======================

Armchair Detective

by Kelli Jae Baeli

======================

Copyright (c)2004 by Kelli Jae Baeli

First Published by DLSIJ Press, March 2001

DLSIJ Press

www.dlsijpress.com

Romance/Mystery/Crime

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Duplication or distribution of this work by email, floppy disk, network, paper print out, or any other method is a violation of international copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment.

     Chapter 1

   _Octagons._

   _That's what they are ... octagons. Octagons? Why am I staring at octagons?_

   I blinked. The octagons remained. Then I felt the cool surface beneath my right cheek. Lifting my head, I winced at the sharp thud pulsing at my temple. There, on the octagon that had been below my cheek, was a crimson smear. _Guess if you're going to bleed, it may as well be on your own kitchen floor._

   I placed both palms against the linoleum and pushed -- my bones and muscles protesting -- and the second wince informed me of the condition of my lower lip. A cut was pulled apart where it had coagulated, and fresh blood appeared and began to trail down my chin. _Amazing what the butt of a pistol can do when wielded properly._

   Finally able to stand, I looked down at the octagons. _Smaller from up here ... I've walked on this floor a zillion times, but never noticed that there were octagons on it ... no, the size is no excuse. I'm just not being attentive. And if tonight was any indication, that sort of negligence could be hazardous to my health._

   Placing myself gingerly on the sofa, I tried to reconstruct.

   _Dinner alone. Drive home. Step inside. Floor creaked. Man in ski mask with a .38. Struggle. One very obvious loser._

   I stood and went to the old mirror salvaged from a garage sale, and examined my face. I touched the swollen places, and considered the damage. I was not one of those females who freaked out when I got any sort of blemish, but I also appreciated looking in the mirror and feeling like I was attractive. I looked younger than my 28 years. My shoulder length brown hair and brown eyes graced a peaches and cream complexion and perpetually rosy cheeks. The small cleft in my chin added character, I thought. At five-four and one hundred twenty pounds, I was not as strong as I'd like to be, but have been described as tough. I could move quickly, and that was an advantage. My fight or flight mechanism usually leaned toward the flight.

   I tried to stretch the kinks out of my back. A few vertebrae popped, but it didn't alleviate any discomfort. I flashed back to that moment when the man had lifted me off my feet and rammed me backward into the wall. I'd have to remember to turn down any invitations to go slam-dancing. This enthusiastic night visitor was no burglar -- what he wanted was a deal, and Jobeth O'Brien had made one. My part was to keep my mouth shut, and his was that he wouldn't send me to the city morgue_. Fair enough._

   I had placed myself in the hot seat during my "heist." I had obviously been identified, otherwise, I wouldn't have had Mr. Welcome Wagon waiting in the kitchen to greet me.

   I couldn't let it go. I was getting so close to the information I needed, I could bust the whole case wide open in a matter of weeks -- maybe days -- but how many octagons did it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop(R)?

   I washed down some Tylenol with a gulp of apple juice and grabbed my BDU jacket on the way out the door. I'd use the quiet-time of the paper route to decide what my next move would be -- whether or not it would include staking out the boutique again.

     * * * *

After a stop at the Circle K for a cup of coffee, I eased the Falcon into the back driveway of the imposing brick house. The ivy-covered brick wall around the perimeter of the estate afforded the sort of privacy I had come to embrace in the last several years. I killed the engine, and flashed the headlights three times, then turned them off, peering across the back lawn to the patio. Predictably, the door swung open and a woman in her mid-thirties crept across the sod and got in the passenger side. She was wearing only an oversized flannel shirt.

   "He's asleep," the woman said.

   "You're sure, now?" I studied the upstairs window.

   "A freight train wouldn't wake him," the woman smiled, running red-painted nails through her ash-blond hair, as the early October breeze tickled the branches of the dogwoods lined in a canopy over the wall.

   "A freight train?"

   The woman slid over in the seat close to me. "I'm interested only in the tunnels..." She ran a hand seductively up my jeaned leg.

   "C'mere..." I pulled the woman against me and gave her a short kiss, wincing from the pain in my lip.

   "What happened to you?" Phoebe inquired, turning my face toward the starlight.

   "Occupational hazards," I offered wryly.

   "What'd you do, hit yourself with a paper?"

   "Not that occupation, the other one."

   "Oh, that silly secret agent stuff -- "

   I leaned back at the affront. "I beg your pardon. It's not silly." I unzipped the BDU jacket. "And I am not a secret agent."

   "Oh, right. Quite the little detective, aren't we?" she teased.

   I reached over and released the top button of her flannel shirt, just to let her know who was in charge. "I can find all your little secrets, chick."

   She giggled, unfastening the other buttons to let me know that she didn't mind my being in charge. She genuflected with forced sincerity, whispering, "Seek and ye shall find, Jobeth -- "

   We climbed over the seats of the Falcon, maintaining a kiss, and I freed her of the flannel, dumping it on the floorboard. I let my hands roam freely over her body, lingering in the sensitive areas, one finger slipping under the elastic at the back of the silk panties, pulling them down, kissing her stomach all the while. Phoebe purred, smiling, tossing her head back against the moist window. "I want it, Jobeth -- "

   I removed the black silk Gucci panties completely, and without shame began to tease the woman, amused at the way she lifted her hips off the seat, moaning softly, her body begging for that magic that I made her feel. I listened to the groan extend and become louder. I was grateful for the huge backseat. It was probably a subconscious reason why I continued to drive the old Falcon. Freedom of movement was a must for this form of art.

   She began to squirm beneath my adroit tongue and mumbled something indecipherable, one hand going to the back of my head, pressing. "God, yes ... you are so good ... oh, Jobeth -- "

   My lips pulled into a smile amid the nest, enjoying her vocalizations and the familiar flavor of honeysuckle that always greeted me there. Whether it was natural, or from a bottle, I didn't care. It's a popular notion that the female balm is an acquired taste, but I never suffered an adjustment period; to me, it was immediately as inviting and succulent as a fresh cherry from a wild tree.

   As I continued, Phoebe began to pant and moan and clench at my shoulder-length hair, begging me to continue. "Yes ... oh, baby, tease me ... love me, Jobeth -- " she cooed. "Oh, HolyMotherofGod -- !"

   I knew it wouldn't be long now. Phoebe always had a gushing orgasm soon after a religious expletive, and tonight I wanted that to happen a bit faster; there were other things on the agenda before sunrise. I opened my eyes and peered up at Phoebe's chest and stomach as they heaved with quick breaths, faster and faster, like a Western Flyer pulling away from the station. To hurry things along, I freed a hand and reached up to squeeze Phoebe's nipple. It was an orgasmic button; she cried out and arched her back, all her muscles tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing, in convulsive ripples. Finally, Phoebe drooped against the seat and sighed, lying completely still. I could see her heartbeat pushing at the skin on her neck.

   I lifted my head and retrieved the fresh bandanna stored in the back window ledge, wiped my face, and slid up beside her. When she opened her eyes, I smiled, recalling the _HolyMotherofGod_ that Phoebe had shouted. "It's easy to tell you're Catholic, Phoebe."

   Phoebe laughed at herself. "I can feel a confession coming on."

   "I'm not qualified."

   Phoebe laughed. "Oh yes, you are!"

   I ran a hand along Phoebe's arm. "Big one?"

   A languid smile spread over her face. "Massive."

   "All better?"

   "Well, maybe I'll sleep through the night now," Phoebe sighed, then began to giggle.

   I joined in her laughter. "Phoebe, you are insatiable."

   "Yes. But I can be pleased." Phoebe slipped into her shirt again and we climbed back over the seat to the front. "Where were you last night, Sugar?"

   "Taking care of business." My cut lip was burning from the invasion of Phoebe's juices.

   "I missed you."

   "As always." I turned and draped myself over the seat to gather a bunch of rolled papers on the back floorboard.

   Phoebe lifted a brow, and swatted my rump. "You're not getting an inflated ego, are you?"

   I just smiled, placing the bunch on the seat between us. "Phoebe -- " I began, reaching for my Carltons on the dashboard. "You need to find a good woman and settle down." I lit the cigarette and took a long, calming drag, wondering why something like smoke could feel so good going down unless it was the kind in a burning building. Maybe that was the key to preventing death by smoke inhalation: outfit the buildings with cigarette filters.

   "I've found a good woman, and I am also settled, even if it is with a man." She took the cigarette from me and enjoyed a deep pull of her own before handing it back.

   I watched her make a porthole in the condensation on the window with one slender finger. "Why did you marry a man, if you like being with women so much?"

   Phoebe unlatched the chrome-rimmed window and pushed the wing out, her sigh a vapor as it hit the incoming air. "I didn't know women were so good at lovemaking until I met you."

   I eyed her suspiciously. "Don't get any ideas about taming me. I'm a freebird."

   "I wouldn't dream of it. I like you wild." Phoebe ran both hands through her hair, ruffling it looser.

   "I may not always be around, Phoeb'." I released a lungful of smoke, and it curled up to the roof and mushroomed.

   "Oh, let's not get into that." She reached for the door handle. "Are you coming tomorrow night?"

   My grin felt salacious. "I will if you will."

   Phoebe punched me playfully on the arm. "Only if you show up tomorrow night, Sugar." She leaned over and kissed me before stepping out and making her way back across the manicured lawn to the back door.

   I sighed, absently pulling a blond hair from my tongue, and reached into the seat for a newspaper. I rolled down the window and tossed it into the drive.

     * * * *

By the last throw, I had made my decision. No one would ever say that I weaseled out when the going got tough. My fight or flight mechanism was in perfect working order, and I had employed both choices in different dilemmas. But if my flight mechanism got stuck in a loop, all it would get me would be windburn and a shrinking spine; if my fight mechanism stayed in gear, I would need a first aid kit and some life insurance (which I didn't have). I had to balance one with the other in order to enjoy things like those middle-of-the-night romps with Phoebe.

   I pulled onto the rural highway and urged the Falcon to fifty-five, which was full-throttle for the old girl, my thoughts going back to that time on the stake-out, when the rules of the game began to change.

   I had been suspicious for the last few months. Nothing overt, just a sense now and then that someone was following me. Furtive glances at a post office; headlights behind my Falcon for perhaps a bit too long; an occasional phone call without words, and then a dial tone. I thought I was just being paranoid, but the signals were clear now. It was a not-so-surprising response from a not-so-legitimate businesswoman.

     * * * *

That August night, I had stopped at Sugar's, a little pub that was on the way to my paper route. The place was a renovated barn, with some of the same decor intact. Wide, rough-hewn beams crisscrossed the ceiling, and riding tack adorned the walls. I always walked around the heavy items, like saddles; no sense in tempting fate.

   I settled at a corner table with my back to the wall, and opened the book. I had been studying everything I could get my hands on about private investigations. It was only a matter of time before I got my first assignment, even without a license. I enjoyed a Tequiza while leafing through a copy of _Serious Surveillance for the Private Investigator_ by Bob Bruno.

   A man of about 50, with graying hair and baggage under his blue eyes, sat down nearby. I started wondering what his story was. It didn't take him long to tell.

   "First of all," he began, holding two bottles of Tequiza(R), standing next to the table. "This isn't a come-on. I noticed the book you were reading, and I wanted to ask you a question."

   He held out the bottle toward me. It was just in time, since I had polished off the last drop of the previous one, and couldn't really afford to have another. I lifted my foot under the table and pushed out the opposite chair. He sat, putting the beer down in front of me.

   "Are you an investigator, or just studying to be one?"

   I took a drink of beer and closed the book. "I'm studying."

   "How about some field experience?"

   Well, now, sometimes the Universe drops things right in your lap, but I've always been a little wary of things that work out too well. "Maybe."

   "I'll pay you."

   "I don't have a license."

   He took a drink of his beer. "You don't need one to do a favor for a friend, right?"

   "And we're about to be friends?"

   "Look, I don't want this to be in the news or even in the gossip mill. If I hire someone with a high profile -- " He paused, peeling at the label on his bottle. "Anyway, I'd like to keep this quiet and make it go away. If you'd like to get your feet wet, you could also get some cash out of it."

   I studied the wrinkles in his brow, and the laugh-lines at the corners of his mouth seemed unused. He wore a gray pinstriped, double-breasted suit, with a conservative white shirt and gray tie. He had money, but probably not a lot of it. "I'm interested."

   "I'm being blackmailed. And this woman is draining me dry. What I want you to do is wait for her to pick up the payment, and then steal it back. I have bills to pay."

   I caught myself grinning. There was a certain poetic justice about it. "How dangerous is she?"

   "I doubt she'll even be there. She'll send one of her flunkies to pick it up. You'll have to take it from him."

   "Wait -- you want me to mug someone?"

   He snorted. "I guess you could call it that. But then the guy will go back and tell her he was mugged. Maybe she'll believe it, maybe not."

   "What if I just steal it?"

   "Steal it?"

   "Yeah, like what if I find a way to get it from him without being seen? Then he'll have no idea what happened to it, and maybe she'll think her guy is pulling a fast one. It'll take some of the heat off you."

   His face brightened. "I like the way you think."

   I was proud of myself already. "So, how much?"

   "How much?"

   "How much is it worth to you for me to do this?"

   "Well, if you pull it off, I'm prepared to pay you five hundred."

   "And if I don't pull it off?"

   He shrugged, and half-smiled. "Why would I pay you to fail?"

   I considered this. I couldn't start asking for two hundred dollars a day plus expenses, like Jim Rockford. I had to prove myself first. "I'll do it."

   He extended his hand. "Name's Huxley."

   "Jobeth," I said, taking his hand. We shook, our eyes meeting in one last exploration of trust issues, and he gave me the information about Stacy, the blackmailer.

   I left there with a plan already in my head for how I would get hold of that money.

     Chapter 2

     _Let us die even as we rush into the midst of the battle._

     _The only safe course for the defeated is to expect no safety._

      -- Virgil

   _August_

   _Oklahoma City_

   I had stretched and yawned for the umpteenth time, and frowned down into the Styrofoam cup. _Cold_. I grunted into the dark liquid, rolling down the window to discard my spent Carlton menthol. It was balmy, but there was a cool breeze. The wind caught a wayward cheeseburger wrapper and propelled it through the parking garage as I worked at the knot in my neck. Working alone had its advantages. I didn't have to explain why anyone would sit in a parked car for hours and drink bad convenience-store coffee, waiting for something that might never happen. Excitement was not the reason I took up the investigative vocation. The events of my near-past just sort of segued naturally into the job. I needed a source of income, and couldn't risk doing anything I had done before. It was my first case, and I felt just a little naked.

   I checked the layout in my head against the one in front of me. Second level, row C. I could see the driver's side of a solitary Galaxie-500 in row A, near the elevator, about 50 yards in front of me and to my left. _So where the hell is that -- _

   A Plymouth Duster pulled up beside the Galaxie. _Ah, the delivery boy._ I slid down in the seat and peeked over the dash at the young man who stepped out and walked to the old Ford. He seemed nervous, and looked around cautiously, and I ducked in the seat when his gaze came my direction.

   It was too dark for him to see me, as I'd been careful to stay away from the lights that were mounted at infrequent intervals on concrete pillars and crossbeams. Still, I didn't want to take any chances on this case for the same reason I parked my butt and read reference manuals for hours on end. The pain was worth the gain.

   He opened the driver's door of the scarred Ford and tossed a small object in the seat. Then the young man returned to the Duster and spiraled slowly down the lane toward the first-floor exit.

   I reached for the door handle and bumped my coffee in its holder on the door. The brown liquid splashed onto the top of my Reebok and ran into my favorite purple slouch sock. "Shit," I growled, pushing the door open and stepping out.

   I headed for the Galaxie, periodically shaking my sodden foot in an effort to drain the spill. The glow from the lamps moved over me, bright, then dim, as I moved between the cars with my eyes fixed on the '66 Galaxie, waiting in all its antiquity for my arrival. I toyed with the image of the car with a new paint-job and some bodywork. People just didn't appreciate the value of these sturdy old behemoths; probably because they've never realized the true potential of a large back seat.

   I crept over to the Galaxie's passenger side tire, took out the tire gauge, and placed the pin on the valve stem, liberating the tire of its air. Then I hurried back to the Falcon and waited.

   A few minutes later, a dark pickup pulled up near the Galaxie, and a tall blond man got out and headed for the Ford as the pickup pulled away. He opened the door, retrieved the bag, and held it as he peered around the parking garage. Then he tossed the bag into the seat and got in. He started the engine and backed out, but paused as he felt the flat tire. The blond man put the car in park and got out, looking at the tires on his side, and then headed for the other side. Finding the flat, he cursed loudly, and retrieved the keys to open the trunk. As he moved to the rear of the vehicle, I got out and shuffled toward the Ford, my head down below the cars. When he opened the trunk and peered in, I leaned inside the Galaxie and snatched the green zippered bank bag. _Pretty easy, so far._ In a running crouch, I made my way back toward the Falcon.

   The blond man slammed the trunk, the echo bouncing off the nearby elevator buttress. He moved back up to the tire, screwing a flat-fixer canister onto the stem.

   This garage was a gold mine of ancient automobiles. I noticed an Oldsmobile Delta 88 ahead of me. Almost to safety, I halted at the sound of screeching tires. I turned toward the upward ramp. There was only time to see glaring headlights and the dark barrel protruding from the passenger window of the pickup. A blast emitted from the shotgun, and I froze for an instant, scanning to my right and behind me at the riddled holes in the side of the Olds'. "Holy shit!"

   Recognizing the need to put something between me and that flying lead, I vaulted to the hood of the Olds' and rolled over, falling off the other side, too late to avoid the protruding screw in the passenger side mirror, which tore a small gash above my right eye. I landed with a painful thud upon the pavement near the front tire, the smell of oil assaulting my nose. A searing pain shot through my side, and with great chagrin I felt the re-injury of my ribs; they had finally healed, and now I was back in walking-wounded status. I raised myself painfully and squinted into the early morning darkness at the Falcon: my only hope for escape.

   The screeching tires of the truck indicated that there would be another try. I was a clay pigeon. I took as much breath as I could into my lungs and forced myself to stand -- the adrenaline dulling the pain in my side. I came up off the pavement and sprinted across the lot, my shoulder blades pulling together in anticipation of the bullets that would soon riddle me like the Delta 88. I made it to the Falcon unscathed and grabbed the door handle, but lost my grasp, the force of the pull knocking me off-balance. I landed hard on my behind. _Pain, again. Pain. Pain. Pain._

   I got up and tried the door again and realized it was locked, but I didn't have time to figure out how it happened. Looking through the window, I could see that the passenger door was unlocked, so I rushed around to the other side, clipping my left knee on the chrome fender and cursing as I limped the rest of the way around to the other door. I tossed my aching body in and slid over behind the wheel. The engine fired up with no problem, and I pushed in the clutch, grabbing my left knee with a growl of pain, pulled the stick in reverse, and backed out into the lane, barely missing one of those concrete pillars. Just as I started for the down-ramp, I saw the truck descending from the third floor to cut me off. I floored the Falcon and beat him to the turn. I swooped out of the garage, taking off the striped arm of the gate, as I passed the ticket booth and caromed into the street. I gritted my teeth as the truck tires screamed behind me.

   Squeezing my eyes shut released the tears that clouded my view, and I remembered that Williamsburg Court was just up ahead. I screeched the Falcon into the first entrance of the subdivision and circled through and around a few blocks, pulling up into an empty driveway, killing the engine and my lights. I pressed a palm to my burning kneecap. "Damn it!" I cursed again. _Okay, so there was a disagreeable side to working alone._

   I dropped down in the seat and waited, hoping this Hollywood method would work as well as it did on that episode of _The Rockford Files_. When you're flying by the seat of your pants in a profession like this, reputable mentors were sometimes hard to find.

   I heard the truck go past me, thinking about how this had to be the oldest trick in the book, and wondering if there really was a book. Meanwhile, blessed adrenaline was seeping away and my endorphins had packed up and hopped a freighter. I backed out of the driveway and wound around the streets of the subdivision with my lights still off, keeping an eye peeled for the truck. When it seemed safe again, I pulled out onto the main street, turned on my headlights, and merged with the early birds on their way to work. I was only 10 minutes away from Baptist Med center and suddenly felt like paying a visit.

