Hades

25

Justin had never been in an office quite like Ascension's before.

He had been around money all his life; had been raised, more or less, in the banking and financial world his father inhabited. He'd dealt with Wall Street types and people who owned their own businesses and had their own planes. Money did not intimidate him or overly impress him. To Justin, it was something you had or you didn't have. It was something to be used well or poorly. Even the office of Rockworth and Williams-a company dealing with more money and brokering more real power than Ascension could ever dream of-was an environment he understood. Even as it made him shudder. Rockworth and Williams was corporate life with all its pressures and politics and game playing. To succeed there was a matter of survival, of protecting yourself at all costs.

This was different.

From the moment he and Reggie were ushered into the back offices of Ascension, Justin realized they were not in a world where survival or safety mattered. What mattered was domination. Power. Greed. What mattered here was size. What mattered here was more.

Risk was what this was all about.

This was a world where success could be equated only with ownership. And ownership mattered only when it was defined by the worth of whatever was owned.

There was no pleasure here. There was only winning. Or oblivion.

As they sat in Carl D. Matuszek's office, Reggie instinctively reached out for Justin's arm. It wasn't a gesture of affection. She needed something to hold on to. He let her hand clutch his left wrist. As they sat, waiting, he could feel her relax, and he made no acknowledgment of their contact when she finally let go.

Matuszek was sitting at his desk, on the phone, his back to them. He wore sand-colored linen pants, a light-blue button-down shirt, and a blue-and-white striped tie. No sport coat. He was peering out a sparklingly clean window at a magnificent view of midtown Manhattan as he spoke. He didn't bother talking into a receiver; he kept the whole conversation on speakerphone.

"Phil," Carl Matuszek was saying, "how many times do we have to go over this? We bought fourteen percent of your stock and it cost a cool twenty-four million. You know what we got for that? We got to be your biggest shareholders. And you know what we got for that? We got the right to tell you that you work for us."

"You cannot assess a company's record on six months' worth of business," Phil was saying. "Especially a business like this which we're not just trying to expand, we're trying to shift the entire paradigm. I don't understand how you can be that shortsighted."

Justin wasn't sure what business Phil was in, but he realized soon enough that whatever business it was, it wasn't doing well enough to suit Matuszek.

"Actually, we can make that assessment, Phil. We can and we're doing just that. What I don't understand is how people like you think you can get away with not making your numbers and then not having to face the consequences."

"Because the consequences you're talking about are ridiculous," Phil was saying. "This is a long-term project. We're changing the way kids all over the country are eating, for Christ's sake. We're remaking the entire school cafeteria structure, moving them from slop to healthy, well- balanced meals. That's why we've taken on employees and, believe me, the risk-reward value long term-"

"Phil, let's get something straight right now. We're not interested in long term. We're interested in value. Kids want to eat chocolate cake for breakfast, that's fine with me as long as we're making a profit on the goddamn cake."

"Carl, you do realize that's an inane statement, I hope."

"I'll tell you what's inane, my friend." Matuszek's voice, on the surface, stayed friendly and calm. But underneath that surface it turned to ice. "Thinking you can lose money and still run this company."

"What are you, firing me?"

"Congratulations. That's the first perceptive thing you've said since we've been doing business together. We're also selling you. To CafRite."

Phil seemed able to ignore the fact that he was fired. Justin, just from listening to this brief conversation, had a feeling that getting fired by Carl Matuszek would be a relief and a blessing. But Phil wasn't able to shake off the sale of his company. "You'll put about five hundred people out of work down here. And maybe another seven fifty to a thousand around the country. You can't do that."

"It's done, Phil. It's done. Someone from our end'll speak to HR and we'll work out your details."

"My details? You scumbag-"

"Bye, Phil."

Carl Matuszek clicked off the speakerphone and now swiveled his chair around to face Justin and Reggie. He had a perfectly placid expression on his face. The conversation he'd just had with Phil, the mysterious cafeteria person, hadn't left an iota of stress on Matuszek's face. "So what is it I'm actually supposed to help you with?" he asked.

"Quite a conversation you were having."

Matuszek shrugged. "I don't let it bother me anymore. I talk to guys like that three, four times a day now."

"Doesn't bother you messing around with people's lives like that?"

Matuszek shook his head. "First of all, I don't mess around with anything, certainly not people's lives. I don't have anything to do with people's lives."

