"

"Not me. The only dance I ever learned when I was a kid was the Y dance."

"What's the Y dance? I never heard of it."

"Stand up— I'll show you."

She came over to me, stepping naturally against my chest, both hands going around my neck. I put my left hand around the back of her shoulder, dropped the other to her butt, pressed her hard against me. "Why dance?" I asked her.

Fancy giggled, rubbing against me.

"Hey, don't you think you should put on a bra if we're going out?"

"You didn't tell me to."

"What?"

"You didn't tell me to…just the dress and the blouse."

"Jesus Christ. All right, go put on some underwear."

"Come on, show me. I've got lots of stuff."

She did. "Aren't these uncomfortable?" I asked her, holding up a pair of black leather panties.

"No, they're good. They make you sweat when you work. Then I make the client put them in his mouth…like a gag," she said, gray eyes mocking.

I found a modest underwear set, pristine white. "This," I said. "Can I wear a garter belt…please?" she asked, taking off the bolero jacket.

"Sure."

We took the Lexus. When Fancy said we were getting close, I turned slightly in my seat, making sure I had her attention.

"Listen to me, girl. You want orders, you got them. Here's one: I'm not calling you 'bitch' in front of people I'm trying to work, understand? What you're gonna do, you're gonna act like yourself— a smart, pushy rich girl. You're gonna use your head. I'm gonna be polite to you. You watch what I do, take your cues. Got it?"

"Yes sir."

"Don't be cute, Fancy."

"I won't."

The house was made up to look like a Cape Cod fisherman's cottage, but it was big enough to hold a convention. Set in the middle of what looked like an orchard, it was all weathered shingles and atmosphere, one wall nearly covered with ivy.

"These are the parents of Scott Lancaster," I told her. "You recognize the name?"

"No. But that house is real money."

"Okay. Remember what I told you."

"I'll be good," she whispered, wiggling a little bit in her seat, teasing, her skirt too far up on her thighs. I felt like slapping her, but I wanted her calm.

A woman in her forties answered the door, dressed in a dark blue pants suit, rich chestnut hair tied in a matching blue ribbon.

"Yes?" Her voice was tentative, not challenging.

"My name is Burke, ma'am. And this is— "

"Francesca Bishop," Fancy finished for me. "My father was Marlon Bishop…of Bishop Enterprises…?"

"Oh, yes. What can I— ?"

"I'm a private investigator, Mrs. Lancaster," I told her gently, trying to make my voice as rich as the house. "I've been retained by the Bishops and some other families— they're very concerned about the…recent incidents involving some young people in the area."

"You mean the…?"

"Yes ma'am. Would it be possible to speak to you for a few minutes?"

"I guess so. If you…oh, come in. I'll get my husband."

She led us over to a navy blue velvet love seat with an elaborate carved back. It looked a couple of hundred years old. Fancy settled herself decorously, smoothing her skirt over her knees. I opened the attaché case, took out a notebook and pen. "I'll be right back," the woman said, leaving us alone.

I heard a murmur of voices from somewhere to our right. Then a man's voice, a vibrant baritone that any salesman would have killed for. "I've talked enough, goddamn it, MaryAnne! You can tell those people…ah, never mind."

He strode into the room like a ship captain ready to put down a mutiny. "Look, whoever you are, I've— "

He took us both in with one glance, stopped short like he'd hit a wall.

I saw the opening, pumped oil into the breach. "We're sorry to intrude, sir. Especially at this time. If you could just spare a few minutes…"

"Oh for Christ's sake, all right," he snapped, standing in front of us, hands locked behind his back. "Sit down," he said to his wife. "Would you like some coffee?" to us.

"No thank you," I said.

"If it's not too much trouble," Fancy replied.

"MaryAnne," is all he said.

She jumped to her feet. "Would you like decaf or regular?"

"Oh, regular. Black if you don't mind."

"Not at all," she said, moving away.

"What can I tell you?" the man asked, taking the seat his wife had vacated.

"Did Scott give you any indication…before it happened?" I asked. "Was he depressed? In any kind of trouble?"

"The boy was always in trouble," his father said. "One damn thing after the other. He had two drunk driving convictions before he was eighteen. Suspended from high school. Kicked out of college. An alcoholic, that's what he was. Those parties they had…you know what Jello–shots are?"