   After I pulled into the emergency entrance, I remembered the bank bag I had tossed in the seat. I unzipped it to examine questionable booty. At the top of a deposit slip were the words, _Saint Michael's Catholic Church._ There were two personal checks for one hundred and one hundred fifty dollars, respectively. No two thousand dollars as expected, just the deposit slip and the two checks made out to Saint Michael's. I placed my forehead on the wheel. Having just ripped off God, I wondered what my penalty would be. Maybe I would only be charged with ripping off a saint. Maybe I could plea bargain it down to one year burning in hell with two year's purgatory.

   I called Mr. Huxley while I waited my turn behind more people than McDonald's served that day. Meanwhile, I was concocting a story about having fallen off the roof of my house after chasing a TV antenna-marauding squirrel that was interrupting my viewing pleasure. It was such a stretch, that the R.N. simply had to buy it.

   Mr. Huxley arrived forty-five minutes later, paid my bill, and bought me a set of crutches from the gift shop. It was the least he could do, I figured, since I didn't get a cut from the money that was supposed to be in the bag.

   I had a lengthy conversation with Huxley, and I let him know that the blackmail money was not in the bag, even though his hired hand had dropped it where he was supposed to. He said the kid attended and worked at St. Michael's and had somehow switched the bags. Huxley was convinced the young man had developed a case of sticky fingers and told me he'd deal with him later. The kid had no idea what he could have caused. He obviously thought the lack of trust between Huxley and Stacey, the blackmailer, was enough to divert attention away from his deed. Something was rotten in the state of Denmark, and it was smelly enough to tell me that Stacey found out that he was trying to pull a big switcheroo and sent someone of her own to watch for it. I could only assume that whomever was in the black truck saw my sneaky little bagstealing action while the blond man had his head in the trunk. I had been baited and trapped. The lady blackmailer was playing hardball, and I was just angry enough to deny that I was out of my league. I considered it part of paying my early dues in the investigative business. Huxley cushioned the hurt by giving me some hazard pay: a check for two hundred dollars -- all of which would be gone after paying the rest of last month's delinquent rent, gas, and back charges on my utility bills. As investigative rates went, it wasn't much for the unexpected lead that flew my way, but since I didn't have a private investigator's license, it was not wise to protest. Huxley was by nature a miserly soul, perhaps by virtue of the siphoning that Stacy was doing. But I knew the rich were usually tightwads; it helped ensure perpetuity.

   Huxley promised me a bonus if I managed to retrieve the money from the kid in the Duster. "Use any means necessary," he had said. Had I been the faint-hearted sort, I might have decided then that the game was a bit too rough. But I'm yoked with an unhealthy need for adventure. I'm a certifiable hotspur with no fear of peril, and now I was a little pissed. I was determined to get something besides five hundred out of the deal. Huxley offered to deliver the church's deposit, but I insisted on doing the honors. That way, I could pay a visit to the kid at church and put the real fear of God into him. Huxley saw it as an honorable act, which made me look better in his eyes, and I would get the chance to test out my intimidation tactics.

     * * * *

The next morning, I pulled my aching body out of bed and headed for St. Michael's. I chose to leave my crutches behind, wanting to maintain a more threatening appearance.

   I entered the sanctuary with the broken antenna of the kid's Duster in my hand. I recognized him right away as he polished the pews.

   "I believe you have something that belongs to Mr. Huxley," I said softly. I held up the antenna for him to see. "Old cars are so great. That Duster of yours must be your pride and joy."

   His eyes went wide, and I knew that he was like most men who had an unhealthy attachment to their cars.

   "Where's the bag?"

   The kid swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing against the skin of his throat. He looked around the sanctuary nervously. "It's -- "

   "It's -- ?" I mocked.

   "I hid it."

   "Where?"

   He pointed toward the altar in front.

   I lowered my brows and tried to appear threatening. "Go get it."

   The boy hurried to the table that held the Eucharist and reached under to pull the bag out, along with the gray tape that secured it. He held it tight to his chest and returned.

   "Time for confession," I said, indicating the booth a few feet away.

   I stepped into the confessional behind him. He handed me the bag quickly, and I unzipped it and looked inside. It held more green than I'd ever laid eyes on. I zipped it back up and secured the bag at the small of my back inside the waistband of my jeans. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pulled out a .38 and pushed it at his nose. "Mr. Huxley doesn't like thieves. He wanted me to take care of you, but I'm just not anxious to spill blood here -- "

   "I'm sorry, I made a mistake. I don't know what I was thinking -- "

   "What were you thinking, kid?" I pushed the muzzle of the pistol at his nose again, until I could see the hairs waving in his flaring nostrils.

   "I just wanted to fix up my car -- "

   I smiled, handing him the antenna. "Ironic, isn't it?"

   He closed his eyes. "Please -- "

   "Now, I hope I can trust you to behave from now on."

   His knuckles were white as he grasped the antenna. "Yeah, yeah. I promise. Please, just -- "

   I put the barrel of the pistol over his lips. "Shhh. We don't want to disturb the parishioners." I put the gun back in my pocket and patted his cheek, exiting the confessional. On the way to the door, I dropped the other bag with the checks into the tithing box and limped out of the church, my knee throbbing.

     * * * *

I called Huxley from a payphone and he met me in a parking lot. I relayed the "meeting" with the kid and gave him the money. He took three hundreds from the bag and handed it to me for my recent acts of terrorism.

   I swung by the Yogurt Shop and treated myself to a waffle cone with White Chocolate Mousse. I had to take Huxley's advice to lay low for awhile. I needed time to recuperate, and Stacey's goons needed time to get careless.

     Chapter 3

   It had taken me several weeks to get rid of the crutches and several more to get the goods on Stacey Cartwright. The trail was pretty cold by the time I got back on it. Huxley continued to pay my expenses and cheap retainer fee, knowing that no one else would work for such a ridiculous price, and that a young woman could dig up information faster than a professional in a three-piece suit. People were not so apt to suspect a young woman who asked questions, and Stacey expected Huxley to hire a professional this time around, especially after that ugly scene in the parking deck. What the woman got was Jobeth O'Brien, mad as hell and back in the trenches to fight again.

   I began my strategy by learning all I could about Stacey Cartwright. I drilled Huxley for all the information he could dig up, and then I went to Public Records. A cute little number at the Tax Assessor's office was very helpful and asked when we could "go out" again -- her way of saying, _When can we do it in the store room again?_ Millie was able to get me Stacey's home address, but it was a nonexistent address, and there were probably more than a few aliases involved. But I already knew from Mr. Huxley that Stacey made a hefty income from older, rather well-off family men.

   Stacey was smooth. She met her unsuspecting victims in grocery stores, cafes, and piano bars. She was hard to overlook with her flaming red hair and flirty demeanor. All it took was a long glance or a misstep that would send her falling into the arms of her conquest. Her favorite ruse was to pretend to be an out-of-towner, lose her keys, and accept a ride back to her hotel.

   Stacey had several beautiful ladies who were always at the right place at the time and eager to be a "good listener" to these lonely gentlemen. Very few men can say no to ladies half their age and half clothed. Secret cameras would then capture the unsuspecting men engaging in less-than-monogamous acts.

   Stacey was adept at handling photo equipment; although she professed to be a beautician. The strange part was that she never seemed to make much money styling people's hair; she wasn't very good at it. Obviously it was a cover for the real business she was running. Dial-a-Bimbo. Or variations thereof. I thought it must have been an easy transition from blackmailer to madam.

     * * * *

It was one afternoon in September, after an almost spiteful recuperation, that I was clipping coupons and noticed a coupon for a haircut at Stacey's Salon. It was a hair salon, and the coincidence was too looming to let go. I decided to have a look at the establishment, praying I would be lucky enough to have her operation dropped right in my lap.

   I found a parking space a block away and deprived the meter of its quarter, making a bee-line for the boutique. I stepped inside and took in the five lavish booths, each with its own incongruous hairdresser. _How could someone like Stacey afford to open a business on such a grand scale when she wasn't even any good at hairdressing?_ I knew there were two possibilities: either this piece of property was purchased with the money of a blackmailer, or this was another beautician named Stacey.

   Almost immediately, a young woman of questionable class greeted me. "Hello. May I help you?"

   I stalled long enough to take a quick look around. A small antique table in the corner held a Plexiglas stand of business cards. I smiled at the woman. "Hi. I'm doing a project for my marketing class. It's on the psychology of business card design. Would you mind if I had one of yours for my collection?"

   The woman was only too happy to please. "Of course." She reached over and got one from the table. Her hair was an odd mixture of brown and blond. "Here. Anything else? A cut? A perm? You have great hair."

   _If my hair is so great, why do you want to cut it and perm it?_ "Maybe another time, thanks. My paper is due soon. I need to get home and dive in. I appreciate the card, though."

   The woman wished me a nice day, and I paused outside to read the bottom corner of the card. 'Stacey Wright, Owner.'

   _She thought she could get away from me._

   I parked across the street from Stacey's Salon, stationing the Falcon covertly in the alley. I could feel the promise of a cold winter season in the crisp October breeze wafting through my window. My field notebook was open and ready. I leafed through a recent copy of _The Advocate_, but was careful to keep the greater part of my attention trained on the boutique entrance. Women went in and came out, sporting newly cut or permed or styled hair. A few of them, I couldn't help but notice, were truly nice chunks of womanhood. I gave a grade to each finished product when they emerged from the boutique.

   At five o'clock a redhead stepped outside with a blond man. I focused the binoculars on her, and knew by the photo Huxley had given me months before, that it was Stacey. The blond man was the same man I encountered at the parking garage; I was sure of it.

   The two shared a collusive conversation for some moments, and then went back inside. I hunkered down in the seat when Stacey paused for a quick look around before pulling the door closed behind her, lowering the shades on either side of the front door, and turning the "Open" sign over to "Closed." It was 6 p.m. _Now, we're getting somewhere._ I stared at the storefront, blinking away the film of fatigue over my eyes, and tried to be patient.

   I pride myself on being able to function on very little sleep. I've gone for days without any real rest, just a cat-nap here and there, and regular infusions of caffeine. It was probably the missing caffeine element that altered the equation; I was awakened from one of these cat-naps when a young man no more than seventeen was let into the shop. I rubbed the itching sandpaper of my eyes, and blinked them back into focus, holding my watch toward the moonlight. 8:15. I entered the information in my notebook and waited.

   At 9:05, the youth came out, a bit disheveled, and wearing an odd grin. It didn't take a genius to put these pieces together. Pieces, being the operative word. It was perhaps this clientele who financed the hidden cameras that captured the older, more affluent gentlemen with their trousers at half-mast. I knew I'd need solid evidence for that one. I entered the data in my notebook.

   At ten, I was entertaining the thought of a cup of coffee from a nearby Kwik Stop, when another young man went in. I opted to stick around for his triumphant emergence from the den of iniquity. He came out less than an hour later, and at eleven, an older gentleman in a double-breasted suit. My watch told me that this was the end of my stakeout. I had to go pick up my papers and deliver my route.

   I started the Falcon and backed further into the alley and onto the street at the other side. I knew for sure where some of the money was coming from. Tomorrow night I would take pictures ... just in case. But tonight, there was the route, and of course, Phoebe.

     * * * *

Phoebe came out before I finished flashing the headlights. She must have been perched on the curtain rod at the back window. She ran to the car and jumped in. She was wearing a shiny silk shirt; I didn't know yet if she had anything under it. "Good evening, my sweet little lover-baby!" she gushed.

   "Please, Phoebe. Could you work up a little enthusiasm?"

   "I've been horny all day. I thought you'd never get here." She ran both hands through her hair. "Steve left this afternoon on a business trip. We can go inside this time."

   My reaction was immediate. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

   "Why not?" Her face looked petulant.

   "I wouldn't feel right about it. But I'm right here. What would you like?" I kissed her.

   "You, Jobeth. I want your lips and your fingers and your tongue..."

   Phoebe ran her hand inside my shirt and I captured her fingers before they made contact with my breast. "Christ, Phoebe', have a little self-restraint." This fresh wantonness was new behavior. "What gives? You been watching sexy movies by the light of the silvery moon?"

   "No ... it's Steve ... he's been keeping his distance. He acts like he doesn't want me anymore."

   "Since when?"

   "Last night."

   "Last night you were with me."

   "That's not it. He had his chance this afternoon, too. He said he was too tired." Phoebe smoothed the black silk nightie that came to mid-thigh.

   "Well, God, Phoebe -- how often do you want it?"

   Phoebe looked out the window thoughtfully. "All the time, lately."

   "You're a nympho, you know that?"

   "You're the one who put a match to that flame, Sweetie."

   "It's easy with someone so highly combustible."

   Phoebe landed on me like a banshee during mating season. Her lips were everywhere, and I knew I'd have to gain control of the situation if I didn't want to be devoured. I pushed her away and motioned toward the back seat. She practically dove over it and was almost naked before she hit the vinyl. "Are you sure you weren't watching those movies, Phoebe?" I asked, helping her out of her panties.

   "Yes. I don't need movies. I have a healthy imagination. And I was using it just before Steve got home a while ago. That's why the fire is so out of control." She pulled me on top of her. "Quench it, my precious girl."

   I did my best.

     * * * *

It took three complete sessions of foreplay, teasing, manipulation, and rhythm, followed by three orgasms, to render Phoebe limp in the seat under me. My jaw muscles were aching, my jawbone threatening to lock up, and both hands were numb by the time the itch was scratched. Although we had been together almost every night for the last month, I never knew what Phoebe would do next. I quickly learned that she was unusually unrepressed for a woman these days; she didn't seem to have any sexual baggage. Which was fine with me. Each time was just as exciting as the first time; and that first night would always be fresh in my mind ...

     Chapter 4

     * * * *

     _In her first passion_

     _woman loves her lover,_

     _In all the others_

     _all she loves is love._

      -- Byron

     * * * *

September

   _Leatherwood Landing_

   While throwing the paper in the paved, pristine driveway, I glanced up and saw the ghostly vestige moving away from the tiny garden. The vision circled the wrought-iron bench and moved fluidly across the lawn toward my Falcon. The filmy fabric of her white peignoir billowed along behind her. She bent to retrieve the newspaper, and I was immediately taken with her beauty, though the night was dark and I could not focus clearly on the woman's features; that kind of beauty needed no illumination to be obvious. She stepped briskly to my window. "Hello. I'm Phoebe McMasters," she said, leaning down to get a look at the paperboy. I detected the scent of coffee on her breath.

   My attention flickered over the shadowed face before me, and then I treated myself to a rather full view of cleavage, as the woman looked closer. "You're a girl -- "

   "Last time I looked."

   Phoebe McMasters chuckled.

   "I'm your carrier, Jobeth O'Brien."

   Phoebe reached out and clasped my hand in introduction. "That's an unusual name: Jobeth O'Brien ... it 'falls trippingly off the tongue' as Shakespeare would say."

   I liked the feel of Phoebe's hand. It wasn't a limp, dead-fish handshake, as I expected the handshake of a socialite to be; Phoebe's grasp was firm, warm. I recalled hearing that the definition of a snob was someone who was educated beyond his or her intelligence. As Phoebe pressed her other hand atop mine, I realized this woman didn't belong in that category.

   "Your hand is cold, Jobeth O'Brien."

   "Occupational hazard." That 'something else,' my practiced radar told me, was even more unconventional than being a rich, non-snob. I could spot them a mile away. There were two types of lesbians: gay ones and straight ones. Gay lesbians were gay, and knew it. Straight lesbians were gay and hadn't discovered or admitted it yet. Phoebe was a straight lesbian. And there was nothing more thrilling to me than the possibility of drawing a woman out, especially since it meant I would be the first woman to have her. It bordered on the stereotypical male mentality toward women, but I had not been socialized that way, so it must have just come naturally for me. This feeling of "newness" had developed into an obsession: that moment of letting go; the sensation of a beautiful woman clinging to me, coaxing me, wanting me, and not quite understanding why; it was something I defined as sexual utopia.

   Having logged and filed this newest prey, I turned my attention back to her, as she leaned in the window. "Why are you wandering around the yard at this hour, in this weather?"

   "Restless, I guess. Would you like to come in for coffee?"

   _And lonely, too._ "Thanks, but I have to finish my route. Maybe another time." I could see the disappointment in her face, and not being one to say no to a creature as lovely as this one, I retracted my excuse. "Well, maybe a quick cup would warm up my cold hands."

   Phoebe turned and hesitated, looking toward an upper window. "I'd hate to wake up Steve -- "

   "You're married?"

   "Yes." She confirmed rather dully. "Look, I'll go put it in a thermos and bring it out to you. Wait." She galloped to the back storm door and went into the house. Although "galloping" is not something you usually see socialites doing, Phoebe did, indeed, gallop. But I thought she did it with unusual elegance. There were perks to having an uptown route.

   I wanted her. I always admitted that to myself right away so I wouldn't play any games with myself. But I had never had a married woman -- at least, not knowingly. Was this a moral question? Had I ever noticed a moral question? _Okay, she's married._ It still didn't seem like cheating. There were two different sexes involved in the frolic ... how does a woman go about competing with a man, and for that matter, vice versa? It was like comparing roses and weeds. The women, of course, being the roses.

   Phoebe returned with the green and chrome Stanley thermos and got in the Falcon beside me. She smelled like a bouquet; I caught the scent like a bloodhound.

   "Here ya go -- fresh coffee. I made it just before my walk." She handed me a Styrofoam cup, and poured, steamy and hot. "It helps keep me warm."

   I brooded wistfully that I'd like to have that honor.

   "This car is quite nostalgic." She was stroking the black and white fabric of the front seat, and studying the stick shift and the metal dash. She glanced behind us. "Why is the backseat made of vinyl?"

   I blew on my coffee. "It's easier to clean." I'm sure she missed the implication, but that was okay. She'd understand it well enough before too long. "I just finished restoring the inside of it."

   Phoebe held the thermos in both hands and stared at that upstairs window again.

   "So ... what do you do with yourself when you're not out wandering around in the dark?"

   Phoebe sighed. "Not much of anything, actually. I used to be in nursing school ... but gave it up for Steve. He wanted me to stay home."

   "How sexist of him," I cracked.

   Phoebe turned her head slowly to look at me, and I met her eyes. She looked me up and down, and a smile crept onto her lips. "You don't pull any punches, do you?"

   "What's the point?" I mused glibly.

   Phoebe chuckled for the second time -- a sound that came from deep in her throat, and caused the hair to stand up on the back of my neck. At that moment I wished I could see Phoebe more clearly. What a shame it would be if that perfect laugh was not encased in a perfect throat, or if that perfect charm were not matched by perfectly charming eyes and lips ... too often one could not find all those things wrapped neatly in one package.

   While I thought this over, Phoebe's smile had faded as swiftly as it had appeared, the woman's attention again drawn to the upper window of the house. I decided to take a chance. "Marital bliss not so blissful, huh?"

   Phoebe swallowed, the mist in her eyes revealed by the limited glow from a half-moon. "You can't have everything," she philosophized.

   I felt an unfamiliar stab in my stomach, as I caught the glint of a tear in Phoebe's eyes. I hate it when women cry. I didn't care whether men did it or not; they had been holding back since the Garden, it was time. But women had been crying long enough. It was time for them to take action against the things that made them sad. "That's true enough, I suppose. But it doesn't hurt to try."

   Phoebe nodded and leaned her head back against the seat, the soft delicacy of her throat exposed in the narrow swath of moonlight. I fought a keen yearning that urged me to kiss the curve of flesh below her chin. "I can't try now. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it, so to speak -- "

   "You're human. Don't be so hard on yourself."

   "But what about Steve? He married me because he loved me. I guess I realize now that I feel only friendship for him ... and not much of that, really."

   "But you didn't know that when you marched down the aisle." I blew on my coffee and took a cautious sip. The scenario was so familiar. Boy meets girl, boy neglects girl, girl seeks outside solace. I intended to offer her all the comfort she could handle.

   Phoebe sniffed and tried to smile. "You're very intuitive."

   _That's not all I am_.

   "This is odd..." Phoebe shifted in the seat to look directly at me, in my Army jacket, jeans and sneakers. "I'm spilling my guts to a total stranger."

   "There's a certain safety in talking to strangers. You don't feel obliged to see them again, so you can say what you want. I wouldn't lose any sleep over it."

   "You're more than just intuitive, aren't you, Jobeth O'Brien? Tell me about yourself."