"Firing someone doesn't count as anything?"

"People find their own level. They fail or succeed on their own. I might be the one who has to point out their failure or success, but I'm not responsible for their fate. I take businesses and make them stronger. That's all I do."

"Stronger meaning more profitable," Justin said.

"There's no other definition, is there?"

"Sounds like you don't just invest in companies. Sounds like you have quite a bit of control over them."

"If we invest heavily enough, we do. And that's the way it should be. You put up the money, you get to demand results. And if you don't get them…"

"You do what you have to do," Justin said, "to make sure you do get them."

"Bingo," Carl Matuszek said. "Want to come work here?"

"I'm afraid," Reggie interrupted, "we're already working. Can we talk about Evan Harmon, please."

"A tragedy," Matuszek said. He put as much emotion into the word "tragedy" as he would if he were discussing a problem he might have with a suit that didn't fit properly.

"Did you work with Mr. Harmon?" Reggie asked.

"Of course. He was my mentor as well as my boss."

"So you learned from him?" Justin said.

"Almost everything I know," Matuszek answered.

"And did you work closely with him? On a daily basis?"

"Oh yeah. As close as it's possible to work with someone. Hey," Matuszek said, and Justin was pretty sure he saw an actual wink, "you mind if I see your ID or some badges or whatever you people carry? I mean, I know you're who you say you are, but even so…"

Reggie took her FBI ID out and held it out. Justin held up a badge he'd bought in the East End Harbor five-and-dime. It said FBI on it in big letters. Matuszek found them both equally convincing. As Justin put his badge away, he could see Reggie staring at him incredulously.

"So you'd know a decent amount about Mr. Harmon's dealings for the company," Reggie asked Matuszek once she was able to recover from the sight of Justin's toy badge.

"Pretty much," Matuszek said.

Reggie shoved a piece of paper across the desk. "So, for instance, if I asked you to identify these companies, you could?"

Matuszek scanned the list in front of him. "Sure," he said. "I don't know every single one, but we do business with most of these guys."

"Meaning what?"

"We handle their money. Do corporate investments. Some of them we invest in."

"Can you tell me what they do?"

"Every company on the list?"

"If you can."

"I don't think I can do every one but…" Matuszek ran his finger down the list. "Penzine is an energy company, does that new shit with corn… Balbear makes ball bearings. Not very glam but incredibly solid business… CafRite manages school cafeterias…"

"That's the company you just sold Phil's company to."

"Phil?"

"The guy you were just talking to. The guy you fired?"

"Oh, right, right. Yes, we just sold it to CafRite."

"That's allowed? Selling one client's company to another client?"

"It's not just allowed, it's what we do. We invest for our clients. We buy and we sell. Doesn't really matter who we buy from or who we sell to, as long as it's profitable and there's no exchange of inside information."

"All right," Justin said. "Keep going down the list."

And he did. One company designed and built ice-skating rinks around the country; one company was a trucking and shipping line; one manufactured lightbulbs. One company made substrates-and when Justin asked what a substrate was, half expecting Matuszek to come up with some kind of idiotic punch line-he was told it was the key to auto exhaust systems; it's what allowed those systems to meet environmental standards around most of the world. A big business, Matuszek said. A big business. And a good example of the way they worked. They didn't just invest in substrates. The next company on the list was an auto parts company that made the exhaust systems that used substrates.

"One hand washing the other," Justin said.

"Washing has nothing to do with it," Matuszek said. "It's one hand taking money from one pocket and putting even more money in the other pocket. That's what we do."

Other than the link between the two businesses that dealt in auto parts, there was no rhyme or reason to the others being on the same list except that they all were involved in a transaction handled by Ascension. Matuszek explained that they weren't developing a core business. Nothing had to relate to anything else. Their core business, he said, was money.

There were several companies on the list that Carl Matuszek didn't know. And there were two he knew but had nothing to do with.

"And why don't you deal with those two?" Reggie asked.

"They deal in commodities. Not my area. If you want more info on them, you have to talk to Hudson Fenwick."

"That's my favorite Dickens novel," Justin said.

"What?" Matuszek said blankly.

"Nothing. Where do we find Hudson Fenwick?"

Matuszek didn't answer, just reached toward his phone, pushed a few buttons, and said, "Hud? You wanna come in here for a minute?"

