Carleton lifted the tray off his lap and set it on the floor beside the bed, wiping his mouth with the napkin and tossing it down on top of it. A few crumbs from the crispy garlic toast nestled in the creases of the sheet, and he swept them away with his hand. The TV played softly across from the foot of the bed; a woman anchor with severely sprayed hair, intoned with a rubber mouth and an elastic smile, the latest, discouraging news stories.

He clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back against the double pillow, letting his eyes stray to Julie's bare shoulder. It's almost funny, he thought. Here I am on one hand, plotting with Ellington to squash his daughter's trust, and on the other, hoping the daughter gets it, while at the same time screwing the wife of the guy who has already bled the thing nearly dry. It's so Byzantine—I love it!

"So uh, you don't think this call your husband had was anything to do with us?" Hiding his smile as she turned to him.

Julie wiped her mouth and set her own tray aside, resting her head on his chest. "I'm sure. I'm beginning to recognize his behaviour after he gets those calls. It was something to do with his gambling debts, trust me. My name was mentioned, but Reg said it was nothing." She twisted a finger in the wiry hairs around his nipple.

"I have to trust you darling, you're the one making these arrangements." He didn't like the sound of her last remark. "I certainly wouldn't want somebody like the person you described knocking on my door." He stuck a finger in her ear and tickled her. Just keep her primed, he thought.

"Don't be silly." She slid her hand down beneath the sheet and smiled as he squirmed under her touch. "Nobody's as strong as you, Carly."

He grinned with satisfaction, closing his eyes and settling back with the sheet pulled up to his chin. When the telephone rang, Julie couldn't move to reach it. Carleton was sound asleep and snoring, his lips bouncing lightly against her navel. She scrabbled at the sheet, stretching her arm, finally managing to tip the receiver out of the cradle and onto the bed.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Devers?"

"Who is this?"

"Is this Mrs. Devers?"

Julie gnawed at her lip, wondering whether to answer. The last thing she and Carleton wanted was for Reg to catch them together like this. "What is it you want, please?"

"It is you, isn't it? How's Reggie doing? Does he know about the Dunbar?" Julie sat up with a start. Carlton's head slipped down between her thighs and he began sounding like a rutting pig snorting for air. Automatically her legs clamped together as she listened to the soft voice on the other end of the line.

Interpreting the move as passion, Carleton applied himself with due diligence to the matter at hand, accelerating as Julie bounced and wiggled above him.

"I don't have any of my husband's money. Why are you bothering me?" She put a hand on Carleton's head and pushed, dismayed when he redoubled his efforts. "How did you find me here?" She asked, suddenly realizing the severity of their predicament.

"I can find anybody, anytime. You were a snap, Mrs. Devers." Jorge waited a beat for a possible compliment, receiving none. "I don't like to get tough with ladies, but if I don't get the money your husband owes, I'll probably have to bury my emotions and take it out on the whole family. I think I should come up and talk that over."

"NO!" Her reaction was so violent, Carleton shot back, sliding off the end of the bed onto the floor. "No, you can't come up here!" She stared horrified at Carleton's sleepy-eyed face resting on the edge of the bed

"Then maybe you should have a chat with hubby." The line went dead.

"What was that about, sweetheart," Carleton asked, grasping her ankles and pulling himself back onto the bed.

"Don't. Stop." She said, swinging her leg over and hearing the crunch of his nose from her passing foot.

"Arrrg!" He toppled backwards, falling onto the side table and another crack caused him to scream a loud painful profanity.

Julie ran around and grabbed him under the arms, trying to help him up but the pain was so intense he lashed out hitting her on the cheek and sending her into the dresser where her wrist bent back and snapped.

"Oh God! Look what you've done! My wrist is broken!"

"Along with my ribs and nose, you silly cow!" He crawled painfully to the chair where his jacket hung and dug out his phone.

"What are you doing?"

"Calling an ambulance, I think we've got a bit of trouble, don't you?"

"We've got trouble all right. Much bigger trouble."

Day 5 of 9 days

Morning again, and it was starting just as the previous night had left off, disgusted with my ability to conduct a professional investigation, and my bathroom mirror reflected that trait in the angry pout I was still wearing. Maybe all I was good for was lost and found items or cats in trees. At some time today, some poor sucker was going to suffer the fallout from my ugly mood.

I finished washing and shaving, slipped on a pair of reasonably clean Dockers and a comfortable, slate blue, golf shirt, examined myself without interest, and went to the kitchen. Leaning over the counter, I chewed burned toast and scanned my notes, the idea being that I would prioritize and organize my day. One entry was another apology from Nora, who apparently came home sometime during the night, wrote in my book but was gone before morning.

I thought about Karen and Jarmon and wondered how I could possibly get any proof. Maybe I could just bluff them. Rory's suggestion stirred a nest of goo in my head and I tried to think about what else might be going on here that I couldn't quite grasp. The original deadline still gnawed at the back of my head. Why?

I brushed the black crumbs from my fingers, licking them clean and stabbed at a damp spot on my notes about Jarmon. He should be sober by now, and I would see him and find out just what the hell was going on with this crowd. The rental went back because my account was shrinking faster than family jewels in a cold shower. My continuingly suspect car was also not an option.

I hit the street on foot and dashed down the block to the subway. I would try a call to Nora at work later in the morning.

There was no answer on Jarmon's cell phone even though it was ringing for a change and mine signalled low battery. I cursed myself for not getting the address the previous night, so I left the apartment for downtown and when the subway stopped, I got off and searched for another phone. If worst came to worst I would take another run at the fortress desk at the Dunbar, but that had been a miserable failure so far.

Would Cynthia know where else he stayed? Probably not, or it would have been on her list. Is he at home with his wife? Now that posed a problem, even if I knew where it was, going to my client's home was a no-no. Despite her note about calling I decided to risk it just to make sure. The phone on the subway platform looked like someone had eaten soup with it, and I put my call on hold, not wanting whatever grew in that receiver attaching itself to me.

The streets were bustling with pedestrian traffic when I surfaced, my mood unimproved by the grotty telephone, and several passers-by complained about my rude passage through the crowd.

A solitary phone booth stood with a pitiful dignity between a row of newspaper boxes and a large, waste disposal bin. I stepped inside and pulled the door shut with a bang. The book, miraculously, was in one piece, not that I needed it, it just added to the stature of such a lonely edifice. I tipped my hat back and dialled.

Cynthia answered on the second ring, the voice just as it was that first day in my office.

"Mrs. Wyatt? Christopher Wallace. Before you say anything, I know it's early and I wasn't supposed to be in touch until I had some concrete evidence, but I had to find out whether you and your husband kept the same address."

"Isn't that what a detective does, Mr. Wallace?" The question was tinted with humour rather than disdain.

"Uh well, uh, yes it is but—"

"Never mind. Things have changed since I hired you. I was going to call to set up an appointment."

"I'm free right now," I said, hoping she wasn't killing the deal.

"So am I. Can you come around in about an hour?"

"Sure... if you tell me where to come." Cynthia gave me the address and rang off. . I headed back down into the subway; Jarmon might not be important any more.