   I rolled my eyes, sighed, and looked away, having been confronted with my least-favorite request. "Is this an interview to see if you want to get another carrier?"

   Phoebe smiled. "Not at all. I just want to know who you are."

   "I'm your paper-carrier."

   She cocked her head to one side. "Now I'm intrigued."

   "I'm afraid I'm not someone you can explain in an introductory chat." I busied my loosening lips by sipping my coffee.

   Phoebe smiled. "So, come back tomorrow night, too. We'll get to know one another. I really don't have anyone here I can talk to so easily." She pulled the thin robe around her more securely.

   I studied the woman's face as thoroughly as the light would allow and decided she was sincere. "We stop being strangers after the second conversation, you know."

   "That's okay with me."

   "I have to run my route, you know."

   "So leave a bit earlier ... I've been pulling my hair out lately for company, since Steve has been away so much on business trips..." She looked up at the bedroom window. "Sometimes this house feels like a mausoleum -- "

   I considered the off-white brick colonial structure, it's French doors and bay windows vague outlines in the dim light, and thought how much it did not look like a mausoleum. Frame of reference was everything. "I'd be a heartless little bitch if I said no to that." I gave her a smile and watched Phoebe step out of the car and close the door.

   She leaned back down and tossed the thermos through the window onto the seat. "You can bring it back tomorrow night."

   I reached into the floor and got a paper, handing it to her. "Go inside before you catch cold."

   "See you tomorrow night, Jobeth."

   I circled the drive and continued my route, confident that Phoebe McMasters would be my newest challenge -- possibly the most thrilling -- and wondered why that knowledge made me uneasy.

     * * * *

We had been meeting every night for two weeks, and I had learned a lot about Phoebe -- some of it unspoken, but understood. Her husband, Steve, was the son of very wealthy businessman, and Phoebe had money of her own willed to her by a doting late Grandmother who discovered a knack for the stock market. Phoebe also owned stock in numerous Fortune 500 companies. At 35, she was one of the most wealthy people in town; maybe in the state. But money didn't buy the things that she needed most. The interruption of her nursing career had left her longing for that little something that would make her feel valuable, needed. She had a hunger inside her that had never been slaked. She had not had an orgasm in almost two years; only what she called "a bit of release." Phoebe did have a healthy self-concept, and was content with her body (which I recognized immediately as rare), but even so, sex had become a mechanical undertaking. Phoebe felt she had to be in love before she could feel passion again. This pronouncement gave me a moment of anxiety, until my ego kicked in and told me that it wasn't love Phoebe needed, but to be with a woman.

     * * * *

On the fifteenth night, I delivered my entire route early, and drove like a mad hatter to finish with enough time left over for Phoebe. An intuition told me that tonight would be the night. I had never waited this long to make a move on a woman; I was beginning to take this friendly-shoulder routine a bit too seriously.

   When I pulled up in the drive and flashed my lights, it was 4:05 a.m.

   Phoebe came out and got in. "You're late. I thought you were going to skip me tonight."

   "No. I did the rest of my route, so we could talk without a time-clock." I lit a cigarette, offered it to Phoebe, lit one of my own, and opened the glove box. From it, I took a half-pint of 'Hot Damn' Schnapps. "Have a drink, Phoebe."

   She looked pleased. "Don't mind if I do." Phoebe unscrewed the cap and took a swallow, shivering only slightly, and licking her lips as it went down. "That ought to counteract the coffee I drank tonight waiting for you."

   "Phoebe. We seem to be developing a friendship, so there's something you should know. Two things, actually."

   Phoebe took another sip. "Sure. What's the first thing?"

   "I'm gay."

   Phoebe just stared at me without blinking or moving for a moment, then took another drink and puffed on her cigarette.

   "Is that a problem for you?" I knew that it could go either way in these situations. You had to give them the opportunity to beat feet in the other direction. I realized with dismay, that Phoebe's reaction mattered to me; the women I had pursued previously were like toys. And even if they were initially put-off by my admission, curiosity would get the best of them. Phoebe was not a toy; if she bolted, I knew this time I'd feel it -- maybe a little more than I wanted to. I even caught myself rehearsing a speech about being platonic friends with Phoebe, if that was how she wanted it. These thoughts were horrifying. Like those little tragic fantasies you have sometimes about something horrible happening, even though it's the last thing you really want. One of those quagmires of the human mind.

   Phoebe sighed from her place in the passenger seat. "I don't want you to go away and never come back, if that's what you mean."

   "You do have that option. I mean, I could just throw your paper in the drive like everyone else's, and you could just mail your payment every month."

   She took another drink, and handed the bottle to me. "I should feel shocked and disgusted, right?"

   "Not necessarily. You feel what you feel. Don't let any one else's opinions shape your own." I studied the label of the bottle.

   Phoebe smiled. "That sounds like good advice." She rolled down the window and tossed the cigarette onto the drive. "For some reason, I'm neither shocked, nor disgusted..." She looked over at me, raking me with bold eyes. "What was the second thing you wanted to say?"

   My heart quickened. "I think I'll save the second thing for another time."

   Phoebe grunted peevishly. "Don't torture me, you little imp."

   I took a long swallow of the cinnamon liquor, letting it slide down my throat like warm coffee. I was nervous. _Damn it all to hell, the woman had unnerved me!_ "I'm very attracted to you, Phoebe." I squeezed my eyes shut on a sigh. The admission had come out sounding timid, meek. I was losing my touch.

   Phoebe moistened her lips and stared back at me. "You're ... you are?"

   "You sound surprised."

   Phoebe picked up the thermos in the seat, and unscrewed the cap. She poured a bit of coffee into the thermos lid and stared down at it as if she'd dropped something into it. "It's a new idea, that's all."

   I laughed. "It's older than you realize."

   "Would it be awful of me to confess that I'm curious as hell?"

   "No," I stilled the leaping animal in my chest. "It would be honest." I tossed out my own cigarette. "Admit it -- " I said, regaining some of my old composure while rolling up the window. " -- there was at least one time in your life when you fantasized about being with another woman."

   She smiled, taking a quick drink. "I don't really have to answer that, do I?" She giggled. "Okay. I did have a fierce crush on my English teacher in Junior High."

   "What did you fantasize about?"

   She went through the memory in her mind and gave a breathy, half-laugh. "Private lessons..."

   I caught a glimpse of that throat in the moonlight. "I think you're beautiful." _Oh, boy. I said that outloud._

   Phoebe came out of her schoolgirl memories and stared at me, but said nothing. I discovered these were new rules for that familiar game I used to play by rote, and that knowledge was disturbing. I was unsure of what to say next; the script had been ripped from my hands. I would have to ad lib for the first time. Was this the part where I waited for a signal, careful not to frighten the woman away, careful not to blow what I used to call a golden opportunity? The truth was, I had a genuine affection for Phoebe. I had grown fond of that overt vulnerability that had her talking about personal things; the way she ran her fingers through her hair; the way she laughed ... _Am I letting her get to me?_

   Phoebe reached over and put her hand on mine. I almost jerked it away, but caught myself just in time.

   "Are you going to give me a sample?" she asked.

   I laughed, anxious to be out of the whirl of questions in my head. "Do you mean a sample, or an example?"

   "I mean, are you going to kiss me?"

   Prepared for almost anything, I was still caught off guard by Phoebe's candidly daring question. "Why?"

   "Well, how am I going to know if I like something, unless I try it?"

   For an instant, I wondered if Phoebe was toying with me, and silently cursed my own hesitancy. Phoebe slid over in the seat close to me and waited. I could feel the woman's body heat. I could hear her short, expectant breaths.

   Swallowing in an effort to moisten my dry mouth, I reached up and brushed the hair away from Phoebe's eyes, touched her face, and leaned closer, until I could feel her breath against my face; I brushed my lips against her cheek. First one side, then the other. Her reaction was immediate; she began to tremble.

   I pressed my lips to Phoebe's and kissed her long and gently, exploring a bit, but not letting myself be too abrupt about it. Her breaths became shorter and more rapid then, and my left hand slid down her waist, down the side of her leg, my palm making the pivot at the kneecap, to travel the top of that thigh up again, my thumb easing into the fold where leg fused with loin. I felt my own pulse begin to race as Phoebe's arms come around me, drawing me in. I moved my hips out from under the steering wheel to lean in and bury my face in that place where Phoebe's neck and shoulder joined. How many times had I been teased by that neck in the moonlight? I brushed my cheek against the soft skin there, Phoebe's pulse pushing against my lips. Finding the cord of tendon there, I took a bite, scraping my teeth along it and sucking the skin into my mouth like a morsel of white chocolate. I lifted my face to find Phoebe's lips again, and then Phoebe broke the kiss, caught her breath, and whispered, "Sweet Christ -- "

   _She changed her mind. It was too good to be true after all._ "What's wrong?"

   "I just..." Her voice was hesitant, as if she could not get the language center in her brain to connect with her vocal cords. "had ... an image of someone..." Her eyes fluttered to the bedroom window.

   "Steve?"

   "No." She glanced over at me, sighed quickly -- one of those underwater-too-long breaths. "Actually, I was thinking about this woman at the country club." She pressed both hands to her face once, and drew a calming breath.

   My tired brain finally made the correlation. "Would this be a woman that you ... are attracted to?"

   Her head snapped over to look at me. "How did you know?"

   I smiled. "So there has been another crush besides your English teacher."

   Phoebe looked away and smiled. "I saw her first in the locker room at the club. She was changing to play tennis. I glanced over at her and was ... you know, sort of admiring her form -- "

   "You're not talking about her back-swing?" I chided.

   "No." She tossed me a grin. "Her body. At first, I just thought, 'wow, she's got great legs, I wish I had legs like that' ... stuff like that. But then I found myself looking at her ... looking at all of her. I was admiring her, but at the same time, I felt myself getting excited ... I got out of there fast."

   I knew I was going to need a cigarette for this one, so I pulled one out. "Did you ever see her again?"

   "Many times."

   "And?" I said through the cigarette in my lips.

   "And I kept having these reactions to her." Phoebe borrowed the first drag off my Carlton after I lit it, then handed it back. She released the smoke toward the front window, where it dispersed across the glass and encircled us.

   "What kind of reactions?"

   She caught my eyes solidly. "The kind I just had with you."

   I thumped the ash from my cigarette out the open wing of the window and ran my right hand around the steering wheel. "You haven't told me yet exactly what that reaction was..."

   She reached over and touched my leg. "You know what it was, Jobeth."

   _She hasn't changed her mind. She hasn't changed her mind._ I knew it was best if I let her make all the connections from this point. I knew it, and yet, I couldn't figure out why. It was not my usual approach to these precarious decisions. If the fire needed another log, I was the one who tossed it on, and stoked the flames around it. But contrary to that, I knew I should allow her to not only choose the log, but to decide whether or not to stoke it.

   She had been watching me throughout my reasoning process, and now she was sliding closer to me. "Jobeth ... kiss me again..."

   I tossed my cigarette out the window and tried to read the future in her eyes. They weren't telling. So I leaned over and kissed her softly. She pressed against me, pulling at the lapel of my jacket. I placed my hands on her jaw-line, caressing her face as I deepened the kiss. She moaned against my lips, and the vibration of it shot through me. I tried to suppress it, knowing that she would need time to think it all over, time to --

   "Let's get in the back seat -- " She breathed in my ear.

   I could hardly find enough moisture in my mouth to activate my dry tongue, but managed, "Aren't you a bit old to be making it in back seats?"

   "I've never done it in a back seat," she said, through heavy breaths. "Just for your information."

   "I'm not pressuring you, Phoebe. We don't have to move this fast. We don't even have to do this at all -- " _What am I saying? This is the chance of a lifetime, and I'm wringing my hands?!_

   "I thought you said you were attracted to me." Phoebe leaned back to regard me with an openly rejected expression, her chest undulating with her ragged breaths.

   "I am." _Oh, God, what have I gotten myself into?_ "I just want you to be sure." _I never cared whether they were sure before ... has my libido finally shriveled from overuse?_

   "I'm sure." Phoebe released a long breath and I thought I heard a slight growl.

   I looked at the upstairs window from our usual position in the back driveway. "What about Steve?"

   "He sleeps like a rock these days..." She lifted my hand and placed it against her chest. "please ... I want to -- "

   I smiled and followed her over the seat. "You're not going to have second thoughts, are you?"

   "I've already had them. I'm a regular blood-donor, free of communicable diseases. I trust that you can say the same?"

   I nodded. "I'm as safe as they come."

   "So what could happen? At least I know you won't get me pregnant."

   "Not unless you believe in Immaculate Conception," I laughed.

   "Well, I am Catholic," she smiled.

   Phoebe pulled the pink sweat pants off and draped them over the front seat. Her sweatshirt soon followed, and it was then that I realized Phoebe was sans underwear. Phoebe stretched out on the seat like a lioness, sleek and dangerous-looking. I smiled and shook my head. "You don't do anything halfway, do you, Phoebe?"

   She just shook her head with a sly smile and waited, her chest swelling in and out with each breath.

   I removed my quilted vest, but made no attempt to remove my other clothes; I had been caught in the buff more times than I'd care to count. The last time I'd been caught with my pants down, as it were, the consequences were tragic -- but I didn't want to think about that now. In these situations, the caveat was: stay dressed if at all possible.

   I lowered myself down beside Phoebe and began to caress her.

   She moaned and smiled and clenched at the back of my flannel shirt. "I love to be touched like that -- "

   "'License my roving hands, and let them go, before, between, above, below' -- " I quoted, stroking Phoebe's body accordingly.

   "Oh, you're a silver-tongued devil aren't you?" Phoebe breathed.

   "I'll let you be the judge of that," I whispered, trailing kisses down Phoebe's stomach toward the prize.

     Chapter 5

   I came out of my trip down memory lane and pulled Phoebe closer.

   "You just made love to me exactly like you did that first time, three weeks ago." Phoebe smiled. "My sweet, silver-tongued devil!"

   I sat up and rubbed a portal in the fogged pane so that I could see the ivy-covered wall. "Guess I was doing a little time travelling."

   Phoebe pulled her flannel robe from the floorboard and shrugged into it, tying the belt, and ran her fingers through her hair, fluffing sweaty locks. "Why don't you ever say much while we're making love?"

   "You're vocal enough for both of us."

   Phoebe slapped my shoulder. "I'm a expressive person, that's all." She recovered her slippers from the front seat where I had thrown them, and slid them on.

   I watched her pull her knees up to her chest and stare toward the house. "Are you ever that expressive with Steve?"

   Phoebe's eyes went to the upstairs window. "No. I guess not ... but then, Steve never made me feel so incredibly alive. And lovemaking is not exactly the strongest part of our relationship." She reached over to squeeze my hand briefly.

   "What would the strongest part be, then?"

   Phoebe giggled. "Its weakness."

   I leaned over the front seat to get a cigarette for us both, lighting one for Phoebe first. "And what about the other men you've been with?"

   Phoebe took a drag, blowing the smoke toward the portal I had made in the window, as if to send it outside through an imagined opening. "Just sex. Nothing memorable, actually. Well, maybe it was memorable -- for _them."_ She grinned slightly.

   I was not prepared to argue with her assessment.

   "Men are so clumsy and rough," she continued. "I mean, I like passion, but men often confuse it with brutality."

   I turned to look at her. "Brutality?"

   Phoebe rolled her head around to loosen the knots in her neck. "Not all men. Just some. It's like sex and brutality are somehow intertwined."

   "Did ... did someone hurt you, Phoebe?" I felt an odd flutter in the pit of my stomach.

   "I dated a guy once when I was twenty-five, and he was a little disappointed that I wouldn't give him a blow job. So he knocked me around for a few minutes, and then raped me." She thumped the ash in the pull-out ashtray at the back of the seat and took a long drag.

   I watched her, feeling angry and wounded. "Did you tell anyone ... call the police?"

   Phoebe snorted derisively. "Hell no. I was dating him. No one would have believed me. You know how it is. Date rape was not a common term then. I just moved."

   I wanted to reach out to her, but Phoebe seemed aloof, detached. Maybe, I thought, the wound had simply healed. A small part of me knew that was not true. "Steve doesn't treat you that way, does he?"

   Phoebe shot me a glance, indecipherable in the dimness. "He doesn't rape me, no. He just has a bad temper."

   "Has he ever hit you?"

   "Not yet."

   "What does that mean?"

   Phoebe leaned up to roll down the back window so she could discard the cigarette. Sitting back down beside me, she said, "It means he hasn't hit me, but under the right circumstances, he might. I haven't really had a lot of luck with men."

   "Maybe you're a lesbian."

   Phoebe shifted in the seat to study me. "Maybe."

   "What if you are?"

   "I won't take out an ad in your paper." -- and she laughed. "Jobeth..." Phoebe began pensively, running her fingers through her hair again, fluffing. "Do you realize that in all the twenty or so times we've made love here, you've never taken off your clothes?"

   _Oh, great. Here it comes. The old we-should-both-be-naked argument. Which story shall I use this time?_ "Phoebe, it's -- why does it matter?"

   Phoebe cocked her head, considering me with mild curiosity. "I just think it's odd, that's all. Don't you want me to touch you, too?"

   _Now, how do I answer that? Of course I want her to touch me, but I've had to learn to live without it because -- _"I like to be touched."

   "What sort of demons are _you_ running from?"

   I met her eyes through the darkness between us, unable to read their intention. "What?"

   "Something must have happened to make you so skittish about being naked."

   _Is there any reason why I can't tell her the truth? Well, I've been safe so far because I've kept my mouth shut, but then, Phoebe isn't like anyone I've ever met._ "I got caught in a compromising position once. I guess I'm gun shy." _Okay. Now what if she wants details? What will I say?_

   "I thought so." Phoebe took my spent Carlton from me and leaned over the seat to throw it out the window, even though the back window was within easy reach. She stayed in that position, gracing me with a nice view of her backside. "Steve asked the other day about all the cigarette butts in the drive."

   I could tell by her voice that she was smiling. "What did you tell him?"

   "I told him the paperboy throws them out the window when he delivers the paper." She grinned and turned slowly to look back at me, catching her bottom lip in her teeth.

   "Works for me," I said, taking in the view.

     * * * *

I pulled in my own driveway at three-thirty. I knew I still had an hour and a half before sunrise, and wanted to fill the thermos Phoebe had continually refused to take back. The night's lovemaking had tired me more than usual, and I needed a caffeine fix to stay awake in case something monumental occurred at Stacey's Salon. And tonight I finally had my camera, fresh from the repair shop. I stopped at the Circle K on sixty-third street for the coffee refill, and then headed toward the far end of Nichols Hills. I was pleased to have earned the route that served the affluent citizenry; it was much easier on the Falcon than those rural routes, and I didn't have to worry about being mugged. An added bonus was that if I had been assigned any other route, I would not have met Phoebe.

     * * * *

I parked the Falcon in the alley across the street and slid down in the seat. Checking that the film was loaded and ready, I laid the camera on the seat beside me and poured myself a cup of coffee from Phoebe's green thermos.

   Halfway through my second cup, I decided a little evidence-gathering was in order. Hanging the camera around my neck by its wide strap, I stepped quietly out of the car. I crossed the street, careful to blend with the shadows, and entered the alley beside the boutique; behind the structure I found the garbage cans. Smiling, I pulled the two full bags from the cans and started back to the car. Peeking around the corner, I pulled back when I saw a distinguished gentleman with short-cropped hair approaching the front door of the boutique. I lifted my camera and snapped a shot of him before he slipped inside. A teenaged boy came around the corner and went in soon afterward, and I hurried across the street with my treasures, sure that things were about to become a bit more interesting.

   Warming my coffee again, I kept an eye on the front of the shop while I opened one of the garbage bags. I pulled a pair of surgical gloves from a dispenser in the glove compartment, and put them on before reaching into the bag.

   Glancing up every few seconds, I began to wish I had a partner, so that I could look through the garbage without missing anything going on at the front door. It could be an advantage, I had to admit, but the bad outweighed the good on that one.

   Thirty-five minutes later the sound of the boutique door brought my attention away from the bags. The distinguished gentleman emerged and hurried into the darkness around the corner, his shirttail hanging loose, holding his coat in one hand. I snapped a shot of him before he got away. A tall, blond man opened the door and pulled another man out with him, gesturing angrily and pointing down the street. He looked like the same blond man that had been talking to Stacey that day. The man he was talking to seemed to sigh, shook his head, then turned and headed in the direction of the gentleman.