And a few moments later, Hudson Fenwick walked through the door. Fenwick was more or less a thinner, less-athletic version of Carl Matuszek. Same short haircut; same button-down long-sleeved shirt; same slacks; and same striped tie, except his was red and black instead of blue and white. Fenwick also seemed nervous and fidgety. He immediately got more nervous and more fidgety when Matuszek told him the visitors were from the FBI. Justin went to pull out his badge, but Reggie managed to grab his hand before he could dig it out of his pocket.

"What-um-what can I do for you?" Fenwick asked.

"They're looking for some information on Menking, Inc. and-what's the other one?" He looked down at Reggie's list. "Right. Cates and Herr."

"What-what-what do you want to know?"

"What they do, for one thing."

"Menking-um-deals in precious metals. Trades. Buys, sells. Mostly platinum."

"Platinum?" Reggie said. She leaned forward, then realized it probably gave the impression she was a little too interested.

"Yes," Hudson said. "Something wrong with that?"

"No, of course not," she said. "Where are they located?"

"They've got offices all over the world. London, Belgium… I think their home office is in Canada."

"What about the other one?" she asked. "Cates and Herr."

"Um… mining, actually. Platinum again."

"Uh-huh," Justin said. "Where does one mine platinum?"

"They're in"-he coughed two or three times, then cleared his throat from all the coughing-"South Africa."

Before Hudson Fenwick could do any more hemming, hawing, or coughing, Forrest Bannister walked into Carl Matuszek's office. Justin couldn't help noticing that with five people in the office, the room looked a lot less crowded than his own living room with just two people in it.

"Chief Westwood," Bannister said. "I apologize for being late. Things are a little… out of the ordinary, as I'm sure you understand."

Justin said that he understood completely and he introduced Reggie. He was surprised at the difference in Bannister's demeanor from the night that he had found Evan Harmon's body and called in the murder. He was far more calm and collected now, which wasn't really surprising. But he was also much more commanding and assertive. He no longer seemed like the kind of guy who'd immediately come running a hundred miles when Evan Harmon called.

"I hope Carl and Hud are being helpful."

"Yes," Justin said. "Extremely so."

"What can I help you with?"

Justin glanced over at Reggie, so she told Bannister what she needed. She wanted a record of Evan Harmon's travel over the past fifteen-month period, everywhere he went and who he went to see. She also wanted the same information for any of the associates at the firm who might have traveled to Canada, California, Russia, South Africa, and South America. She also asked for records of any business transactions that had been done with the LaSalle Group in Providence.

When she was finished, Bannister smiled evenly and said, "Of course. Would you mind telling us what you're looking for specifically? That might make it easier for us to give you what you want."

"I'm afraid it doesn't work that way, Mr. Bannister. We'd like all the information in as complete a form as possible. We don't want you sifting through it or editing it for us."

"Absolutely. I wasn't trying to interfere. I simply thought it might help us be more efficient." He looked up at the ceiling for a moment. "Let me see… This will take some time-"

"We need this as quickly as possible," Reggie told him. "What would be the delay?"

"Well, the records aren't kept in the same place or by the same person. The travel plans, for instance, are made by each assistant individually."

"You don't use a central travel agent?" Justin asked.

"No, we don't," Bannister said. "And Evan's assistant will certainly have a record of some of his specific meetings but not every one. Evan did a lot of that himself."

"That-that's right," Fenwick chimed in. "He was kind of a con-control freak for his schedule."

"But I'll talk to Evan's assistant and see what she's got."

"And her name is?"

"Lisa."

"Lisa what?"

"Are you going to want to talk to her?" Bannister asked.

"Is that a problem?" Justin said.

"No, not really. It's just that she was so devastated by what happened. She really hasn't been functioning very well, and I don't know how she'd hold up to any kind of interrogation."

"This is hardly an interrogation," Reggie said.

"You know what I mean," Bannister said quickly. "I didn't mean that pejoratively. She's just very fragile right now. It's why we've given her some time off."

"Not a problem," Justin told him. "But I do need her last name for my records."

"Schwartz." This was Carl Matuszek who chimed in. "Lisa Schwartz."

"Thanks," Justin said. "Now how about the LaSalle transactions?"

"Now that might be a different matter," Bannister told them. When Reggie asked why that might be, he said, "Because there are questions of privacy. We can't simply open up our clients' financial transactions." And before Justin could get a word out, he went on, "Or our transactions on behalf of our clients."