"Yes," I said.

"That was his favorite. But he'd drink anything, from cooking sherry to fucking Sterno. Some kind of chemical imbalance in his brain, that's what the doctors said."

His wife walked back into the room, carrying a silver tray with a white china cup and saucer. She bent from the waist like a trained maid, serving Fancy, who said "Thank you" as if they had a long relationship.

"Do you mean the doctors at Crystal Cove?" I asked him.

"That's right. About time we got some straight answers, too."

His wife looked up from the tufted chair she was sitting on. "But Dr. Barrymore said— "

Lancaster shot her a look and she moused right out, looking down.

"Barrymore is a goddamned quack," he said to me. "Talked like a fucking queer."

"How long was Scott at Crystal Cove?"

"First time was thirty days. For the evaluation. Then he went back. Three months, the last time. Three months in, he didn't even make it three months out."

"Is it possible that…"

"What? That it could have been an accident? Like it was my fault because I keep some sporting arms in the house?" His eyes were hard, challenging, focusing only on me as if Fancy wasn't in the room. No question that his wife wasn't.

"No, I didn't mean that. I was just wondering…kids get ideas, you know? See something on television, like that. The papers just said it was a pistol…was it a revolver or semi–auto?"

"A revolver. Colt Python, .357 mag. What difference would that make?"

"Could he have been playing a game? Russian roulette?"

"How the hell would I know?"

"Well…how many cartridges were in the cylinder?"

"One. Okay, I see what you mean. But it only takes one, right?" His wife muffled a sob, ran from the room.

"Sorry about that," he said to me. "She's a weak sister. Always has been. The boy took after her. Weak. That's what the boozing was really all about. Addicts are weak people. I don't smoke, don't drink. And I stay in shape. The business world, it's a tough racket, not for sissies. My wife thinks if I didn't keep guns in the house, he wouldn't have done it. That's bullshit!" he snarled vehemently. "Somebody wants to get hold of a gun, they can do it, am I right?"

"Dead right," I said.

His head snapped up. "Is that supposed to be some fucking kind of a joke?"

"No sir. It's my way of speaking. I apologize if I offended you."

"Yeah. Okay, anything else you want to know? I'm busy here, waiting on an important fax from Japan."

"He didn't leave a note, anything like that?"

"Absolutely not. And I'll tell you something else— his blood–alcohol level was sky–high when they did the autopsy. The boy was drunk, understand?"

"Yes sir. Sorry to have intruded. I won't trouble you further," I said, getting to my feet.

I offered my hand at the door. His grip was what I expected, a bone–crusher.

"I'm pleased to have met you," Fancy said demurely, holding out her own hand. He took it, expanding his chest, still staring at me.

"Did I do all right?" Fancy asked, buckling her seat belt.

"You did fine. I didn't think he was going to open up at first."

"I did better than you know, honey."

"What's that mean?"

"He wouldn't have said a word if I wasn't there."

"How could you know that?"

"I didn't recognize his name, but I knew his face."

"So?"

"So he was a client, Burke. Last time I saw Mr. Macho Big Businessman, he was on his knees, licking my boots."

Yeah, I thought, and if I don't believe you, you can always show me the videotape.

I took Fancy to lunch at a restaurant she told me about. It was just off the main drag, very high–tech, tiny portions on black glass plates, artfully arranged for appearance. Didn't taste bad, but it was more like samples than food.

Fancy had a good appetite, chowing down as if it was steak and potatoes instead of a thick disk of blackened tuna and a motley assortment of baby vegetables.

"You played it pretty good," I said, lighting a cigarette from the slim black candle sitting in a bud vase on the table. "No question that he recognized you?"

"He was the one wearing the mask. A black discipline hood with a zipper for the mouth. I made him put it on. It was a long session— he'd know me anywhere."

"So the rough–stud business tycoon bit— that was for my benefit?"

"Only partly," she said, reaching across and plucking my cigarette from the little round ashtray, taking a deep drag. "They never let you forget who's paying. It's not like it's a relationship. I'm a professional— he'd expect me to keep his secrets. Discretion is part of the game.

I fell into her big gray eyes, held on tight. They reflected back guilelessly— as if she'd never heard of blackmail. When she exhaled, the smoke shot out of the one nostril. Something there…I couldn't grab hold of it.