   The blond man lit a cigarette and remained outside the front door, agitated. I tried to get a close shot of him and decided it would be a better picture if I could move just outside the car. I pulled the cover off the interior light and pulled the bulb out. Then, quietly, I opened the door and kept my head down below the level of the front fender. Lifting the camera, I bumped the wheel well and the camera toppled to the pavement. The zoom lens separated from the body, and I stifled the curse that came instantly from my mouth. Picking it up, I could see that the lens was history, for the moment. I tossed the injured mechanism into the front seat and grabbed the regular lens, hurriedly screwing it on the body of the camera. Pushing the door almost closed, I took a position by the front of the Falcon again, peeking over the fender. He was still standing there, smoking the cigarette. I knew I would have to get much closer, now, for a clear shot. I waited until his back was turned, then carefully crept over to the blue mailbox at the corner, concealing myself behind it. It was still dark outside, but dawn was approaching with a luminous mist, and I was certain this would be the only chance I would have for such a clear picture of him.

   I leaned out from behind the mailbox and focused. His eyes swept over the area I was in, and then seemed to pause. _Click!_ He saw me then and threw his cigarette to the sidewalk, breaking into a sprint in my direction. The camera firmly in hand, I dashed down the walk and around the corner as fast as my tired legs would carry me. Rounding the building, I cut to the right across the main roadway into another alley and scrambled up the board fence and over.

   Landing in a trash can, I kicked free of it and continued down the adjacent alley. I could hear him behind me -- heard him climb the fence and continue the chase, cursing as he fell on the same trash can. Coming to a "T" in the alleyway, I found one exit blocked by a dumpster, and the other by a drainage ditch.

   I picked up a piece of concrete gravel and threw it hard toward the dumpster, producing a telling _thwang,_ then leapt feet first into the shallow water of the ditch. I stooped to enter the concrete culvert pipe and scurried through, pausing some thirty yards later, to listen for approaching steps. I waited, catching my breath and listening, until I was sure I had lost him.

   I imagined him pausing at the end of the alley, having heard the noise of the gravel against the dumpster, and stealthily raising the lid. I also imagined the grimace on his face when he lifted the lid and found only putrid garbage. He would no doubt assume that I jumped the fence. Men just can't imagine women doing things like jumping into watery ditches and scurrying through culverts. I used this narrow-mindedness to my advantage whenever possible.

   I navigated the concrete piping until I came to the end, which was blocked by a barbed wire fence. I climbed through the strands with some difficulty and found myself at eye-level with a yard full of farm machinery. I climbed out of the watery trench and paused by a John Deere tractor to survey the area. The grounds of the co-op were spacious, reminding me of a rodeo arena. The front fence was about a hundred yards across the grass in front of me. Heaving a sigh of relief, I patted the camera smugly and started for the far gate. Near the middle of the grounds, I heard a low growl that made me wish I had stayed inside the pipe.

   Turning slowly toward the sound, I saw him. A pit bull of the large killer variety emerged from one of the sheds and dipped his square black head low, baring a set of exceptional fangs. "Shhhhhhit," I whispered like a slowing steam engine, measuring the distance to the front gate. The phrase _from here to eternity_ erupted in my mind. I turned back to him, placating meekly, "Nice doggie -- "

   He lunged at me, and I broke into a run, making a beeline for the precious, distant gate. The dog caught the bottom of my jeans and swung me to the ground like sack of Idaho potatoes. From the feel of it, he intended to tear the fabric away first, then slice and dice my bare leg. I kicked him hard in the head and swung the camera. It caught him in the eye and he yelped at the thirty-five millimeter infliction, freeing me long enough so that I could struggle up and run again. The chase resumed and I stopped to swing at him again, missing as he ducked. _Where was an M-16 when you needed one?_ I wondered ruefully. He jumped and clamped his teeth onto my arm, the fangs piercing the layers of fabric. I growled back at him and knocked him in the head several more times with the camera. He closed his eyes, his teeth making contact with the skin below the flannel and thermal shirts, blood appearing on his head, but he didn't let go of my arm.

   I kicked him frantically in the ribs, but his mouth was a bear trap, and he jerked at the fabric savagely. Desperate, I began to drag him toward the fence. Looping the camera strap around my neck, I grabbed the chain-link, and placed the toe of my sneaker in one of the wire diamonds to pull myself up until the dog was dangling in the air. I could feel the excruciating tear of my skin each time he shook my arm, still mauling me from his place in mid-air. With one last swing of my free leg, I kicked him in the stomach, and the yelp this evoked opened his jaws enough so that I could wrench myself free as he fell to the ground.

   He recovered from his fall and vaulted toward me again, and I barely pulled myself up beyond his reach, struggled over the fence, to land with a breathless thud on the grass.

     Chapter 6

   I lay there, my lungs heaving, my arm aching as if I'd weathered an attack from a Baskerville hound. _And where is Sherlock when you need him?_

   I blinked to release the tears in my eyes and peered down at my arm; my sleeve was soaked red. By this time, the pit bull was snarling at me through the fence, biting at the wire, saliva dripping from his chin. "Drop dead, you sorry son-of-a-bitch," I told the dog. I took a bandanna from the side pocket of my sleeveless jacket and tied it tightly around the wound. _I can't go to the hospital. How would I explain what I was doing here in the first place?_ Groggy and a bit queasy from loss of blood, I began a painful trip back down the street to the car, keeping a tight hold on the camera and its now more treasured contents, watching for the blond man.

     * * * *

I had to drive in first gear all the way to Nichols Hills, and into Leatherwood Landing, since I could not lift my arm to manage the "three on the tree" of the Falcon. When I pulled into the drive, my digital watch glowed 5:04. I knew Steve was gone on a business trip, but I also knew that Phoebe would not be watching for me, since we had already had our backseat drill. I flashed the lights three times and waited, my head swirling. Minutes passed, and from the feel of my arm, I would not make it to another destination; I knew the wound was serious since there was such a profusion of blood while the arm itself was numb.

   I honked the horn once. The upstairs curtain parted, and Phoebe's head appeared. The curtains closed again, and seconds later the woman loped across the yard in her pajamas and got in.

   "What a treat. Did you -- " she began, but stopped when she felt something damp on the seat beneath her hand. She held her palm into the light and saw that the dampness was blood. Then she saw the way I leaned against the steering wheel, and noticed the condition of my sleeve. "Sweetie, are you -- What happened?"

   I whispered, "Pit bull."

   "Jesus H. Christ."

   "You said you were a nursing student before..." and I trailed off, unable to complete the sentence.

   "Let's get you inside." She reached for the door handle.

   "Is ... the coast still clear?"

   "He won't be back until next week."

   "How fortuitous..." I mumbled.

   Phoebe got out and came around to help me out of the car. "Come on." She told me to lean on her, and we hobbled into the house.

   Phoebe sat me down at the kitchen table just inside and switched on the overhead light, while I squinted at the invasion of brightness into my dark-adapted eyes. She went to the pantry and retrieved a large first aid kit. Taking the scissors, she cut away the bandanna and gently peeled back the assaulted sleeve to expose a jagged wound surrounded by punctures. "God, Jobeth, how did you manage to tangle with a pit bull?"

   "It was relatively simple, actually. I was on his turf." I winced as she examined the wound.

   Phoebe got up to run water into a bowl and came back to sponge the wound clean. "Does this have anything to do with your Dick Tracy stuff?"

   "Don't be silly," I cracked. "I merely delivered a paper late -- "

   "You're so full of shit. I hope you've learned a lesson."

   "Several," I agreed. "One of which is the fine art of Pit Bull Wrestling. How about a stiff drink?" I asked through clenched teeth.

   "First things first." Once the wound was sponged clean, it began to bleed freely again, and Phoebe put a compress on it, holding it firm. "Okay. You want to tell me what happened?"

   "Must I?" I squirmed, still too involved in my pain to look up at her.

   "Here," Phoebe took my hand and placed it over the bandage. "Hold this. I'll get us both a drink."

   She came back with a bottle of spiced rum, broke the seal, and poured us both a hefty shot. "Drink it."

   I was more than happy to oblige and emptied the shot glass in one gulp, making a face and shivering as it went down. "Phoebe, I'm sorry about this. I just didn't know where else to go."

   "The hospital was all full up, huh?"

   I gave her a weary glance. "No. The hospital would have had to fill out reports. I didn't want to take a chance. The last time I got hurt, I had a convincing story to explain my condition. I just couldn't think of anything this time."

   "So, you were doing something illegal?" Phoebe peeled the compress back to check my arm.

   "Not really. Not ... intentionally, anyway. Trespassing can be an honest mistake, you know."

   Phoebe gave me a knowing look and began to apply the triple antibiotic ointment. "You're going to need stitches."

   "Can't you do it?"

   Phoebe huffed. "Sewing was not my forte in nursing school."

   "I know what your forte is, and they don't give classes on it," I flirted, silently thanking the endorphins that were finally amassing around the crevasse on my forearm.

   "You're so funny, Jobeth." She studied the wound closely. "The best I can do is a bunch of butterfly bandages."

   I examined Phoebe intensely for perhaps the first time. She was prettier than I had realized. The soft white incandescent light of the kitchen served to enhance the high cheekbones and ash-blond hair. Her eyes were not blue, but green, I discovered. How many women had I been with in anything other than darkness? The darkness of bars, of bedrooms, of back seats.

   "What are you staring at, Ms. O'Brien?" Phoebe smiled.

   "A well-lit you, for once."

   She giggled. "Yes, I suppose we've only known each other in the dark, so to speak."

   I smiled back. "'And we love the darkness better than the light, because our deeds are evil,'" I quoted.

   "'But evil is wrought by want of thought, as well as want of heart,'" she quoted back, revealing pearly teeth. "How does it feel now?"

   "Hurts like hell."

   She prepared a fresh bandage and placed it over the gash, then began wrapping gauze around it gently. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

   "Nothing much to tell," I answered evasively. "I was on a stake-out and had to unexpectedly make myself scarce. My shortcut proved more potentially deadly than the person I was running from."

   "You're lucky that dog didn't eat you alive."

   "Don't be so critical. He did his best," I joked.

   Phoebe gave a half-laugh and secured the adhesive bandage to itself. "You are a handful, Jobeth O'Brien."

   I looked down at the bandage. "Or a mouthful, whichever the case may be."

   Phoebe got up and put the first aid kit on the counter. "Are you hungry? I could fix you something."

   "I don't think I'd have the strength to chew it," I admitted.

   "Then I'll get you a pain pill, and you can go upstairs and lie down for awhile."

   She returned shortly with a glass of water and the pill. "What is this?"

   "Darvon. It'll help with the pain and swelling." She lifted the back of her hand and pressed it to my forehead. "It'll help with that fever, too."

   "I have a fever?" I touched my face, and it felt normal to me.

   "Yes, you have a slight fever. That's another reason you will go lie down for a while." She pushed the glass of water across the table toward me. After swallowing the Darvon, I followed her through the doorway to the foyer, where an ornate, banistered stairway led away from the front entrance of the house to the upper floor. I held onto the mahogany handrail, and with a great deal of effort and some gentle assistance, allowed Phoebe to lead me to the top landing and into an adjacent bedroom. "This is the guest room. It's much more comfortable than the master bedroom, I think, because of the waterbed. Steve hates waterbeds..."

   My brain tried to reel in the direction of a scenario involving Phoebe and that waterbed, but I halted the excursion for fear that in my weakened condition, the power of the image would render me unconscious on the floor.

   Phoebe helped me over to the four-poster and pulled the Aztec comforter and matching sheet back. "There's a nightshirt in the bureau." She started for the door.

   "I'm pretty grungy, are you sure you want me to climb between these clean sheets?"

   Phoebe came back to me and leaned down, imparting a loving peck. "They'll wash. Get some rest."

   I watched her leave, more keenly aware of her natural beauty than ever before. When the door closed, I got the nightshirt out of the antique drawer and held it up to read the small lettering on the front. I USED TO BE SNOW WHITE, BUT I DRIFTED_,_ it said.

     * * * *

I woke up suddenly and looked at my watch. It was twelve o'clock. But noon or midnight? I wondered. When I tried to get up, there was a rather rude reminder of the condition of my right arm. I waited for the pain-dragon to ease back into his cave, then moved gingerly to the window. I parted the heavy drapes and was met by stark sunshine. "It's not midnight," I mumbled sourly. My stomach growled, and I removed the nightshirt carefully, and managed to pull on my jeans and button them with mostly one hand. One sleeve of my purple flannel shirt and the thermal shirt I had worn under it was shredded and darkened with dried blood, but it was all I had. I eased into the flannel shirt, wishing I had stayed in the nightshirt when I approached the formidable task of more buttons. I dutifully folded the nightshirt, placed it on the bed, and padded out the door and down the stairs.

   I found Phoebe leaning with one elbow on the kitchen table, that hand rubbing the back of her neck absently. As I moved closer, I saw the newspaper on the table in front of her and the cup of coffee cradled in her other hand. "I hope that's my paper you're reading," I said, approaching.

   Phoebe turned and smiled. "Morning, sleepy head. Of course it's your paper. I thought it was high time I actually read one."

   I took a seat across from her. "Oh, Steve reads it?"

   "No. I took out a subscription hoping the paperboy would be cute and innocent so I could take advantage of him." She took a sip of coffee, her eyes dancing.

   "You're not serious."

   She turned the page. "Yes, I am."

   "So you've been toying with me all along." I shook my head.

   "Not necessarily. I was disappointed when I found out my paperboy was a girl, remember?"

   I grinned collusively. "Are you still disappointed?"

   "Don't ask questions you know the answers to, lover."

   I chuckled. It felt so good to be here with her. It was almost like we were ... friends ... "Is there any more of that great coffee?"

   Phoebe pointed to the coffee-maker. "Help yourself."

   I pushed away from the table and took a hand-thrown stoneware mug from the small tree on the counter, pouring left-handed with a measure of clumsiness. "I don't have to drink it out of a thermos anymore, do I?"

   "Not unless you just prefer it." Phoebe turned another page and continued to read.

   I joined her again at the table. "You always drink coffee this late in the day?"

   "I only got up an hour ago, myself."

   "Oh." I blew on the coffee and took a cautious sip. "You seem a little different -- "

   She looked up. "Different, how?"

   I absorbed a second impression of the kitchen, with its tiled, warm blue-teal countertops, and white accents, its Indian pottery and lacquered blond wooden flooring. "I don't know. Civilized."

   "Back seats don't breed civility, dearest."

   "Truer words were never uttered," I laughed, indulging in a thorough survey of her face. "God, you're beautiful," I heard myself say.

   Phoebe explored my eyes boldly, her lips pulling into a serene smile. "Funny, I was just thinking about how adorable you are by the light of day. How's the arm?"

   I stifled a blush. "I had a good nurse. It's better. Thanks."

   "No problem. Actually, I'm glad you came to me." She pushed the paper to the side. "Makes me feel needed."

   "You are needed, Phoebe."

   Phoebe moistened her lips thoughtfully. "Are you able to chew yet?"

   "If not, I'm perfectly willing to suck it through a straw. You have a blender, don't you?"

   Chuckling, Phoebe got up, moved to the opposite end of the elongated kitchen, and began to prepare breakfast, humming some tune I did not recognize. I watched her move about the room, studied her mannerisms and the graceful way she handled the culinary implements. I'd only been aware of a tiny portion of a subtle sensuality she possessed; it was odd to recognize this fact after I'd been so intimate with her. It was like biting into a donut, totally content with the glazing, and then discovering that it was filled with vanilla cream.

   Phoebe wore a pink cotton nightshirt, much like the one I had changed out of. She made it look just as sexy as those silk shirts she wore when dashing out to the Falcon to meet me. The nightshirt she wore now came to just past her knees, and I could see the smooth curve of her legs below it. I watched the muscles in her calves flex and relax with each movement and tried to match the skin my hands had touched with the skin my eyes were now seeing; the connection sent an unexpected shiver up my spine. This was a woman who exercised frequently.

   "Are you staring at me, Jobeth?" Phoebe asked softly, her back to me as she turned the bacon.

   I felt another uncharacteristic flood of crimson fly to my face. "How did you know?"

   "I felt your eyes caressing me."

   "Guilty as charged," I confessed. "What sport do you play?"

   "You mean besides backseat aerobics?" Phoebe turned off the flame and took the bacon from the pan, glancing over her shoulder briefly at me, and placing the strips onto a paper towel. "Racquetball, usually. At the country club. How do you like your eggs?"

   "Sunny side up, and crisp around the edges."

   She nodded and began to break eggs into the pan.

   I imagined what Phoebe would look like in a pair of those spandex shorts and a tank top, with sweat at her temples. "I play racquetball, too."

   "Great. We'll play sometime."

   That was like having a wrapped Christmas present waved under your nose, and being told you have to wait weeks to open it. I wondered how long it would take my arm to heal so that I could hold a racquet. And when I was available, would Phoebe be free to run off with me to the country club for a game? I scoured the room for signs of a husband. There was nothing to suggest that the influence of this room was anything but feminine. "When did you say Steve was coming back?"

   Phoebe turned around and leaned against the counter. "Are you getting nervous about it?"

   "No. I just ... I thought it might be a good idea for me to be long gone before he gets here."

   "Why? There's nothing suspicious about two women spending time together. I'd just tell him I met you at the club."

   "I don't think I fit the profile," I said, indicating my bloody, torn flannel shirt and faded 501's.

   "Don't be ridiculous. Not everyone at the club is as stuffy as you think. But it's a moot point anyway. His trip will last until next Sunday."

   "You're sure?"

   "Positive." She paused to absorb my derisive expression before turning back to the eggs. "It's not like in the movies, where the husband arrives early and catches the wife in bed with someone else."

   My skin was tingling all over. "If you say so."

   She ran the spatula around the pan, probably loosening the edges of white around the yolks. "When the cat's away, the mice will play, now won't they?"

   "These will, I'm hoping."

   Phoebe gave that throaty laugh and dipped the crackling eggs from the pan onto a plate and added the bacon and toast. She brought the plate over to me, and I began to eat immediately, surprised by the fierceness of my hunger. Through a mouthful I said, "I have to go through the trash in my car. I could go home to do it, or you could offer the back driveway. I'd clean up after myself, of course."

   Phoebe sat down opposite me. "You can clean out your car some other time, can't you? You need to rest that arm."

   I swallowed, shaking my head. "This trash is very special. I have to sort through it today."

   "You sort your trash?"

   I knew it would be slightly awkward to explain the treasures that one finds in the trash. Treasures like letters, receipts, and other forms of concrete evidence. "It's a fine art and a recognized science." I shoveled a forkful of eggs into my mouth. "It's called Garbology." Phoebe lifted one eyebrow. "Never mind."

   Phoebe shrugged. "The driveway is yours, my sweet, even though I don't know why the hell you're sorting trash."

   I decided to keep it simple. "Evidence."

   "Oh, I see. Well, have at it."

     * * * *

Moments later, I had cleaned the plate with the last bite of toast, and Phoebe was refilling both of our coffee cups. My eyes wandered to the orange and red and yellow leaves waltzing in the wind just outside the bay window.

   "Now that we've slept, and eaten, and had some coffee, you can tell me what happened last night -- or this morning."

   "I told you."

   "What are you hiding?"

   "Why so suspicious?" I tried to find some ulterior motive in Phoebe's face.

   "I'm not. I'm just interested."

   I took a sip of coffee and added more creamer from the bowl on the table, happy that Phoebe preferred her creamer powdered like I did. "You never seemed to take it seriously before."

   "After you dragged in here this morning with half your arm torn off, I decided there must be more to it than I realized."

   "Well, that's true enough." I tapped the spoon dry over the rim of the cup and placed it on the table.

   "So tell me." She said, peering over the rim of her cup as she took a sip. "Unless you think you can't trust me."

   I wondered if I was being baited or if Phoebe really wanted to know. One thing was for sure, the woman certainly had taken good care of me. "I was trying to get some pictures of the people I'm after. I worked on this case last year, and it got nasty. After I got over my injuries, I just sort of picked up where I left off."

   She turned the cup around and held it in both hands. "Oh, this isn't the first time you've been hurt."

   "Not by a long shot."