"We can get a court order," Reggie said.

"I'm not sure that you can," Bannister said. "But you're certainly free to try. It's not that we don't want to do everything possible to help catch Evan's killer. Lord knows, we do. His death is the worst thing that's happened to this company and possibly the worst thing that's ever happened to me personally. But this company is also Evan's legacy, and I fear that releasing those kinds of documents could do us great harm."

"Totally understood," Justin said. "I don't blame you." He continued as Reggie stared at him in amazement. "And I think we've taken up enough of your time. If you'll just give us your cards so we can get in touch with you again and figure out how to get the travel info we need." He rose and took a business card from each man. Reggie hesitated before rising, too. As they were being escorted out by Bannister, who was going on again about the tragic loss of Evan Harmon, Justin saw a secretary working away expertly on her computer. He stopped as he passed the young woman's desk and said, "Excuse me just a second." He turned to Bannister and said, "Sorry, this doesn't have anything to do with Evan, but…" Turning back to the assistant, he said, "We're completely redoing our computer system at the police station. In fact, they've asked me to put together a recommendation for all of the various forces on the eastern part of Long Island. What kind of system do you use? We all want to be linked wirelessly."

She smiled, flattered that he'd picked her to talk to, and told him the system they were using.

"Mac or PC?" he asked.

"PC," she said and shrugged as if that wasn't her choice but what could she do?

He thanked her. Then he turned to Bannister and said, "You know, I forgot to ask you one thing: how involved is H. R. Harmon with the company these days?"

"He's not particularly involved."

"That's funny. At Rockworth, they told me that one of the reasons he left was to spend more time working with his son."

"Well… he has an office here, if that's what you mean. But he's hardly involved in our day-to-day operations."

"Even now? I would have thought he'd be very involved right now, making sure that things hold together."

"I'm… I keep him apprised of anything important, of course."

"So you're in touch with him?"

"Yes. But this is hardly his top priority right now."

"Of course. That's only natural." Justin smiled kindly. "Thank you. And I'm glad to see you're doing so much better than you were the other night."

"It still seems like a dream," Forrest Bannister said, "a nightmare, really."

"I'm sure it does," Justin said. "But the good thing about dreams is that everybody wakes up sooner or later."

"What was that all about?" Reggie asked. She waited until the moment they were out of the lobby and stepping onto the sweltering midtown sidewalk. "Suddenly you're Mr. Easygoing? Mr. Personality? Mr. Hey, Everything's Fine? What the hell-"

"Don't worry about me. What's with you and platinum, all of a sudden? He said the word, and I thought you were going to jump out of your chair."

She scowled. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just…" She made another face, scrunching up her mouth, then said, "The weirdest story of the year: Some state troopers in Texas found an overturned truck-there'd been an accident-and hidden in the back of the truck were platinum bars. A lot of them. Worth a few million dollars."

"You're kidding. What happened?"

"Nobody knows. It's not my case; I had absolutely nothing to do with it; I just read about it, and other agents were talking about it. The bars were unmarked, so not traceable. And even the driver wasn't traceable. He had a fake ID, there were no dental records, no prints. The truck had been stolen and we couldn't get any lead on that, either."

"Didn't anyone claim the platinum?"

"No. That's what's so crazy. There doesn't seem to be any theft involved-no one's stepped forward to say it belongs to them."

"Any idea where the truck was headed?"

"Into Mexico, apparently. But that's not much of a help."

"How could I not have heard of this? When was it?"

"About ten days ago. I don't know-a few days before Harmon was killed, that's probably why you didn't notice. It was big in Texas, I'm telling you. It made the paper here, a little story in the News. I saw it. I don't think it even made the Times."

"If the stuff was stolen, why wouldn't someone want it back? And if it wasn't stolen, why go to all that trouble of hiding it and trying to smuggle it? I mean, if that's what they were doing. It doesn't make sense."

"I know," she said, "and I'm sure it doesn't have anything to do with this. It's just I hear the word 'platinum' and my ears perk up."

"Well, you hide it well. Every person in the building probably saw your ears perk up."

"All right, so I don't have a good poker face. But can we get back to your major suck-up job on Bannister? What were you doing?"

"Were you watching him?"

"Bannister? Yeah."

"Did you see his face when we asked him about the travel records and the travel agent?"