"They map out the scenes in front, then?"

"Most of the time. There's always a lot of crap about respecting limits, safety words…all that stuff. It's really hot now— all over the place. The hard–core magazines spell it out more, but even the upscale ones let you advertise. Some of them, you can't use words like 'dominant' or 'submissive,' but they always find a way. 'Role playing,' that's the favorite."

"No surprises?"

"Not really. Except, maybe, for virgins. The first time, they're not sure what they want, and it can get silly."

"What happens if you mark them up?"

"Mark them up?"

"Whip marks, like that. Wouldn't their wives want to know what— "

"I know what I'm doing," she said defensively. "There's no reason for that to ever happen in a private scene, unless they want it to. In the videos, that's different…the audience wants to see the marks. That's why girls with light skin make the best submissives.

"You been…doing it a long time?"

"Since the beginning," she said, eyes glazing at some memory.

"If you only go one way, how come you…?"

"I wanted to try it. See if it works. I…I'll tell you about it, someday."

"You don't have to— "

"I know. I never met a man like you before."

I finished my cigarette. "You want some dessert?" I asked her.

She nodded happily. I signaled the waiter. He rolled a four–tiered cart over. Fancy took three different pastries, gobbled them up, rolling her eyes, licking her lips. "I love sweets," she hummed. "They're perfect— specially 'cause I can't have them too often."

I took out my notebook, showed her the list. "I got an idea," I told her. "Let's not hit the next one blind, all right? How about if you call, try and make an appointment?"

"What should I say?"

"Just introduce yourself, express your sympathy for their loss. Tell them a few families got together to hire me— to look into the suicides. Make it a kind of community concern thing."

"I can do that."

"So do it, girl."

"Is that an order?" she smiled.

"You want me to say 'or else'?"

"No," she said, grinning. "I'd be too hot to find out what the 'or else' was."

"Now, Fancy."

"Yes boss," she said, getting up and walking off, switching her hips hard enough to blow out the candles on the other tables.

She was back in a few minutes. "I tried the Robinelles first. Got the mother. She said to come on over, right now."

"Good girl."

I paid the check. The waiter looked down his nose at cash, but perked right up when he saw what piece of it was his.

"Give me directions," I said as we rolled out of the restaurant parking lot.

"I don't give you directions," she told me, a heavy pout on her newly made–up lips.

I reached over, slapped her round thigh hard. "Tell me how to get there," I said.

She took me through town, out toward the water. "It's about another two, three miles down this road," she finally said.

I didn't reply, watching the scenery, trying to orient myself. Out here, you use landmarks, not street signs.

"I'm going to have a bruise," she said softly, touching a lacquered fingernail to the front of her thigh. "Look."

I flicked my eyes down and over. She was right.

The house was right on the waterfront, an architectural wet dream, skylights placed at odd angles on a steeply sloped roof of red Mediterranean tile, a tower of three stories cut right into the middle of a ranch–style design.

When the woman let us in, I could see the tower was a cathedral ceiling, like a hotel atrium without the fake waterfall.

The Robinelle woman was a blowsy blonde maybe fifteen pounds over the limit, a good deal of that spilling out the front of a sharply slashed V–neck blouse. She was wearing some kind of industrial–strength push–up bra, compressing her breasts into cartoon cleavage. Her blouse was red, the stretch pants a shiny black. A wide patent leather belt cinched in her waist, and the black spike heels exaggerated the jiggle as she walked toward the back of the house, telling us to follow.

She seated herself in a grotesquely curved white plastic chair that forced her back to arch, waving us toward a matching pair of green canvas director's chairs, spaced a few feet apart.

"I thought you'd be coming alone," she said to me by way of greeting. "Was it you that called me?" she asked Fancy.

"Yes."

"I don't feel comfortable talking in front of…neighbors. You are a neighbor, aren't you?"

"Yes. We live in the Crescent."

"That's nice. Well, perhaps Mr…"

"Burke," I told her.

"Perhaps, Mr. Burke, you can come back sometime."

"Go wait outside," I told Fancy.

"Look," she said, sitting up straight. "We hired you and— "

"And you're not calling the shots. Go wait in the car."

Fancy jumped to her feet, a flush under her dark tan.