   "Why do you keep doing it?"

   "The glamour."

   Phoebe picked up my plate and took it to the sink, splashing it with a blast from the faucet. "How did you get away from the pit bull?" she asked, taking a seat across from me again.

   "I hit him with my camera, dragged him to the fence, pulled him up in the air, and kicked him until he let go."

   She arched an eyebrow sardonically. "Sounds like what I'd like to do to the IRS." I laughed as she went on. "Jesus. I hope you at least got the pictures you wanted."

   "Yep. That is if I didn't break the camera on the dog's head and expose the film."

   Phoebe looked at my sleeve. "I think you're in the market for a new shirt." She shook her head at the torn areas that framed my bandage. "So what's your next move with this case you're working on?"

   "Well, I got the trash from their cans while I was staking them out. I need to go through it. Maybe I'll find something in there to go on."

   "Where's the camera?"

   "In the car. I need to take the film to the Fotomat."

   "Well, I'm going into town later. Do you want me to do it for you?"

   She seemed quick to help, and I wondered for an instant if her motives were pure.

   Phoebe rolled her eyes. "Jobeth, you're looking at me like I'm in cahoots with the bad guys. What's your problem?"

   "I just ... trust doesn't come easy for me."

   "For me either." Phoebe turned the cup in her hands.

   "Something is different, Phoeb' ... you're treating me differently..."

   "I guess I am." She took a drink of coffee and sighed. "I used to think you were just a young woman who had an adventurous spirit, and was very good at making me feel great. But I see now that I've underestimated you. I want to get to know the real Jobeth O'Brien. I mean, I think -- I've grown to care for you very deeply."

   I leaned back slowly. I wasn't sure if I wanted to continue this conversation. "What are you saying, Phoebe? That you're falling in love with me?"

   "I don't know. The dynamics of love have changed for me lately. But I do know I care about you." She captured my hand in hers across the table; it was warm from holding the mug. "And I want you to stay here while Steve is away ... if you want to."

   We studied each other, questioning silently. Finally, I rubbed her hand with my thumb. "I'd like that."

     Chapter 7

   I went back to the trailer to get some clothes and a few things I'd need in order to stay at Phoebe's for a few days. I found a notice taped to the front door from my landlady. If I didn't produce the back-rent within three days, she would serve me with an eviction notice. I took the note inside and tossed it on the bar. After spending time in the "McMasters Manor" my trailer seemed squalid and pathetic. But it was the only home I had and I was about to lose it if I didn't come up with the money. There was no cash in my foreseeable future, since I had just put new tires on the Falcon. I would simply have to go see Ms. Pemberton and beg for mercy.

   I packed a small bag and called Phoebe to say I had to take care of personal business before I came back over.

     * * * *

I rang the bell and studied the door harp as I waited. Porsha Pemberton opened the door and smiled. "Well. Ms. O'Brien. You're very punctual. I only left that notice a few hours ago."

   I cleared my throat, preparing to do battle with Medusa. "I was hoping we could have a chat about the back-rent."

   Porsha stepped back to let me enter. "You needn't feel awkward, Ms. O'Brien," she said, securing the door with a shlink of the deadbolt. "We're both adults, and I'm sure we can come to a mutually satisfying agreement."

   I shot her a glance and sat down on the mauve Chippendale sofa. Porsha struck a pose and raked me with her eyes, taking in the stone-washed 501's and the pink button-down shirt I wore. The long sleeves hid the bandage on my arm, which was just as well, since I didn't care to explain it.

   "I've just made coffee. Would you care for some?"

   "Please," I agreed. It would give me time to fashion a convincing request for clemency. As the woman moved into the kitchen, I took a deep breath and released it slowly, aware of the sensuality that Ms. Pemberton was trying, quite successfully, to convey. "Oh, boy..." I sighed.

   Seconds later, Porsha returned with the silver tray and poured for us both, handing an elegant white cup and saucer to me. "Do you like cream?"

   I was afraid to look at her; afraid there would be snakes in her hair, and I'd be turned to stone. "Yes." After pouring the white liquid into my cup, I settled myself on the matching sofa opposite her. She held her cup and saucer in the palm of her hand and crossed one shapely leg over the other. The black pump on her foot began to sway lightly from side to side. I caught her eyes and smiled innocently, having a sip of the fresh ground coffee.

   "Now then. What sort of arrangement did you have in mind?"

   I fought back my reaction to the innuendoes that had been present in each sentence uttered by this woman since I came to the door, and instead, I took another steadying breath. "It looks as though my finances are ... a bit strained. I'd like to be honest about it. You see, I had to buy tires for my car, since my job requires a good deal of driving."

   "What sort of work do you do?"

   _Great. I hate this question._ There's no way to legitimize a career of throwing things in people's driveways from a moving car. "I have a paper route."

   She pursed her lips. "Quaint."

   I resisted the urge to toss my coffee in her face. "I was wondering if maybe you and I could work something out."

   A grin slithered onto Porsha's lips only briefly before she took a sip of her coffee. "Perhaps."

   I knew I could probably float a loan from Phoebe, but it just didn't feel like an option. "I'd like to settle it by putting up some collateral."

   "What sort of collateral is that, Ms. O'Brien?" She sat with her back straight, as if the sofa would not support her weight.

   "I thought I would give you the title to my car until I can pay you the back-rent, if that would be okay." I sat back against the sofa and sipped my coffee.

   "Your car?"

   "The Falcon, yes."

   "Now what would I do with that silly thing?"

   "You may not care for the car, Ms. Pemberton, but it is worth the amount I owe you. If I default, you would have the title and could sell it at current market value, and I would of course vacate the property so that you could rent it again."

   Porsha placed her cup and saucer on the glass table and considered me with a thoughtful sigh. Again, her eyes trailed over me, and her tongue painted moisture across her upper lip. "I've an idea. I haven't had dinner yet. Why don't you prepare dinner for me at your place, and we'll discuss it further?"

   A frown tickled my brow and was gone. "Dinner? You want to come over for dinner?"

   "Why not? I have no other social engagements this evening, and we really must settle this problem as soon as possible."

   I shifted slightly, resting the cup securely in the saucer for fear I'd drop it. "What do you want?"

   "Pardon?"

   "For dinner."

   "Oh," she smiled victoriously. "Any old thing will be fine."

   I took a final drink of coffee and stood. "Okay. I'll expect you around seven?"

   "Fabulous." Porsha rose and I set my cup down across from hers. She went to the door to show me out. "I'll look forward to it," she murmured.

   I cleared my throat and smiled. "Good-bye, Ms. Pemberton."

   Porsha leaned on the door. "Porsha. Call me Porsha."

   I smiled again. "Porsha." I followed the cobblestone walkway to the Falcon and got in, pausing to stare at the condo. "Well, this should be interesting," I told myself as I put the key in the ignition.

   By seven, I had turned the oven temperature to warm and opened the oven door a few inches so that the chicken wouldn't overcook. The stuffing and broccoli were in covered dishes on the table, the breadsticks in a glass at the CENTER. I opened the raspberry wine and poured myself a glass, hoping the alcohol would numb the pain in my arm from the exertion of lifting pans. I lit a cigarette and tried to predict what might happen.

   The doorbell rang, and I took a quick gulp of the wine before I went to let Porsha in.

   A disarming smile greeted me, and Porsha handed me a bottle in a gold sack. "I brought wine." She saw the half-empty glass in my hand. "I see I made the right choice."

   "Thank you." I accepted the bottle and went to put it in the refrigerator.

   "It smells wonderful, Jobeth."

   "Thank you again," I nodded once. "I have a bottle open already. Would you like some?"

   "Yes, please."

   The small talk kept us busy over dinner. Porsha obligingly asked about the paper-throwing business, and I managed to get her to admit that she was not exceedingly wealthy, just a bit pretentious.

   Amid numerous displays of innuendo from Porsha, we finished the raspberry wine with the meal and adjourned to the living room. Which, in my trailer, was a trip of about ten feet. I lit a cigarette, and Porsha reached and took it from me. "Thank you," she said casually.

   I lit another one and sank into the sofa at one end, opposite Porsha. "So, would you like me to get that title now?"

   Porsha waved the offer away with a pink fingernailed hand. "Let's not worry about that. I had an exhausting day. Let's talk about you."

   I shifted. "What about me?"

   "I'm aware of your ... shall we say -- lifestyle -- and I wanted you to know that I'm not offended by it, nor would it keep me from renting to you."

   "That's refreshing." I imagined how many times she must have seen women coming home with me and leaving early the next morning. I know there were less than discreet kisses on the way from the Falcon to the front door.

   "One might even say that I accept it," she was saying. "I think that whatever two consenting adults do in private is their own business."

   I inhaled deeply on the cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. "Would you like me to open the other bottle?"

   "Actually, I'd like to take a quick shower, if you don't mind."

   "What?" My head began to swim, and I wondered if I could conceivably blame the wine.

   "I didn't have a chance to take one after you left, and I really would like to freshen up. You don't mind, do you? I mean, it's just us girls, right?"

   I answered numbly, "Feel free."

   Porsha got up and went into the bathroom, and I heard the door close.

   I went into the kitchen and opened the other wine bottle, against my better judgement. _What was this woman up to?_ I knew the answer as quickly as I had the thought. "I'm being seduced," I said aloud. The question was, did I want to be seduced? Whether I had an answer to that one or not, I still could not deny the thumping in my chest. Porsha was a very attractive woman, and I had entertained thoughts of what it would be like with her. But I had never considered it as a real possibility until tonight. I downed the wine and went into my bedroom where the bath was located.

   Staring at the door, I considered the situation with mixed emotions. If this thing was going to progress into a roll in the hay, how would I be able to face Phoebe again? Did I have a commitment with her or not? Was I still a freebird, or had Phoebe clipped my wings?

   I heard Porsha turn off the shower. If I couldn't go through with it, I'd know in the next few minutes. I turned to go back to the living room as I didn't want her to find me standing there, gawking at the bathroom door like a schoolgirl. The door opened, and a short moment later, Porsha called to me. "Jobeth ... could you come in here a moment?"

   _Was she in the bedroom?_

   I made the trip down the hall, passing the empty bathroom, fraught with steam. I stepped through the door and turned to see Porsha standing demurely in a rather skimpy towel; there were larger towels, and the one she had around her was in fact the one I used to dry my hands. It barely covered the important parts.

   "I feel much better, now," she said, a childlike grin upon her lips.

   I swallowed hard, not at all prepared for the scene before me. Porsha was holding the towel clenched at her chest just below the swell of her breasts, so that I had a clear view of a rather formidable cleavage. She crossed casually to the bed and sat down, patting on the comforter beside her in invitation to me. "Come sit."

   I obeyed dumbly, telling myself that sitting on the bed did not obligate me to go any further. I realized that in all my days as a womanizer, I had never been seduced. I had always started and finished every tryst. Cross-legged on the bed facing the woman, I studied her salt and pepper hair, her hazel eyes, her lips; I waited for Porsha to make the next move, as if I didn't know what that move would be.

   Porsha Pemberton smiled awkwardly. "I guess we both know what's happening."

   I reached for the cigarettes in the breast pocket of my oversized lavender shirt and lit one. "Do we?"

   "I know you must think I'm ... I've never done this before, I swear to you."

   "You're a virgin, huh?" _This might actually be entertaining._

   She laughed. "Hardly. I mean I've never been with ... a woman."

   "Are you sure you want to be?"

   She chuckled softly. "I seem to be sitting on your bed in a towel..."

   "I noticed that."

   The woman sighed and looked around the dim room, the glow from the street lamp outside caressing the walls. "I've gotten us as far as the bed ... now, I seem to be a player without a play book -- "

   I took the pack of cigarettes from my pocket again and offered her one, which she took gladly, as if afraid for her hands to be empty. "So, you expect me to take over at this point?"

   Porsha put the lighter back in my hand, capturing my fingers lightly. "I was hoping you would."

   "Porsha, I'm very flattered and very tempted by your offer, but I'm ... I'm involved with someone right now and I don't think I can -- "

   The kiss came swiftly as Porsha swooped over and captured my lips. I was still trying to recall what the rest of my sentence was supposed to be, and was too shocked to resist. Porsha broke the kiss, took my cigarette from me, and put both of them in the ashtray on the dresser. She sat back down and pushed me back upon the waterbed, a wild look in her eyes. "If you didn't intend for this to happen, then why did you come in here?"

   I winced at the pain as my arm flopped against the bedspread, and merely stuttered that I had made a mistake, that I didn't know what her intentions were, that --

   "I want to devour you, Ms. O'Brien!" Porsha was saying, tearing at my shirt, the buttons popping off as she forced the fabric free of constraint. She kissed my chest, and sat up, straddling my legs, effectively pinning me to the bed. The towel fell away from her naked body, as she released the buttons of my jeans. "I've waited too long, darling girl. I've got to know what the secret is. I know you can teach me -- "

   "Porsha, you don't understand, I -- "

   "No, I don't, but you're going to help me understand, aren't you?" She had released all the buttons and had her fingers under the bottom of my sports bra.

   I seized the woman's frenzied hands. "Porsha, listen to me. I -- " The woman broke free and jerked my bra up and over, exposing my breasts, falling with her face between them, soon drawing an erect nipple into her hungry mouth. My libido screamed _Stop!_ but my body shouted _More!_ in an involuntary surge of primal lust. I was being devoured by this once haughty, dignified woman suddenly transformed into a sexual monster. My images of Medusa were slipping back into my mind's eye. I saw the escape route growing dimmer and knew that there was only one way to salvage my dignity. In one swift, rough movement, I pushed the woman over and pinned her on the sloshing bed with my own body, my uninjured left hand darting between Porsha's thighs, invading her with two fingers.

   Porsha sucked in her breath and whined, arching to meet my pushing hand. I tried not to put a lot of weight on my right arm, sort of balancing on the elbow. As she opened to me, I added a finger at a time until there were four nestled inside her. Seconds later, I was astonished as the woman's body opened and swallowed my hand whole; I felt like Jonah on his way into the stomach of the whale. Porsha writhed, moaned, growled, and worked herself to climax, her female muscles chewing on my hand, until I was sure that the small bones were breaking.

   As suddenly as it had begun, it ceased, and I released a lung full of dry air, waiting. Porsha was motionless beneath me.

   I tried to focus on the woman's face. Her eyes were closed, her features pleasant and relaxed. "Porsha?" The steady rise and fall of the woman's chest indicated the situation. She had passed out.

   I wriggled my hand carefully, trying not to rouse her as I pulled my aching hand from the still-undulating muscles inside the woman. Free at last, I heaved a sigh of relief and tried to move my aching fingers. I decided to just make a getaway while I could. I would have to escape from my own trailer and stay away until the woman woke up and went home.

   I had never experienced such frantic, violent sex. I understood now that there was a very real difference between passion and what I had been through tonight.

   Careful not to make a sound, I carried my aching right arm aloft, buttoned my jeans with my newly-accosted left hand with some difficulty, and watched for the wound from the pit bull to start bleeding again. I grabbed another shirt and my keys on the way out.

     * * * *

I pulled into Phoebe's back drive and entered through the kitchen. I called to her but got no answer. My first action was to wash both hands in the sink, and then search the cabinets for the rum, which I found above the refrigerator. I took it down and indulged my jagged nerves.

   Once the liquor kicked in, I started up the stairs to look for Phoebe. When I entered the guest room, I heard the shower. Relieved, I went back downstairs and onto the patio to tackle the bags of garbage from the boutique. I had sifted through the two trash bags, finding nothing of value, and plopped on the sofa to collect my thoughts about Porsha and brood over my lack of new evidence in the case.

   Phoebe strolled in, her hair wet from a shower, wearing a skimpy pink terry-cloth robe. I couldn't help but flash back to that event in my trailer an hour ago. She greeted me with a large smile and joined me on the sofa.

   "You should take a shower, Jobeth. I feel so much better. It's the next best thing to an actual nap when you're tired."

   "I will a little later." I sat back up abruptly when the program in my brain hit a loop and reminded me of other problems. "I completely forgot! I've got to find someone to do my route. There's no way I can drive and throw papers with my arm like this." I looked down at the bandage, which had grown dark with blood in one spot.

   "What did you do to your arm? It's bleeding again."

   I tried to look surprised. "I don't know. I must have hurt it lifting those trash bags and cleaning up the patio_." That was good. A clever way of diverting her attention._

   "I could have helped you clean the patio, Jobeth. Why didn't you come get me?"

   "I did, but you were in the shower." There I was: smack in the middle of that subroutine of lies that weren't really lies.

   Phoebe nodded toward the end table. "Phone's right there. I'll go get the first aid kit while you make your call."

   I punched in the numbers on the keypad of the French-style telephone. I asked for the circulation department and explained my predicament to my supervisor. He informed me that the only carrier familiar with my route was on vacation. I told him I'd find a way to get the papers delivered anyway and replaced the ornamental receiver in its elevated, golden prongs, scooting back into the cushions again to stare into the barren fireplace.

   Phoebe returned with the kit. "Everything worked out?"

   "No. There's no one available to sub for me. I'll just have to do it, that's all."

   "You said yourself that you can't throw papers with this arm." She began to cut through the soiled bandage.

   "I don't have a choice. It's my job. The only one that pays the rent at the moment." _And the one that gets me into no-win situations._ I knew I was in a different kind of danger now. Either Porsha would pursue a continuation of the arrangement she thought she had made, and evict me if I said no, or she would be satisfied and give me a break. Or --

   "You always have a choice, J-Bo."

   "What?"

   "I'll go with you, and we can take my car." She squeezed the ointment from the tube onto my wound and placed a gauze pad over it. "It's automatic, so you can drive with one arm while I throw the papers."

   I considered this. "Are you sure you want to be outside in the middle of the night with both windows down, going forty-five miles per hour past eighty-seven houses?"

   "I could use a little more variety in my life ... except for pit bulls, that is." She finished wrapping my arm and pulled a sofa pillow into her lap and leaned back, stretching her feet in my direction.

   I shook my head and grinned. "Okay, but I can't promise that you'll enjoy yourself." I wrapped a hand around one of her bare feet. "You might freeze."

   "We can always come back and light a fire. I haven't used that fireplace in a long time. Besides, I enjoy being with you, J-Bo. It doesn't matter what we're doing."

   I noticed the new nickname and chose to ignore the warm feeling it gave me. "That's a switch. I thought our relationship was pretty cut and dried."

   Phoebe tossed the white ruffled pillow at me. "If that's what you think, you haven't been paying attention."

   _It wouldn't be the first time,_ I admitted mentally, my thoughts straying back to that morning when I woke up and noticed the octagons on my kitchen floor, then naturally forward to the fiasco with Porsha. Not so long ago, women had been within the confines of my control. "How has our ... relationship changed?"

   Phoebe took a wistful breath. "Let's just say we've evolved."

   "Evolved. Whatever. This evolution has made me forgetful. I can't believe I almost forgot my route."

   She ran her fingers through her hair and smiled disarmingly. I didn't miss the open sensuality of it. "Well, you've had other things on your mind."

   I'm glad she didn't know that I had also had a lot of things on my body. A lot of warm, sweaty, frantic things. "Phoebe ... you've said you wanted to get to know the real me, and that we've _evolved_ ... but do you mean you don't want ... that you want our relationship to be platonic?"

   A sly smile spread over her lips. "I don't know. Do you think we can go back to that, now?"

   I conjured an image of all the nights in the back seat of the Falcon and sighed dramatically. "I guess not."

   Phoebe moved closer to me and touched my left hand. "How's your battle wound?"

   She was trying to avoid touching the sore part on my right arm, but she didn't realize that my hand was sore, too, and I was not about to impart the information. "It hurts."

   "So you've lost the use of your right arm, huh?" She leaned over and kissed my neck, brushing her lips ever-so-slightly against the sensitive skin there. "Have I told you how adorable you are in the light of day?" She murmured in my ear.

   My heart thumped wildly in my chest. "What do you have in mind?"

   Phoebe reached for the top button of my Levi's, but her movements were stilled simultaneously by my hand and the harsh ring of the phone. "Oh," Phoebe teased, putting a palm to her cheek and feigning distress. "The phone is ringing -- "

   My head fell back against the sofa in frustration, as Phoebe sprawled shamelessly across my lap to answer it. "Hello? ... Who are you with? ... No, I don't think I'd be interested ... No, I'm sorry, I..."