"Yes."

"He was lying. He was lying his head off the whole time."

"I agree. So what good does it do to let him get away without giving us any of the information we need?"

"He's never going to give it to us. And it's not going to be easy pressuring them. They'll have lawyers swarming all over us."

"So you just give up?"

"Don't worry about it," he said. "We'll get what we need."

"How?"

"We'll steal it," Justin said.

She began rubbing her eyes and forehead. "You know how hard it is to pull off that kind of computer break-in?" Reggie said. She was practically yelling now. "I bet there's maybe two or three guys in the FBI who could pull it off. And I won't be able to get them to do it now, not on this short notice, if I can ever get them to do it. Plus, we'll never get this without a warrant. And even you think it's going to be impossible to get a warrant."

"I know."

"So what are you talking about?"

"I know a guy," Justin said.

Justin asked Reggie to walk him up to Central Park. It was a twelve-block walk and when they got there, he steered her toward a bench in the shade. Sitting, he pulled out his cell phone and punched in a speed-dial number.

"Mrs. Jenkins?" he asked after a moment. And after another moment: "Yes, this is Chief Westwood. How are you?… Thank you… Yes, I'm sure everything will work out fine on my end… Listen, I'd love to talk to your son if he's around… No, I know Gary's at the station. I meant your other son, Ben. Would you mind getting him?… Thank you."

"Oh god," Reggie said while he was waiting. "This is your little fourteen-year-old, isn't it?"

"Don't be an ageist. And I think he's fifteen now."

"Jay, do you know how crazy this is? This kid can't-"

He held up his hand to stop her. And then he spoke into the phone.

"Ben?… Yeah. Listen, I need you to do something for me and I need it quickly."

He told Ben Jenkins what he wanted.

Reggie groaned aloud about halfway through the request. When Justin was finished talking, she heard something indistinct from the other end of the phone, then she heard Justin say, "That's highway robbery." More words from the teenager, then, "Okay, okay. You got it… Yes, I swear. A flat-screen TV. Yes, I heard you-thirty-two-inch screen. It's a deal. Now shut up and listen."

Justin gave Ben the information he'd gotten at Ascension-the computer system and the various names and e-mail addresses. He also gave Ben a list of the companies they were interested in. He made sure Ben had his cell phone and fax machine numbers back in East End. Then he was about to hang up, but he stopped and said, "Hey, Ben, how old are you now?… Fifteen?… Well, I'm going to make this more interesting for you. I'm sitting here with an FBI agent… yeah, an honest-to-God real FBI agent… and she says no fifteen-year-old kid can do what I'm asking you to do. She says the top FBI computer experts couldn't do it. Got anything to say to that?" He listened for a few seconds, turned to Reggie, and said, "How much?"

"What?"

"Ben wants to know how much you want to bet?"

"I'm not going to bet money with a fifteen-year-old boy," she said. And when Justin raised his eyes, she went, "A hundred bucks."

He repeated the figure to Ben, saying, "I'm going to get in on this action, too. I'll take you for fifty… Right. Get back to me as soon as you can."

Then he hung up and said to Reggie, "Want to get a drink? I've got time to kill before my date."

He gave Reggie her choice-she could drive his car back to East End or she could take the train. She chose to drive, which was fine with him. He liked the idea of a late-night train ride. The quiet appealed to him. So did the idea of actually catching a couple of hours' sleep.

But first he had a woman to wine and dine.

He got to the restaurant a little early, went into the men's room, and cleaned himself up as best he could. He went to the bar, told the bartender to give him a splash of bourbon and a lot of soda, and then he nursed it until Belinda Lambert walked into the restaurant.

Justin smelled her perfume a split second before he turned to see her. It was sickly sweet, and there was too much of it dabbed on. And, he would be willing to bet, dabbed in too many and too intimate locations. The whiff wasn't overwhelming, just enough to be overdone. That's how he would describe the rest of her: nothing too extreme, but the effect was that everything was taken just one step too far.