"You don't have to do that," the woman said. "Perhaps you could just excuse us for a little bit? There's really a very nice library, just off the living room…"

Fancy looked at me. I nodded an okay. She flounced off, keeping the wiggle under control this time.

"I hope smoke doesn't bother you," the woman said, helping herself to a cigarette from a box sitting next to an ashtray on a black plastic cube standing next to her chair. "Lorenzo— that's my personal trainer— he'd kill me if he caught me."

"Not at all," I told her, taking out my own.

"Now…" she said, taking a deep enough drag to give her blouse a workout. "What can I tell you?"

"Well, I'm not really sure. With this kind of investigation, you can't be sure there is anything. Was Lana depressed in any way before it happened?"

"Depressed? Mr. Burke, she was born depressed. Lana was always a strange girl. You know the type— dressed all in black, stayed in her room a lot."

"The…suicide wasn't such a shock, then?"

"Shock? Not to me. She'd tried it before."

"She tried to kill herself before?"

"That's what I just said. She wrote this long, incomprehensible poem first. A piece of drivel. Then she ran herself a warm bath, climbed in and cut her wrists. If my husband hadn't called the paramedics, she would have been dead then."

"How long ago was that?"

"Almost four years ago. She was still in high school."

"What happened after that?"

"She went into therapy, what else? Cost enough money, I can tell you. But it was a waste of time. This therapist, she wanted me and my husband to come in and talk about it. And we did that. But I wasn't going to spend the rest of my life in therapy because I had a sick girl for a daughter."

"Did she ever try it again?"

"She was always trying something. She and a friend of hers, another weirdo, they were always writing this sick poetry about death. She tried pills once, too."

"And…?"

"And they pumped her stomach out at the hospital. And she went back into therapy. What a joke."

"You don't seem much of a fan of therapy."

"Why should I be? Everybody I know has been. They want to quit smoking, their husband has an affair, they're losing their looks…whatever it is, some shrink will do a number on you. You want a therapy fan, you need to talk to my husband— he loves the stuff."

"Your husband has been in therapy for a while?"

"Sure. Started when he was a kid. He's a rich, weak man. If that sounds like a contradiction to you, it isn't. He inherited the money. From his mother. He was a sensitive poet too, just like his precious daughter."

"Was?"

"Oh, he's alive. If you can call it that. We have a cabin. In Maine. That's mostly where he spends the summers. Writing," she sneered, the last word rich with contempt.

"He's a writer?"

"Some writer. He pays to have his own stuff published, can you imagine that?"

"I've heard of it."

"That's so lame. So weak. Him and his literary little friends. Fags, most of them, the way I see it. I intimidate them. The only kind of women they like are so skinny you could use them to pick a lock."

"I know what you mean."

"Do you?" she asked, squirming in her chair to make sure I couldn't accuse her of being subtle.

"Sure. It's a class thing. Working–class men have different taste."

"And what class are you, Mr. Burke?"

"Low–class," I told her, earning myself a wicked smile. "Was Lana at home when she…?"

"Killed herself? Sure. She was only back from the hospital a couple of weeks. Crystal Cove. Another of these joints that charges an arm and a leg. To hear them tell it, we pay enough money, we'd get a brand–new kid."

"How was she when she came back?"

"The same. To be honest with you, I got pretty sick of it. My husband, he gives me my space. But not little Miss I'm–So–Depressed, not her. The shrink at the hospital told me the suicide crap was a cry for help. I never put up with it. I called her bluff all the time. Told her, you want to kill yourself, it can't be that hard."

"How did she react to that?"

"With a lot of babble. Like I said, I wasn't surprised. Only thing that surprised me was the way she did it."

"How did she do it?"

"She drowned. You know where Chalmer's Creek is?"

"No."

"It's maybe ten miles from here. It's not really a creek, more like a lake. But they call it a creek. They found her floating in it. The police said her lungs were full of water, so it was a drowning, I guess. But she didn't leave a note. That would have been the one thing I'd've expected from her— she always loved attention."

"The police tell you why they didn't think it was an accident?"

"They did think it was, at first. But when I told them all about her other attempts, they changed it."

"You've been very helpful, Mrs. Robinelle."

"Marlene."

"Marlene," I agreed. "Just one more question, if you don't mind. This friend of hers, the one she wrote poetry with…do you remember her name?"