   I recognized her responses and knew there was some telemarketer giving a spiel about something that Phoebe just had to write a check for. As the one-sided conversation continued, I looked down at the lovely backside in my lap, covered only by the short terry robe. Smirking, I laid my hand on the back of the woman's thigh and moved it slowly upward. I stopped when Phoebe twisted to give me a half-hearted warning glance. The conversation continued, and my hand began to travel upward again, caressing the soft mound of her buttocks. Phoebe's tone became strained as she made a valiant effort to hide the sensations I was evoking in her. "I give to charity regularly -- " she was saying. "I appreciate your call, but I was about to have sex." She terminated the conversation quickly and turned over, pressing her lips to mine in a kiss of acceptance. "I hate telemarketers," she informed me. "Now, where were we?"

     Chapter 8

   My eyes snapped open abruptly, and I was immediately aware of Phoebe's body next to me on the sofa. I checked my watch. "Phoebe, wake up. We have to go do my route."

   The woman stirred, her hand travelling sleepily up my arm to smooth my cheek. "What time is it?"

   "Midnight."

   Phoebe opened her eyes and peered up at me. "We must have overdone it a bit. I was hoping we could get up and go sleep in an actual bed this time."

   "I think we're working our way to the bedroom." I recalled the scene hours before of Phoebe sitting on the sofa, her head tossed against the back cushions in ecstasy as I explored her now-familiar secrets with practiced ease. I remembered the way Phoebe had hauled me back up to the couch and tried to undress me. I had only allowed her access to my torso, soon distracting the woman with my searching hands, until I once again had control over the lovemaking. Phoebe had openly accepted my ability to take her through a series of climaxes, until she collapsed atop me and drifted into a gratified slumber.

   Phoebe pushed herself up and moved toward the stairs, naked, as I enjoyed the view. _God, what a woman!_ As Phoebe's flawless, lithe figure disappeared around the corner, I wondered how long I would be able to distract her from that growing need to have me unclothed and vulnerable. The thought was arousing, but tempered with an old apprehension. _Phoebe would be the first to have me that way since ... _ I cleansed the memory from my mind with a deep breath and began to search for my Reeboks.

     * * * *

I heaved the last bundle of newspapers onto a blanket covering the hood of the cranberry-colored Cadillac, lamenting the weakness of my left arm, and the uselessness of my right. "Okay. Now the fun begins. We get to roll all these puppies."

   Phoebe shook her head. "I never realized what paper delivery entailed. My only frame of reference was the mysterious car that pulled into my drive in the middle of the night and tossed a nicely bound paper on the ground."

   I dug a penknife out of my pocket and began cutting the strings on each bundle. "Oh, I wouldn't say that's your _only_ frame of reference, Phoeb'." I bobbed my eyebrows meaningfully.

   Phoebe released a breath that ended with an amused sound as she breathed back in. "Well, okay, I mean before I started to rendezvous with you every night."

   I showed her how to fold and band each paper, and left her to it as I went to fill the thermos inside the Shell travel mart where my papers were dropped off each night.

   Forty-five minutes later, the rolled papers were loaded into the back seat with several in the front seat between us, and with another thermos refill, we were on our way to Nichols Hills.

     * * * *

The weather report promised calm winds, but the temperature was expected to drop below forty degrees. Phoebe turned off the radio and began to pour us both some pre-creamed coffee. "How long does it take to do this route?"

   I took the Styrofoam cup from her. "It depends on two whethers: whether the weather is bad or not, and whether your throwing arm is in sync."

   "Uh oh. We're going to be here all night. I've never thrown a paper in my life." Phoebe sipped the creamy coffee, careful not to spill it as I turned into Nichols Hills.

   "You've played softball before, haven't you?"

   "When I was about twenty-five -- what was that? About ten years ago? God. Anyway, I played on a city league."

   Mmmm. That's another sport we have in common. "Well, it's pretty much the same. You just have to keep your eye on the target. Okay, put that coffee in the holder. You have a throw coming up."

   Phoebe obeyed, picking up the paper and waiting.

   I cleared my throat curtly. "Uh, Phoeb', you have to roll the window down -- "

   Phoebe huffed at her own shortsightedness, pulling back on the button that lowered the glass and grunting at the cold blast of air that struck her in the face. "Jesus, that's cold," her voice strained.

   "See that driveway on the right up there? The one with the horse on the mailbox?"

   "Yeah."

   "Put that paper in it."

   "In the mailbox?"

   I snorted. "In the driveway!"

   "Aren't you -- "

   "Throw it! Throw it!" I shouted.

   Phoebe flung it out the window and turned to watch it land in the ditch, as I braked to a stop.

   "There's this wonderful thing called timing, Phoeb'."

   "Well, for Pete's sake, you were going too fast."

   I laughed. "If I slowed down, we'd be at this all night. I was only doing forty-five."

   "Forty-five! Good grief, how do you expect me to hit that tiny little driveway at that speed?"

   I put the Caddy in reverse and backed to the driveway.

   "Can you hit it, now?" I asked smartly.

   Phoebe whacked my shoulder with the paper on her back swing before tossing it on the pavement. "You need a spanking."

   "It will have to wait until _dawn_ when we're through," I retorted.

     * * * *

By four that morning, Phoebe had thrown enough papers so that she could hit the last few driveways while I drove by at forty miles per hour. "How's that, smarty-pants?"

   "Pretty good. All it takes is practice."

   "Can I roll up the window now?" She reached over and pressed her cold hand on my cheek.

   "Yes! Yes! Put some glass in that hole! Your hands are ice-cold!"

   "Tell me about it," Phoebe agreed, pushing the button that whirred the glass up, and turning up the heater.

   I pulled onto Interstate 35 to complete the circle back to the beginning of the route at Leatherwood Landing. After a few moments of holding her hands over the heater vent, I eased off the ramp and onto Rockwell Boulevard, and Phoebe slithered over next to me and began to plant kisses on my neck. The Caddy drifted momentarily toward the shoulder of the road, before I steered back into the lane. "Phoebe -- " I protested. "Phoebe, I'm trying to drive here -- "

   Phoebe glided a hand over my breast and down one thigh, still kissing my neck. "I can't ... Phoebe, I can't drive when you do that." I tried not to let my eyes drift closed with the pleasure I was experiencing.

   Phoebe leaned away from me. "Then pull over."

   I glanced at her suspiciously. "You're not thinking what I think you're thinking -- "

   "Guess," she challenged. "We've done it in your car a bunch of times. My car is getting jealous."

   "But Phoebe, what about the 'fine, Corinthian leather'?" I said in my best Fernando Lamas voice.

   "It's Scotch-guarded."

   I checked for traffic in the rearview mirror and noted our location, as Phoebe continued to touch me solicitously. "Phoebe, we're almost to your house. Can't you wait?"

   In answer, she reached over and turned off the ignition, pulling the keys out and tossing them over the back seat.

   My foot went immediately to the brake, my arm tensing to control the loss of power steering. "What the hell -- " I guided the vehicle to the roadside carefully, the Caddy easing to a stop as Phoebe leaned across my lap and began to kiss me urgently. I tried to object again, but knew that my resistance was fading fast. Phoebe pushed and pulled until my head was flat on the seat by the steering wheel, and grated her body up the length of mine as if I was a slicer -- Phoebe, a hunk of pepper cheese. Phoebe lay still when we were face to face.

   "Lady, you are an absolute maniac."

   Phoebe chuckled in the same manner she had the night I first made love to her. "Maniacs need love, too." She dropped a hand over my shoulder to the electric buttons on the side of the seat. Amid a whirring sound, we crept away from the steering wheel. Phoebe shifted to the side by the steering wheel, then, and stroked my thigh, her left hand sliding easily upward. I tried to stop her, but she grabbed my wrist and pinned my left arm firmly over the drop at the front of the seat. Her palm cupped the mound between my thighs, pressing and rubbing through my jeans.

   A potent charge surged upward in my chest, the shock of it inciting a quickening in my heart. The onslaught of response was startling to me, and I tried to wriggle free, but could not escape the hold Phoebe had on me. I had not felt such a purely electrical Eros since I came out to my best friend at sixteen, and wound up under a sleeping bag with her in a tree-house.

   Phoebe continued to massage me there, intimately, deliberately, until I had to toss my head back to open an airway. She released my wrist and opened several buttons on my shirt, slipping her right hand inside and covering my breast with a surprisingly warm hand, her arm successfully constraining across my torso. She moved her palm in circles over the nipple as her other hand continued to stimulate me below.

   Swiftly, a great torrent of searing heat gushed through my veins in a thousand different directions, and I was held steadfastly in a fist that soon liquefied and billowed in and out of me. The sensation seemed eternal, and I could only allow it to continue, mindless and weak. I felt like the ocean; like an legion of tentacles were filling my bones, writhing, pulsing.

   Then, as swiftly as the feeling had filled me, it ebbed away, leaving me limp and throbbing.

   Phoebe placed a hand at my jaw and stared at my face.

   "J-Bo?"

   I opened my eyes dizzily, then closed them again, a huge tear emerging from the corner of my eye and falling, mingling with the small beads of sweat at my temple; she pressed her palm there. "Oh, baby ... are you okay?"

   I sighed wearily and let my eyes focus on the lovely face that hovered over me in the dim light. My mind began to reel with questions, fearful puzzles that were foreign and frightful.

   "Jobeth, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

   I wrapped my arms around the woman and pulled her close. I wanted to sink into Phoebe and just lie there. "You didn't -- " I swallowed. "You didn't do anything wrong. I'm just not used to having my walls demolished."

   Phoebe leaned back to regard me. "Was it so bad to let go for a few minutes?"

   I reached up and stroked the hair away from her face, holding it against the back of her head so that I could view the features that I had grown so fond of. "I'm afraid this is a new feeling for me, Phoebe. I've never experienced anything like that before."

   Headlights flashed over the roof lining as a car swept past us, but Phoebe didn't take her eyes from mine. "That was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." She touched my cheek softly. "I understand, now, why you always want to be in control. It's such a magnificent experience to bring such pleasure to another woman."

   I smiled lightly. "It's more than that. By being in control, I wasn't vulnerable. I could have the pleasure of giving pleasure, and not open myself up to be hurt."

   Phoebe leaned down against me. "Oh, baby, I'd never hurt you. You should know that by now."

   "I have to believe that. If I don't, I'm afraid I'd turn tail and run."

   Phoebe hugged me as if she was trying to sink into me. "Don't run, Jobeth. Please don't run."

     Chapter 9

   When we stepped inside, Phoebe hung our coats in the foyer closet and strode across the Southwestern-style rug to the bottom of the stairs. She turned and sat on the lower steps, watching me move toward her uncertainly. "I want you to come upstairs with me, J-Bo."

   My eyes followed the mahogany banister up to the top landing, then back down, to the woman perched upon the step waiting for my answer. "I should go home."

   "Why? What's changed?"

   I made an incredulous face. "Everything."

   Phoebe leaned back, her elbows propped on a carpeted step. "The only thing that's changed is that you felt something you didn't expect to feel. Are you afraid of it?" Phoebe did not wait for the answer; I'm sure it was there in my eyes. "Jobeth, nothing ever stays the same. If someone had told me months ago, that I would meet a charming young woman who made me feel the things you do, I'd never have believed it. But here we are. I cherish the passion you've given back to me. I cherish the laughter. I cherish you most of all. You're not a distraction to me anymore. You've become ... you mean so much to me. I'll never be able to put it into words."

   I toyed with the bandage on my arm, it's original whiteness sullied with newsprint. This was not a situation I had rehearsed before. I was a stranger in a strange land. "For the first time in my life, I don't know what to say to a woman ... a promise was broken tonight."

   Phoebe sat up again. "What promise?"

   "The one I made to myself. The one about how I'd never let a woman tame me."

   The smile that seeped onto her face along with a deep breath was compassionate, serene, filled with understanding. I suddenly felt so unworthy of her.

   "I told you before, I don't want to tame you. I like you wild."

   A quick puff of air escaped my lips, a half-laugh that didn't quite make it out.

   "I want you to come upstairs ... and get in my bed ... so that I can make love to you."

   I met her eyes. This emotion could cripple me, and I knew it. "I don't know what to say -- "

   Her whisper came so clearly that her lips might have been beside my ear. "Say yes."

   I sighed, rubbing the toe of my Reebok on the rug, remembering that mad rush of pleasure Phoebe had made me feel moments ago in the front seat of the Caddy. That little voice in my head, that libido dictator, was stomping his feet and shouting at me, but his voice was fading. I swallowed and stepped forward to take her hand.

     * * * *

Phoebe closed the bedroom door behind us, and watched me release the Velcro of my high-top sneakers, kick them away, and stare at the bed as if it were some sort of altar and I were the sacrificial virgin. She moved up behind me and encircled me with her arms, her chin on my shoulder. "You're trembling."

   "I know."

   "Do you remember how I trembled that first night?"

   _How could I forget?_ "Yes."

   "How did it make you feel?"

   I swallowed, trying to moisten my parched throat. "It made me feel like I could do anything, and it would be right."

   "That's how I feel right now, J-Bo. You have made love to me countless times, and yet, I've never made love to you -- not the way I want to. I know it's not meant to be that way. Especially after what happened tonight. I know there's more."

   I turned to face her. "There is. I just haven't been able to share it with anyone."

   Phoebe kissed me. "Share it with me, J-Bo." She leaned to kiss me again, and without intention, I responded. When we broke the kiss, Phoebe's hands went to the top button of my shirt, and she unfastened all the buttons until the shirt was open. I closed my eyes and swallowed, willing my tenuous knees to support me. Phoebe grasped the lapels of the shirt and lifted it off my shoulders, down my arms, and dropped it to the floor, revealing my black sports bra. Her hands came to rest on my chest, caressing their way over both shoulders. "Your body looks so strong." I took another tremulous breath and removed Phoebe's shirt in kind, to reveal a lacey white bra. Phoebe freed the buttons of my Levi's and pushed them down with her hands against the back of my legs.

   She was squatted below me as I stepped out of the jeans and lifted each foot so that she could remove the socks; I felt very much the child, being undressed by the mother, and the feeling was altogether warm and soothing, yet laced with a sensuality that had nothing to do with maternal things. Phoebe rocked up to her knees, resting her cheek against my stomach, her hands pressing the small of my back. Finally she stood, removing her own socks and jeans, then stepped into my embrace. We kissed, and I relished the feel of skin against skin. It was like being intimate while occupying a strange body.

   Phoebe turned to sit on the bed, still holding my hand. "Come on, J-Bo. Let me love you."

   I fell back with her in a fresh embrace, our hands exploring. We undressed one another completely, and lay naked in each other's arms. I again fell prey to the sensations that welled in me as I pressed my skin to Phoebe's. It was beyond all imagining, to give like this. Phoebe took her time trailing kisses over my neck and chest, her hands caressing me all over. My body shook until I thought I would explode. She kissed my breasts and began to move downward.

   I tensed as Phoebe's lips found my tender place, and that swelling of passion I had felt earlier began to return, swirling, ebullient, engulfing. Phoebe moaned in the pleasure of her discovery and easily found a magic technique of her own.

     Chapter 10

   I awoke in Phoebe's waterbed completely naked and smiled as a review of the night before ran through my mind. I tried to push myself up, forgetting about my arm. "Damn!" I spat, cradling the arm and peering about the immaculate room for a sign of Phoebe. Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I noticed the pale pink envelope leaning against the hand-thrown clay lamp on the nightstand. "J-Bo" was written in script on the outside. Opening it, I read the elegant script of Phoebe's hand on the hot pink page.

   _Good morning, lover-baby -- how did you sleep? The hot tub is heated up just for you. Keep the arm away from the water, though. I'll change the bandage when I get back. I've gone to run errands in town. I will bring you something. Relax and enjoy._

   _P.S. Last night was fabulous. I'm looking forward to an encore. Maybe I am a Lesbian, huh?_

   I sighed and tossed the note on the nightstand. Last night had indeed been fabulous. I had let Phoebe get close, though I swore I'd never do that with any woman. Yet, there was a strange sense of peace nestled deep inside me. My days of always being in control of sexual matters were drawing to a close. Last night I had broken my own sacred commandment and discovered there were new worlds involved. New sensations. New opportunities -- to get hurt.

   I pushed the last negative thought from my mind in favor of the hot tub which bubbled in the master bath, awaiting my weary muscles.

   I switched on the light and took in the view. Inside and to the left was the hot tub, charcoal gray alabaster with bright pink flowers on the shelf lining the wall behind it. The sink was two seashell gray basins, the towels pink to match the flowers. The luxurious carpet was a mixture of the two colors. The room made me feel special and safe.

   Stepping into the tub, I sank slowly, moaning in pleasure at the feel of the hot, swirling water against my skin. I could almost feel it seeping into my muscles. I found the button to engage the jets along the inside of the tub.

   On the ledge of the sunken alabaster tub was a crystal pitcher of orange juice. A yellow Post-it note informed me that it was good for me and that I needed to drink it. I obliged, happily pouring myself a full glass.

   A full thirty minutes later, Phoebe swept into the bathroom carrying a large plastic sack full of things. She grinned and came over to the tub's edge, lighting a cigarette and having a seat. Phoebe pressed a button on the inside edge of the tub and the jets ceased. "You look so cute floating around in my tub," she cracked.

   "Yeah?"

   "Yeah." She held her cigarette still, the smoke spiraling up toward the subdued lamp in the ceiling.

   I noticed the large tortoise-shell spectacles perched on her nose. "I didn't know you wore glasses."

   "Only to drive and sometimes to read -- " She paused. "Do they look silly?" She made a quick movement to take them off, but I stilled her with an upraised hand.

   "Don't. I like them. They're very sexy."

   "Oh." She took the liberty of looking me over as I lounged in the water. "You have a sleek, almost leonine look about you. This is only the second time I've seen it in bright light..."

   I cleared my throat and shifted on the tub seat.

   "You're not still hiding that sweet little body of yours after last night, are you?"

   Had the water not been hot, the dash of crimson, which landed on my face, would have given me away. "Phoebe -- " I sat up, my good arm covering my breasts.

   "Why, Jobeth O'Brien, I do believe you're embarrassed."

   "No, I'm not. I'm just not shameless like you."

   "You're full of it. You're still uncomfortable being naked in front of me."

   "I'm not uncomfortable!" I insisted.

   She took a contemplative draw on the cigarette, thumping a long ash into the marble ashtray on the tub ledge. "I have yet to figure out why someone like you, who plays my body like a violin, can be so uncomfortable being naked in front of the violin."

   I glanced up at her flashing green eyes and could stand it no longer. "If I do have a problem with it, you're making it worse. Give me that towel. I'm getting out."

   Phoebe snubbed out the cigarette in the marble tray and picked up the huge pink towel at the end of the tub. "This towel?" she asked innocently, holding it up in the air.

   "That towel," I reaffirmed.

   Phoebe tossed it to the other side of the room. "That towel is out of reach, my love."

   I settled back into the water and scowled. "You are toying with me -- " I punched the buttons to activate the water jets again.

   "Of course." Phoebe turned the jets off again. "And I also have the upper hand. Either you admit that you're still uncomfortable being naked in front of me, or you prove me wrong by getting out of there and going after that towel."

   I sighed and shook my head. "Filthy billiards."

   "Is that like 'dirty pool'?" she inquired, smug.

   "Yes. But more suited to a woman of your stature."

   "Oh, ha. You're stalling. What's the verdict?"

   "What's wrong with you? You got brain damage?" I tried not to smile, but was unsuccessful.

   Phoebe sang teasingly, "Stalling -- "

   "What about _that_ towel?" I pointed behind Phoebe. When she turned to look, I grabbed her shirt and pulled her into the tub, climbing out and dashing across the carpet. As I secured the length of the towel around myself, I watched Phoebe emerge from the water sputtering, pushing her long hair away from her eyes, and fishing her glasses out of the water to place them on the ledge.

   "You're going to pay dearly for that one -- " she threatened, climbing out of the tub and walking slowly toward me, advancing as if she were some creature from the Black Lagoon.

   "Now who has the upper hand?" I quizzed smartly.

   Phoebe continued to slosh in my direction, a comical death-promise on her face.