Belinda was wearing a dress just slightly too dressy for the restaurant. It was red and white-and the red was just a little too red-and shoulderless. Spaghetti straps held the whole thing up. It was cut low-just a bit too low-and she was not wearing a bra, so when she bent forward to kiss him hello, the tops of her nipples were exposed. The skirt was-he couldn't help but note-too short; it didn't quite reach mid-thigh. She wore high-heeled, open-toe shoes with so many straps Justin thought it would have taken him half an hour to put the things on. The overall impact was, he was surprised to find, sexy. She was a big girl, but she was comfortable with her body. In fact, more than comfortable. She knew how to use it and was more than happy to draw attention to it. But there was also something sad about the complete picture. She was trying just a little too hard. And there was a hint of desperation in her eyes, the way she revealed her hunger.

He flashed her his best smile and made a bet with himself that when he asked her what she wanted to drink, she'd say a glass of champagne. Either that or a margarita with salt. He thought she'd really want the 'rita on this hot, humid night but would go with the champagne because she thought it would be classy.

"Our table'll be ready in a minute," he said. "What would you like to drink?"

"A glass of champagne," she said. "Is that all right?"

"For you?" he said. "The sky's the limit."

The dinner went about as he figured it would. He'd pegged her for a drinker and a talker when he'd met her at Rockworth and Williams, and she was definitely both. She liked to talk about herself, too, so he knew he could use her self-absorption to his advantage. He insisted she have a second glass of champagne while he nursed his watered-down bourbon, then he ordered a bottle of red wine with their meal. As they ate and she talked, Justin made sure he poured the wine, much to the waiter's annoyance. By the time they made it to the second bottle, he'd had about a glass and a half of the St. Estephe and she'd gone through the rest. She talked about her college days and what she'd studied and how she never thought she'd wind up working with money because she could never even balance her checkbook. Belinda talked about old boyfriends and moving to New York from Pittsburgh, and as she went on and on he began to like her. She had surprising flashes of insight and she was more self-aware than he'd given her credit for being. So he listened attentively and nodded when he was supposed to and clucked sympathetically to show he was sensitive; and at one point he said, looking embarrassed, "You know, I hope you don't mind my saying this, I know it's not very professional, but you're extremely attractive."

She couldn't hide her pleasure. She came back with, "I'm really glad you think so."

He smiled shyly-or as shyly as he could manage-and gradually he was able to steer the conversation around to Rockworth and Williams and Ellis St. John. Soon she was leaning across the table and putting his hand in hers and, with her other hand, stroking his arm. He asked how people in the office were responding to Ellis's absence, and she said no one seemed too concerned on the trading floor. She didn't know about the big boys. All she knew was that Daniel French had come by to say that she shouldn't worry too much about Ellis, that Mr. Berdon had heard from him and that everything was okay. It was some sort of family emergency, he'd said, and Belinda thought it was strange because Ellis didn't have much to do with his family. Mr. Berdon had instructed Mr. French to tell her that she was doing a good job and that she should refer all of Ellis's clients to Mr. French when they called in if it was something she couldn't handle herself. They said that if the police questioned her any further, she should say that Ellis was away on family matters and say that's all she knew, which was true enough because that's all she did know.

Justin asked if she believed them-was Ellis really in some kind of family situation?-and she frowned and said, "Sure. I mean, I guess so. Why would they lie? And I'm just so relieved he's okay. I was really worried." But Belinda obviously wasn't too worried right now, because she immediately brightened up and said they told her that because she was handling the situation so well the R amp; W powers that be decided to accelerate her bonus for the year. She leaned farther forward-one nipple was almost completely out of her dress now-and told him that they'd given her a check for fifty thousand dollars. Justin told her he was impressed and said that she deserved it. He asked her how Evan's cats were, and was she still feeding them, and she was impressed that he remembered about the cats. He said he loved cats and even remembered their names: Binky and Esther. Belinda's eyes softened, and he saw her melt a little bit at the thought that he'd been paying such close attention to her when they'd first met. She said she guessed the cats were fine but she hardly ever saw them-one of them never came out when she was there-but she was feeding them before and after work. It wasn't too difficult because she lived on Second Avenue and Twenty-third Street and Ellis lived on Gramercy Park, so she could feed them when she went to and from the office.

The evasiveness she showed in their first meeting had completely disappeared, and she was more than willing to gab. Ellis was a strange one, she explained. He was very good-looking but very insecure about his appeal. He was gay but uncomfortable with his sexuality. She thought he was the kind of person who didn't really like sex-he liked to be in love. She made it very clear that she was quite different from her boss-Belinda Lambert liked love and sex. Justin gently probed her relationship with Ellis, and, as he suspected, she was intimately acquainted with a lot of the details of his life. He was very dependent on her. And he trusted her. But there was no one he liked and trusted more than Evan Harmon. Belinda looked like she might cry at the mention of Evan's name and when Justin asked why, she said it was because Mr. Harmon treated Ellis so poorly. What did that mean? Justin wanted to know. "Oh," she said, "he just wasn't nice to him. Evan knew that Ellis worshiped him-he really, really worshiped him. It was almost weird."