   I lifted my arm in a desperate effort to escape punishment. "I'm handicapped -- " Seeing that my excuse would not suffice, I turned and sprinted into the bedroom, too late to beat Phoebe to the door. Phoebe closed it and probably would have locked it for effect had there been a deadbolt.

   I backed toward the bed, giggling. "Now, Phoebe. Temper, temper!"

   Phoebe pushed me down on the bed and straddled me, pinning my good arm, gently but firmly.

   "Oh dear," I feigned alarm. "What are you going to do to me?"

   "Beg my forgiveness, naughty girl."

   I laughed. "In a pig's eye!" I rebelled.

   "Beg my forgiveness or I'll hurt your arm." Phoebe lifted interlocked fingers in a double fist and pretended to pound my injury.

   "Okay! I beg your forgiveness!"

   Phoebe considered this, then requested a change. "Say, 'I beg your forgiveness, Love Goddess Phoebe.'"

   "Oh, please!" I snickered.

   Phoebe raised her doubled fist again in warning.

   "Okay!" I giggled. "I beg your forgiveness ... Slime Goddess Phoebe -- " I misquoted.

   A wild, exaggerated expression appeared on her face as she pretended to pound on the arm again.

   "Love Goddess! Love Goddess!" I shouted.

   Phoebe lifted her fists and shook them above her head in a victory sign.

   "Are you satisfied?"

   Phoebe fell atop me, her lips against my ear, whispering, "A Love Goddess is never satisfied, only aroused."

   I could not stifle the chill which traversed my spine, settling in that secret place Phoebe had recently uncovered. The feel of Phoebe's warm breath against my ear, and the buzz of her sultry voice made me ache. I pulled her over for a kiss.

   Seconds later, wet clothes and a towel meshed in a haphazard fashion upon the floor, as we climbed between the sheets and shared one another again.

     * * * *

I was just beyond the reach of consciousness when I heard the sound, distant and vague, much like a morning alarm clock from another room which carried no reason to its racket.

   The slamming door did, however, jar me rudely from my slumber, and I was joined immediately in the waking world by Phoebe, who sat up abruptly.

   "Steve -- " Phoebe rasped, horrified.

   "I guess I caught you at a bad time," he said, still holding the suitcase, and allowing the scene he had just walked in on to soak into his shocked brain.

   I focused on his face as he stood there, the sleep fading from my mind, and realized it was him -- the blond man at the boutique.

   Steve studied my face then, and clenched his jaw, forcing a wild emotion into remission. Through clenched teeth he said, "I'll be downstairs." He dropped the suitcase and walked out.

   Phoebe sat with her face in her hands upon bent knees, chanting, "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God..."

   I touched her shoulder with a firm hand. "Phoebe, get a grip -- "

   "He'll kill me. He'll kill you. He'll kill us both. He wasn't supposed to be home for days. You don't know his temper like I do ... he might be able to handle catching me with another man, but with a woman? He'll kill us both -- "

   "Phoebe, stop it. He won't hurt either of us."

   Phoebe stared at me as if I had just stepped off a flying saucer. "Are you blind? My husband just caught me in bed with a woman -- "

   "Phoebe, I have pictures of him that he doesn't want made public."

   "Pictures? What -- "

   "That film that I took the night the pit bull attacked me, remember?"

   The woman stared at me blankly. "I don't ... what are you talking about?"

   I got up and pulled on my jeans and T-shirt, glancing at the window. It didn't have a screen on it; I could probably escape without a scratch. _What am I thinking?_ My mind began to argue. _I can't run off and leave Phoebe in this mess ... Why not? I've done it before ... Yes, but not to Phoebe._ I moved toward the window and looked out into the back driveway, where Phoebe and I had met so many nights ... where we had fogged the windows of the Falcon. "You need to know something right now."

   Phoebe was pulling on a pink terrycloth robe, pushing her hair away from her face, and trying to calm herself. "What? What pictures?"

   "Phoebe, he's the one I've been staking out. He's the one who chased me the other night when I was attacked by the pit bull."

   Phoebe stared at me, as I hovering there by the window. "He's involved in something illegal."

   "Yes."

   "Why didn't you say anything?"

   I moved toward her entreatingly. "Phoebe, I swear to God, I didn't know the guy I was taking pictures of was your husband until a few minutes ago when he walked in. I mean, you don't have any family portraits around the house ... How could I have known? I didn't; I swear it."

   Phoebe turned to look at the suitcase Steve had dropped by the door. "Does he know you took the pictures? Does he know who you are?"

   "I think that's a fair assumption. Otherwise, he would have made a big scene just now. He knows I have photos of him. That's why he was chasing me the other night. He caught me at it." _Just open the window ... just a crack, in case you have to use it_, the tape recorder in my head parroted.

   Phoebe pressed a hand to her forehead. "What are we going to do?"

   I sighed and turned to touch the window frame. "I'm gonna go down and talk to him."

   "No. He'll hurt you."

   "I don't think so. He thinks I'm holding all the cards right now."

   "Are you?"

   "Not exactly..." I saw the fright reappear in Phoebe's eyes. "I don't have enough evidence to actually put him in jail ... I mean it's all circumstantial, but ... but he doesn't know that, and maybe I can fool him."

   She pressed her hands together over her nose, closing her eyes. I thought she might have been praying to the saint of I'm-in-a-pickle, if such a saint existed. "Okay, so let's go get it over with."

   "I think you should stay up here. Both of us may be too much -- "

   "Nevertheless, it's my house, my husband, and I'm by-God going with you." She readjusted the belt on her robe.

   I could see that there would be no swaying her decision. "Okay. But let me do the talking."

   "Fine. I'll just stand off to the side and make sure he doesn't kill you."

   I shoved my feet quickly into my socks, and Phoebe followed me to the door, where she touched my arm to halt me. "Jobeth ... do you really care for me?"

   I looked into those deep green eyes. "If you don't know the answer to that, you haven't been paying attention." I had an immediate sense of doom at the first answer that popped into my head. Luckily, I was able to water it down enough so that I could live with it.

   I detoured at the foyer to retrieve an important item from my coat in the closet, concealing it quickly and heading for the living room.

     Chapter 11

   When we came into the living room, he was standing with his back against the mantle, smoking a cigarette.

   I crossed to the wingback chair and sat down, lighting a cigarette from the pack I had carried with me. "So, Steve -- " I began carefully, coldly. "What happens next?"

   He glared at me. "You tell me."

   "Ball's in your court, Bub'." I took a long drag and blew the smoke in his direction.

   He made a short move toward me, his lip curling in a fashion that reminded me of the pit-bull I had encountered two nights ago. Phoebe stepped closer to my chair, and Steve stood still again. He squashed the cigarette into the ashtray on the mantle. "I suppose you think you have the upper hand."

   I couldn't help but glance back at Phoebe after that particular phrase, but I doubt she was thinking about our playfulness in the bathroom earlier that day. She was standing beside my chair with her hand on the high back. I turned back to him. "Funny thing about the upper hand, Steve. It can be so unreliable ... that's why I made sure all my interesting little tidbits of information were distributed to several trusted friends and associates. If anything should happen to me, or to Phoebe, you'd have the cops all over you."

   Steve fidgeted and thrust his hands in his pockets. "Who hired you?"

   "Mother Goose," I answered evasively.

   He kicked the delicate end table so hard, that it flipped and clattered to the floor, smashing the vase of flowers that had been sitting upon it.

   I leaned forward to put out my cigarette in the coffee table ashtray. "Phoebe told me about your temper. I thought she was exaggerating."

   He stepped forward again, his fists clenched, and Phoebe moved to the side of my chair in a protective gesture.

   "Ah, ah -- " I warned. "Don't add assault and battery to the long list I have already. It really is amazing, what one can find in someone else's trash."

   Phoebe almost missed Steve's glare, as she looked down at me, the value of Garbology now very clear. I saw her readjust the belt of her robe with renewed faith in me.

   Steve swallowed something that appeared to be bile. "Looks like there'll be a divorce, soon -- How could you do this to your own husband, Phoebe?" He tried to sound sincere.

   "You've never been a husband to me, Steven. Our marriage was a farce from the beginning, and you know it. As for what I supposedly did to you: you did this to yourself."

   "Steve..." I saw an opportunity to tie things up in a neat little package. "You'd better give me all your information on Stacey Cartwright. I know all about that fake hair salon. I got the pictures of the underage boys going in and out at all hours. I also have the information on the blackmail operation. One of your more distinguished clients has been cooperating with me for months. We're not talking about jaywalking, here. This newest part is just gravy. I mean, you being a pimp, and all -- "

   He stepped closer and thrust his forefinger toward Phoebe. "You'll be in the poorhouse, you bitch! Any judge in the world would see to that after he hears about your _unnatural_ acts with this little dyke. You won't get a fuckin' dime in the settlement!"

   Phoebe laid a hand on my shoulder, and I could feel the woman trembling. "Who'd believe you?" I pointed out smoothly. "You're the only witness. The judge that will be handling your case is a personal friend of mine. I'm like the daughter he never had."

   Steve shoved his hands in his pockets again and blinked convulsively. "My father will -- "

   Phoebe interrupted, "Your father won't lift a finger to help you, Steven. I know he cut you off a long time ago. I'm not blind or stupid." As he absorbed this, she continued. "Your father is a lot of things, but he's not a criminal. I think he'll understand the divorce."

   Steve turned his back and lit another cigarette, fussing with a trinket on the mantle. "You won't get a dime," he mumbled again.

   "I don't want your dimes, Steve. I have money of my own, remember? The house is in my name, too, so don't get any bright ideas about that. Why do you think I asked for that little legality as a wedding gift?"

   I was impressed. Not only did Phoebe have looks and personality, but she was also shrewd.

   "Well, you may as well have this, too!" he said, going to the desk across the room and pulling out the drawer, his back to us both.

   I growled, "How'd you like some lead in your back?"

   Slowly he turned his head to verify the presence of the thirty-eight that I had trained on him.

   "I really wish you'd put that back in the drawer, Steve," I said smartly.

   He sighed, but obeyed, dropping the revolver in the drawer and slamming it closed again. He turned to finish his cigarette, its ash burning down quickly, just like his time as a free man.

   "You want me to call the police, Jobeth?"

   I didn't answer for a long moment. "No," I said at length.

   Steve jerked his head over at me, and Phoebe asked, "Why not?"

   "Because I'd rather make a deal."

   Steve frowned. "What deal?"

   "You give Phoebe a quiet, uncontested divorce, citing irreconcilable differences, and then you disappear. For good. In return, I'll forget to mention your part in the operation. We want Stacey anyway."

   He picked up a small brass dolphin from the mantle, and I wondered if he was planning to throw it at me. "Why should I?"

   I smirked. "Don't be a nitwit, Steve. It's either that, or go to jail."

   "I ... need some time." He replaced the dolphin with an audible _thunk._

   "Sorry, your time's up. And you seem to be out of dimes, too." I chuckled. "Does Phoebe make that call, or do you get me that information on Stacey, and then go get your bag and start over somewhere else?"

   Steve sighed angrily. "I'll get the stuff, dammit."

   "I'll help you," I said, standing with the gun still trained on him.

   The two of us went upstairs, and I made sure to keep far enough away from him so that he couldn't disarm me. I hated it when those TV detectives gave the crook every opportunity to get the gun. I would not be that stupid. When we returned, Steve had the same suitcase in his hand, and I was carrying another file folder, retrieved from his briefcase. He cast a ominous glare at Phoebe before he walked out.

   Phoebe kept her eyes on the door as it closed behind her hopefully-soon-to-be-ex-husband, as if expecting him to open it again and step back inside with a new deal of his own. A few moments passed, as I went back into the living room. I picked up the scattered pieces of the vase Steve had shattered and placed them on the table, contemplating the situation I had just created. The bluff had been successful, but it wouldn't hold up to much scrutiny if Steve tried to check it out. I had to think of a way to protect Phoebe if that happened.

   Phoebe came over and dropped to her knees in front of me, putting her arms around me, her cheek on my thighs. "Is this going to work?" She lifted her head to look at me.

   "I sure hope so." I pointed the revolver at Phoebe's temple, and she looked up at me, frozen for an instant until I pulled the trigger and released a stream of water from the end which struck Phoebe's temple and drained down her neck.

   Phoebe collapsed onto my lap and released a lung full of air. "You ass."

   I grinned, squirted water into my mouth, and patted Phoebe on the head.

     * * * *

Later, I retrieved the file I had hidden in the fake floorboard of the Falcon and showed it to Phoebe, relating the entire story over herbal tea at the kitchen table. The file that Steve added would fill in the missing details, and I was anxious to go through it. I had opened it briefly when Steve handed it over, just to reassure myself that it was about Stacey. The first page was a list of clients.

   Phoebe was distracted with the knowledge that Steve had been involved in a brothel, and relieved that Steve had been denying her his sexual attentions of late. "I think he married me for my money."

   I opened the file as if it were the unveiling of a winning lottery ticket. "Well, at least he's out of your life."

   "I wish I could trust in that, but I'm scared. What if he tries to pull a fast one?"

   I moved the first page aside. I could feel myself going numb. I moved the second page. The third. I looked up at her. "He already has."

   "What?" She set her cup down, fishing the little tag out of the tea, and dropping it so that it stuck to the outside of the cup.

   It was all slipping away. "Where's my camera?"

   Phoebe thought for a moment. "Oh, I put it in the foyer on that table."

   A list of clients, right enough. Hair care clients. Invoices for boxes of shampoo and conditioner and combs and hairdryers. Those pictures might be my last hope.

   I rounded the corner and wondered why Phoebe would put the camera by the front door. Why the front door? If Steve hadn't been so blinded by testosterone poisoning, he would've seen it. I hope he was blinded ... I could see the table -- the empty table. "Psssst!"

   Ah! I felt relief flooding me ... for an instant, I could just see her standing behind me, smiling, holding the camera --

   Steve. He was standing there, a satisfied smirk on his lips, his fingers on the release button at the back of the Nikon. Reflexively, I lunged for it, and he jerked it away like a schoolboy with a pilfered bow from a little girl's hair. I heard the telling click, and watched helplessly as he pulled the canister out, ripping the used film from its sprockets. He held the camera at arm's length toward me, grinning coldly. As I reached for it, he opened his hand and let it drop to the floor.

   "You son-of-a -- "

   "Ah, ah -- " he mocked. "We wouldn't want to add assault and battery to the long list." Watching me, he began to pull the unused film out of the canister. When it was all out, he threw it at me. "Now that I have the upper hand, let me tell you something, you little pervert. The only reason my wife is rubbin' up against you, is because she wasn't woman enough to handle a real man, so she had to go and get second best ... but maybe I'm giving you too much credit."

   I tried to swallow my anger, but it wouldn't go down. "That's funny, she told me you couldn't keep it up long enough to do anything -- "

   He stepped forward and struck me hard on the cheek, and the blow put me into the small table, knocking it and me into the floor. He stood over me as I shook my head clear. "You think you've won, but you haven't. You can have her. She's a whore."

   I came up off the floor with my hands clenched in a double fist and brought them up into his groin. He grunted, doubling over, and I got to my feet just as Phoebe hurried into the foyer shouting, "You bastard!"

   I lifted a hand toward her. "Phoebe, don't -- "

   Steve's hands closed around the bandage on my arm, and he wrenched it savagely. I cried out, and his fist caught me at the temple, sending me to the floor with a heavy thud. Through the fog of tears and pain, I looked up at the revolver in Phoebe's hand. _It's a water gun, Phoebe, remember? What if he calls your bluff?_ my mind groaned. I heard him laugh and move toward Phoebe. I heard a shot. Then the room spun and went black.

     Chapter 12

   "J-Bo? Baby? Can you hear me?"

   _An angel. That's what it is ... an angel. An angel?_ The image floated above my face, surreal, shrouded in gossamer. A searing pain brought me awake, and the ephemeral beauty took on the reality of green eyes, rimmed with a swelling of red, and a brow pinched by plaintive concern.

   I winced and swallowed, my head pounding like the night I woke up on my kitchen floor. I recalled the shot that rang out just before I lost consciousness and tried to focus on the area around us.

   "He's gone," she said, her voice trembling.

   "You ... killed him?"

   Phoebe caressed my forehead, her breath ragged, her eyes beginning to tear up again. "No. I killed the coat rack." An abrupt laugh broke from her lips. "But he got the message. He's gone."

   There was no love lost between me and Steve, but I was relieved to know that there hadn't been a murder. "Are you okay?" I made a move to get up but felt the ghost of the pit bull pulling at my flesh. I cursed and looked at my arm. Phoebe had wrapped a towel around it to stop the new bleeding that Steve's merciless grip had caused.

   "Don't move, baby, please. I'm so sorry, J-Bo ... When I saw him hit you, I thought ... I wanted to kill him ... I'm so sorry I've put you in the middle of this." A huge tear spilled over onto her cheek and she laid her forehead on my chest.

   I reached up with my good arm and patted her. "It's not your fault, Phoebe." Against her pleas, I pushed myself up into a sitting position, reaching to feel the tender swollen area at my temple. "Help me up."

   Phoebe got me to my feet, and we went back to the kitchen. "I've never seen him like that. I knew he had a temper, but I didn't know he was capable of such violence."

   "It's a male ego thing, Phoeb'. I'm afraid I punched him where it hurt more than once."

   She snarled. "That was the only part I saw that gave me pleasure."

     * * * *

I sat at the table, and Phoebe pulled a chair around to sit next to me. "How do you feel?"

   I squinted at her. "Like the last time I sat bleeding in your kitchen."

   While Phoebe got the first aid kit, I removed the towel from my arm and started to peel the bandage away. "Phoebe, where did you get that gun? I thought it was the water pistol until I heard the shot."

   "I sneaked through the back hall and got it out of the desk after I saw him knock you down." She sat down with a bowl and sponge, and took over the unwrapping. "I fully intended to blow his head off." She discarded the soiled bandage. She was still a moment, probably fantasizing about being a better shot. Then she almost grinned. "I heard what you said about ... about him not being able to get it up."

   "I just made that up to get his goat."

   "It's sort of ... true."

   I chuckled. "Ooo. No wonder he got so hot."

   She put the towel under my arm and bathed the wound, her features serious again. "I'm really scared, now. He may try something else. He may try to hurt you again. I think we really should call the police this time."

   The warm water passed over and through the newly-opened wound, and I gritted my teeth. "It wouldn't do any good. I don't have diddly-shit on him, now. I've got to start completely over."

   Phoebe stopped sponging. "Jobeth, no. Please tell me you're not going to keep this up. It's getting way too dangerous."

   "It's too late to stop now. Do you want to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder? Trust me, it's not a pleasant way to live."

   Phoebe leaned back. "And what are you running from?"

   I moistened my lips, then wiped them dry with a hand. "Everyone is running from something, Phoebe."

   "What's that? 'The Meaning of Life' as told by Jobeth O'Brien?"

   "Maybe," I answered, my eyes holding Phoebe's steadily.

   Phoebe put salve on the wound and re-wrapped it with fresh gauze, her eyes darting up to mine at frequent intervals. I suggested she have all the locks changed, and she said she'd have a locksmith come out first thing in the morning.

   When she had finished with my bandage, she stood up. "I'm going to build a fire. Why don't you get us a drink and join me?" She turned and started for the living room without waiting for a reply.

     * * * *

Moments later, I settled beside Phoebe on the sofa, and handed her a goblet of Beaujolais. I took the Motrin in my hand and prayed for quick relief.

   "Are you okay, Phoeb'?"

   Phoebe swiveled her head from it's resting place in the palm of her propped hand, her eyes fluttering over my face. "I should be asking you that question."

   I shrugged. "I'll survive."

   "You always do, don't you?"

   I frowned at her.

   "I didn't mean that in a catty way. I just mean that you're the survivor-type. I know that, even though I don't know much about your past."

   "I just think the past belongs in the past, that's all."

   "What if the past is important for the future?"

   I paused with the goblet at my lips. "Meaning?" I took a long drink.

   Phoebe looked down into her wine and swirled it around methodically."You know, you're not the only one with secrets."

   I laughed, happy for the diversion. "Like what?"

   "This conversation will go no further until you can guarantee equal trade."

   "How do I know what's equal, if I don't know what your biggest secret is?"

   Phoebe unfolded her legs from beneath her and moved over to the fireplace, placing her wine on the hearth. "You don't. I guess you have to decide whether you trust me or not." She began to load logs onto the grate.