"Weird how?" Justin asked.

"Is this getting too boring for you?" she asked, her words coming out slurred. "I mean, here I am going on and on about my boss and you haven't told me anything about you."

Justin shook his head. "Not much to tell," he said modestly. "You're much more interesting."

"Liar," she said. "But such a sweet liar."

"Tell me more about Evan and Ellis. I'm really interested."

"Ellis used to stare at him whenever I saw them together. I mean, just stare at him, like he was some kind of god or something. And Mr. Harmon, he'd just kind of use Ellis. You know, get him to do his errands. And then every sho offern-every… so… often, he'd throw Ellis a bone."

"What kind of bone?"

"A trip somewhere good. Parish or someplace."

"Ellis and Evan went to Paris together?"

"No. God no, sweetie. Never, never, never. He'd just give Ellis a ticket and tell him to have a good time. If you ask me, he probably just gave Ellis what he got with frequent flier miles."

She excused herself to go to the ladies' room. He filled her glass with the last bit of wine from the second bottle and then ordered her a double brandy and himself a very watered-down version of the same. When the waiter stared at him disapprovingly, Justin slipped him a fifty-dollar bill and suddenly the look was a lot more approving. Belinda returned, and as she passed by his chair she wrapped her arms around him and gave him a big kiss. Her tongue quickly forced its way inside his mouth and his eyes met hers. She looked extremely happy.

The kiss didn't last long, just a couple of seconds. It also didn't take her long to sit back down and finish her brandy and tell him she thought they should go back to her place. He agreed instantly.

They made out in the taxi going downtown. She was practically crushing him against the cab door on his side of the backseat. The doorman in her building had obviously seen plenty of this kind of behavior-either from her or other tenants-because he didn't bat an eye. Justin was worried that she'd actually disrobe in the elevator, but she managed to keep her dress on and stay upright until they tumbled into her apartment. It was the perfect apartment for her-all the adornments were too cute or too colorful or too big or too small. There were few books in view, and the ones that were there were either chick lit or self-help. She had a decent number of CDs. He couldn't help but notice that she was a big Beyonce fan. Before he could take in any more of her apartment, she dragged him onto the overstuffed couch, but he fended her off by pulling out a joint. She licked her lips and said she didn't know that cops smoked pot. He told her that cops did just about everything. He lit the joint, let her take a few drags. He took a hit, exhaled most of the smoke, handed the joint back to her. She sucked it in with relish. Within thirty seconds she was reclining on her couch, a tired and dopey grin on her face, and about a minute after that her eyes were closed. He waited until he was certain she was out before he gently lifted himself off the sofa and stood up.

Justin breathed a sight of relief. Jesus Christ, he thought, she'd had enough alcohol and drugs to put down an elephant. The youth of today. They were made of better stuff than he was.

He didn't have to search for her key ring. She'd tossed it on a table as soon as she'd managed to unlock her door. There were too many keys on the ring for him to figure out which one belonged to Ellis St. John's apartment. He figured Ellis's key had to be on the ring. She'd keep it there since she'd been going to feed the cats every day. He stuck the entire ring of keys in his pocket, decided he'd worry later about getting them back to her.

He looked down at the figure on the couch.

All part of the job, he thought. Taking advantage of a lonely, drunk girl.

She'd be hungover and depressed the next day. He knew the feeling, so he tried to think of something he could do that might make her feel a little better. Couldn't really come up with anything. Finally, he searched for and found a piece of paper. On it he wrote, Don't worry. Will feed the cats and give them enough for the morning. Will leave your keys with your doorman. He put the note down on her coffee table, then picked it back up, scribbled: P.S. Thanks for a nice evening.

He didn't think she'd really believe the P.S. On the other hand, she was the kind of girl who could and probably would convince herself of just about anything. At least temporarily.

On his way down the elevator, he decided he was sorry he hadn't seen her remove her shoes. He really was curious to see how long it would've taken.