   This was starting to disturb me. Phoebe was not her usual cheerful self, and I knew it wasn't because of what had happened with Steve. She was upset with me; and almost sullen. "I do trust you, Phoebe, but -- "

   She turned abruptly with a log in her hands. "There are no buts. Either you trust me or you don't. I'm not trying to pry anything out of you. I just want you to decide whether, at this point, you trust me or not." She turned to place the log atop the others and reached for the fireplace matches encased in the brass holder.

   I felt cornered. There was no way to skirt the issue without making it worse. This was a Screaming-Ugly that refused to go away. "Do you trust _me?"_ I asked.

   "Yes." She struck the match and held it over the gas pipe, turning the handle slowly until the flames caught along its length. She blew out the match and tossed it into the flame, retrieving her wine and watching the flames catch.

   I got up and moved over to her. "Why?"

   She looked at me blankly. "Why do I trust you?"

   I nodded.

   She took a sip of wine and watched the flames again. "Because I need to."

   Putting my head down, I raked my fingers through my hair, pulling it up on top and patting it back down again. I glanced up at her, willing the words to come, but I could not seem to form them in my mind. What was I supposed to say? What did she want to hear? Even if I knew the answer to that, I wasn't certain that I wanted to tell her something that wasn't entirely true. And what was entirely true, now? Did I want her to trust me? "I guess I want to be worthy of that trust," I heard myself say.

   She cocked her head to one side. "And aren't you?"

   I looked at that lovely face, so open, so warm. "Probably not," I said and downed the rest of my wine.

     * * * *

The sun had gone down, and by lamplight, Phoebe leafed through an Organic Gardening magazine, which I found a bizarre thing to do in late October. I alternated between watching her and watching the flames leap around the logs on the grate. Every now and then, I would get up and jab at the wood with a poker. Somehow, it was not what I had envisioned for our first time in front of the fireplace. I felt Phoebe shutting me out, and I knew it wasn't just a game she was playing. I didn't think she was that sort of person. It was more like my own guilt creeping in. We were at an impasse in our relationship, and I was standing at the fork in the road, scratching my head and agonizing over the decision. I deserved to be shut out.

   "Phoebe -- "

   She looked up at me as the doorbell rang. I waved her away so she could get the door. From my place by the fire I could hear faint voices, but could only identify Phoebe's. Momentarily, Phoebe came back in the room, and as I turned, I came face to face with Porsha Pemberton. I know my eyes must have looked like they were about to pop out. I couldn't even muster a greeting.

   "Ms. O'Brien, I'm glad I found you. Your brother told me where you were."

   Phoebe lifted her eyebrows in my direction.

   "My brother?"

   "Yes, he was looking for you, too. I wanted to speak to you about our little agreement."

   I forgot all about the brother-thing, as my heart leaped to my throat. I tried not to let Phoebe see my sudden fear. "Uh, Porsha, can I come by your office tomorrow? This really isn't a good time -- "

   "I want to know why you made such a hasty retreat last night. I woke -- "

   "Porsha! Please -- " I glanced at Phoebe, who was frowning by now. "I would prefer to speak to you in private, if -- "

   "Who is this?" She cut me off, giving Phoebe the once-over. "Your latest -- "

   "Porsha!" I interrupted her again. "This is my friend Phoebe McMasters."

   Porsha's face brightened. "McMasters?" She turned to Phoebe. "_The_ McMasters?"

   Phoebe was flustered. "I ... I suppose so -- "

   "I sold a good deal of real estate to your grandfather years ago, may he rest in peace."

   It suddenly occurred to me that Phoebe had kept her last name when she married Steve. I wondered what his was.

   "Oh, you're with Pemberton Properties?"

   "I _am_ Pemberton Properties," she stressed snootily.

   Phoebe was unimpressed. "I see."

   But she didn't see. I could see it. She wanted to know who this woman was to me. I came over and took Porsha's elbow, trying to steer her toward the foyer. "Porsha, I'll be in your office at nine sharp in the morning, and I promise, we'll work this out, okay?"

   "This isn't business," she said sharply, pulling her arm away from my grasp. "It's personal."

   "Porsha, I'm asking you to do me a favor, okay? Listen, let me get my jacket, and we'll go somewhere and talk it over."

   Porsha dug her feet in. "We're all adults, here. I'll say what I have to say, and then I'll be on my way."

   It was no use. I was twisting in the wind.

   "I wonder if Ms. McMasters knows where you were last night?" She turned to Phoebe. "Your little house guest, here, got me drunk with wine and then took advantage of my trusting nature." She pointed at the glass in Phoebe's hand. "And I see she's working on you, tonight."

   Phoebe met my eyes, and all I could do was sigh and look away.

   "Ms. Pemberton," Phoebe began softly, "I don't know who you think you are, but I'd like it very much if you got out of my house."

   Porsha and I both looked at her in surprise.

   "I beg your pardon."

   Phoebe set her glass on a nearby end table. "No, you did not beg my pardon. You barged right in and started flinging accusations toward my guest. I accept your apology. Goodnight."

   Porsha stared at her dumbly, then huffed. "Aren't you the least bit interested in the sort of person you have sharing your -- "

   "Not the least bit. Now goodnight, Ms. Pemberton."

   Porsha huffed again and whirled around, mumbling under her breath. A moment later, the front door slammed behind her.

   It took me a moment to gain my senses, and when I did, I turned to find Phoebe standing in front of the fire. Numbly, I moved over beside her. "Okay, obviously you possess a good deal of grace under pressure. Do you want me to leave now?"

   Phoebe merely drained her glass, and set it aside. "I'd prefer an explanation."

   I sighed heavily. "It didn't quite happen the way she told it."

   "I'm listening."

   I swallowed dryly, wishing for more wine. Seating myself on the ledge of the fireplace, I began. "She's my landlady. I've been getting behind on rent, and when I went to the trailer last night to get some things, there was a note on my door from her. She was getting ready to evict me. So I went over to her condo to try to make a deal."

   "Are you in the habit of trading sex for rent?"

   That stung, but I earned it. "No. My intention was to give her the title to the Falcon until I could come up with the cash."

   "Why didn't you just ask me? I would have given you the money."

   "I know, but my pride wouldn't let me. I thought I could work it out on my own."

   "Where did things go awry?" Her tone was tinged with caustic comprehension.

   "She invited herself to dinner at my place."

   She turned around and frowned. "Jobeth -- "

   "What could I do, Phoebe? I was over a barrel, and she knew it."

   "So that's why you were gone so long."

   I related the story to her up to and including the part where Porsha asked to use my shower.

   "And when she came out of the shower, did you take her to bed?"

   How could I answer that? If I said yes, it would seem like it was consentual. If I said no, it would be a lie, and she wouldn't believe me for a second. "She tried to seduce me, and I tried to resist, but -- "

   "But your little lady-killer hormones took over?"

   "Phoebe, the woman practically raped me. I know that sounds flimsy coming from me, but ... I did the only thing I knew to do..." She waited for me to say what that was. "I took control and ... and..." I could feel a laugh rising in my throat at the only words that seemed to describe what had taken place. "I serviced her until she passed out, and then I escaped." I controlled my mirth in deference to Phoebe's feelings.

   Phoebe stared at me, absorbing my words. Her face began to soften with humor. A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth, and then she began to laugh under her breath, still staring at me. She moistened her lips, nodded, then took a deep breath. "And she woke up to find you gone, and it pissed her off so much she came looking for you."

   I stifled a smile. "I guess."

   Phoebe began to chuckle, then laugh, shaking her head. She tossed her head back and sighed, squeezing her eyes shut. "Oh, Jobeth..." she caught my eyes. "That is so ... you."

   "You're not mad?" I asked cautiously.

   "That depends." _Uh oh. Here it comes._ "Did she see you naked?"

   "Absolutely not! Scout's honor." I lifted three fingers. "It wasn't for lack of trying, though."

   Phoebe stepped over and gathered me into her arms. "My little stud." We both laughed.

   When we pulled back again, I studied her. "Why did you take up for me? You had no way of knowing that what she said wasn't the truth."

   "Because I trust you."

   Suddenly, all my fear began to subside. This was what it was all about. Believing in someone's good intentions. Not in the lies and embellishments of others, or the shortcomings that sometimes creates difficult situations. Just in the good intentions. I didn't deserve a woman like this, but I could sure as hell do my best to hang on to her. "Phoebe, if you'll go get the rest of that wine, I'll stoke the fire, and we can talk some more."

   She arched that eyebrow at me. "Talk?"

   I nodded, and she headed for the kitchen.

     Chapter 13

   She handed me a full glass of wine as she eased onto the opposite end of the sofa and stretched out her legs.

   "Truth or dare," I challenged softly.

   She held my eyes firmly. "Truth."

   "What could you possibly be keeping from me? You spilled your guts to me right after we first met."

   "Don't flatter yourself. I didn't tell you everything ... I just needed to bare my soul, that's all. Doesn't mean I bared _all_ my soul."

   "You bared more than your soul, chick."

   Phoebe backhanded me in the air, since she was too far away to make contact. "Don't be snide."

   "Then tell me a secret."

   She sighed laboriously and folded one arm over the other holding the goblet, working her eyes and mouth as if she were searching her memory for a secret big enough to trade. Her brows lifted suddenly, and she smiled. "I once had sex in a church."

   I grinned broadly. "Where?"

   "Saint Michael's Cathedral. The church Steve and I used to attend." She took a drink of the red wine.

   The name spurred a memory of the bank bag that I had taken from the Galaxie, and then I knew that Steve must have been the one to set up that little exchange. But then my thoughts wandered to an image of Phoebe doing it in an elaborate padded pew. "Where in the church?"

   Phoebe smirked wickedly. "In the confessional."

   "You're kidding." Phoebe shook her head, and I tried to picture it and found my pulse quickening. "Who with?"

   "A priest."

   I gasped. "No!"

   "Yes. It was my only adulterous act ... well, until I met you. I had to say a carload of Hail Mary's for that one."

   "Oh, my God, Phoebe -- " I drew one leg up to the sofa and shifted toward the woman.

   "Is that shocking enough for you?" Phoebe pulled both her legs up, sitting Indian-fashion facing me.

   I leaned over to mash my spent cigarette into the marble tray on the coffee table. It almost felt like the sleepovers I enjoyed as a kid, except that the story about a chaste kiss behind the school gym was now sex in a confessional with a priest. "You didn't get caught?"

   "No, but the priest surrendered his collar two weeks later, and I heard he's now an exotic dancer in California."

   I shook my head and alternately grinned and studied the smiling woman across from me. "You're gonna burn in hell for that, you know."

   Phoebe shrugged. "I prefer to think of it as a service to Catholicism. If he couldn't keep his vow of celibacy, he had no business wearing that collar."

   I fell back against the sofa and laughed raucously, holding the sore place at my temple. When I had quieted, Phoebe took the last sip from her wine, and set it on the table behind her, pulling her legs in and crawling forward for the cigarettes in my front shirt pocket. "Truth or dare?" she whispered, punctuating the challenge with her eyes before falling back into her place at the other end of the sofa.

   My smile faded. "Truth."

   She put the cigarette between her lips and motioned for my lighter, which I tossed to her. She tossed it back to me when she was done. I tried to drink my wine casually, but I felt like I would pour it down the front of my shirt any second.

   "Tell me your biggest secret."

   "I was in the Army."

   Phoebe blew smoke toward me in disgust. "That's interesting, but it's not very juicy."

   "I'm ... AWOL."

   She cleared her throat. "You're what?"

   "I'm Absent Without Leave."

   "Isn't that a serious offense?"

   "Yes, but better than the alternative -- which is Leavenworth."

   "That prison?" she asked.

   "See, I was under arrest. The M.P.'s were taking me to my court-martial, and I escaped."

   Phoebe dropped one foot to the floor. "Are you in trouble?"

   "Not if they don't find me."

   "Why did they arrest you?"

   "I got caught in bed with a CID agent."

   "With a man?" Phoebe screeched.

   "Don't be ridiculous. There are female CID agents." My mind went back to that room in the hotel, where I had been talked out of my clothes by the redhead with Sergeant stripes. If the bedspread hadn't been nearby, I would have been trapped against a wall, naked, in front of four smirking M.P.'s.

   "How did you get away?"

   "The usual ruse. I asked to go to the latrine, then climbed out a window. Spent several hours in an air duct in the men's barracks, and then after dark I tried to get off the base. A fire-guard spotted me, and it developed into a foot chase. I wound up on the roof of one of the barracks."

   Phoebe was leaning forward. "How did you get down?"

   "I jumped over to the adjacent roof. Nearly didn't make it. Smashed my ribs on the edge when I landed." I had to stop long enough to squint at the memory of the pain. "Then I climbed down a back fire escape and slipped through the woods and off-base."

   Phoebe shook her head in wonder. "I was right about you being a survivor."

   "Pretty much. I didn't have a penny, or a change of clothes. I sold my boots and BDU shirt at a surplus store and bought shoes and a sweatshirt at the Salvation Army." I got up to stoke the fire, feeling a little boxed in. "Then I hitched a ride out of town and washed dishes in a truckstop to earn some travelin' money." I tossed a small log into the flames. "I wound up here, eventually, and took any kind of job I could find and then made arrangements to disappear."

   "What do you mean?" Phoebe was perched on the edge of the sofa, her goblet between both hands.

   "I couldn't just waltz around like nothing happened. I had to change everything. I spent a lot of time in the library doing research on how to be a successful missing person. I didn't want to leave a trail of bread crumbs for the war birds to find."

   Phoebe took a cleansing breath and looked me up and down as if seeing me for the first time. "Wow ... are you safe here?"

   "So far, so good. I haven't run into any CID agents. If you spot one, let me know."

   "Is that the end of the story?"

   I turned back around to jab the logs with the poker and leaned away from the spray of sparks.

   "Jobeth?" Phoebe got up and stepped around the coffee table toward the hearth where I stood holding the poker and staring at the flames. "You're holding out on something, aren't you?"

   The sun had gone down, and darkness had crept into the room. I studied Phoebe's eyes in the flickering light. "Yeah. I am."

   "Tell me."

   "I don't know if this is the best time to get into it."

   Phoebe rolled the goblet gently between her palms. "Meaning you're still going to be a hold-out."

   "I don't want to be, Phoebe..."

   "Just before we came down to confront Steve, I asked you if you really cared for me. Your answer was pretty non-committal, but I knew it was as sincere as you could be. I translated that statement into something meaningful. I hope it was."

   "It was. God help me," I caught her eyes. "I do love you, Phoebe. As scary as that is for me, I love you."

   "Well that means something to me." She leaned in and kissed me softly. "You should know that there's nothing you can't say to me, now."

   My eyes fluttered to the doorway.

   "You're doing it again."

   "What?"

   "Looking for an escape hatch. You did it upstairs, too, with the window." I took a deep draw from my wine, and set the glass on the ledge of the fireplace. Phoebe didn't miss much. "I hope you know those days can be over if you want them to be. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you." She took my face in her hands. "I love you, J-Bo."

   I swallowed hard and sighed. It was good. It felt good to hear Phoebe say it. I really didn't want to run anymore. I felt safe with Phoebe. Finally, I felt safe. "I'm not who you think I am."

   Phoebe smiled blithely. "I think I understand who you are, Jobeth."

   "My name isn't Jobeth."

   She probably didn't mean to take a step back. "What?" Mild surprise registered on Phoebe's face, and upon closer inspection, I discovered that it was more probably genuine shock.

   "I'm living under an alias." I watched her reaction closely, waited for her to absorb it.

   "What's your real name?" she asked bluntly.

   I took a deep breath. "Grayson O'Reilly." It sounded foreign to me. It was a name that belonged to someone else. Someone long ago. It solidified the change in my life and made me feel a bit sad. Nothing could ever be the same; not when my own birthright had been taken away.

   "Grayson ... O'Reilly," she echoed. She tried to sound nonchalant, but missed the mark a few inches. "How distinctive..."

   "It was my great-grandfather's name. He was the only one in his generation to survive the Potato Famine in Ireland. But the distinction of that name is exactly why I had to change it, Phoebe. I mean, how many people do you know these days named Grayson?" I felt my knees begin to tremble. I couldn't bear to look at her. I was afraid of what I'd see in her green eyes.

   Phoebe moved close to me and took my hands. "You'll always be J-Bo to me..."

     Chapter 14

   The locksmith had come and gone, providing us with a new sense of safety. And I was getting way too comfortable in Phoebe's everlasting arms. The environmental amenities weren't bad either. I had been wined and dined, hot-tubbed, massaged, chased around the kitchen table, and forced to undergo hours of rigorous attention to the pleasuring of my queen. My dubious reprieve came when Phoebe suggested I move in with her permanently. Every old alarm I had went off at the same time, and the noise was deafening.

   "Phoebe, I've lived alone since I was sixteen. I don't know if I'm ready to..." What was the phrase? _Lose my freedom. Amputate my wings._ "I don't know if I'm ready to settle down."

   "You just don't get it, do you?" She crawled on top of me, straddled my hips, and leaned down into my face. "I don't want you to settle down. I don't want to clip your little free-bird wings. I don't want to tame you. I just want to share a home with you." With her breasts tickling mine there on the waterbed, it was a bit difficult for me to think of anything except how much I wanted to be there. But too many emotions always turned into trouble. "If I moved in, we'd be ... we'd be ... a couple."

   "Oh, my God. What a horrible tragedy," she said without passion.

   I slid my palms up her chest and over her shoulders. "It's not that."

   "What is it, then? Aren't you finished sowing your wild oats?"

   That was a good question. It had never occurred to me that I might one day have to answer it. "I don't want to find out I'm not finished 'oat-sowing' somewhere down the road, and then wind up hurting you."

   She eased herself down on top of me and spoke next to my ear. "If you're expecting the ability to predict the future, you're out of luck ... sometimes you just have to decide how you want to live right now. In this moment."

   She had a point. It was almost too easy. I was lying naked with a dream-woman, in a bricked and banistered mansion, and she's telling me she does not expect my eternal love, only my presence. "What if I decide one day to move out and see other women?"

   "Then I'll let you go."

   "Now you're predicting the future."

   She rolled off me onto her back. "Am I? Maybe I'm creating a self-fulfilling prophecy." Her head lolled to the side to catch my reaction.

   "I'll tell you what you're doing. You're abusing semantics for your own purposes."

   She sat up. "J-Bo, I just like being with you, and I don't think there's anything wrong with wanting that to continue." She slid out of bed, and I rode the after-tide of sloshing water tubes. She went to the black lacquer dresser and got a fresh pair of panties. I watched her pull them on, and then retrieve a bra from the same drawer. As she fastened it around her, I thought of how painless it would be to live in this house with Phoebe. I didn't foresee any conflicts. She was understanding, and fun, and intelligent, and generous, and --

   "Aren't you going to get dressed?"

   "Huh?"

   "Good grief, I couldn't get you to take off your clothes for the longest time, now you don't want to put them on." She was smiling slightly, even though there was an edge to her voice.

   "Where are we going?"

   She was pulling a pink sweatshirt over her head and pushing in the pockets of her jeans. "We're going to collect Steve's things and leave them by the garage door so that he can pick them up."

   Phoebe descended the stairs ahead of me and stepped outside to grab the mail, while I waited. She shuffled through the envelopes as we went toward the kitchen, tossing them on the table. "Remind me to pay bills later," she said as we headed to the garage for some empty boxes.

   I couldn't help but notice how little bills meant to her. It was one thing we did not have in common. I disliked the trip to the mailbox more than I did a yeast infection.

     * * * *

Phoebe set the cardboard box she was holding atop another. "Well, I think that's the last of it."

   I looked over the stack of boxes crowding the corner of the garage. "He sure has a lot of stuff."

   "Toys, mostly. He couldn't resist any new gadget he saw." Phoebe dusted the front of her jeans and started for the door into the kitchen. "I left word yesterday with his lawyer that he could pick up all his stuff this afternoon. I'm just glad he didn't show up while we were hauling it out to the garage. I might not let him off the hook this time." I knew she was referring to the gun.

   I followed her through the inside door from the garage to the kitchen, where she paused to examine the locksmith's invoice, carrying it with her to the refrigerator. I followed her and peeked over her shoulder at his signature. I commented that it was slightly amusing that a locksmith would be named "Jimmy," and she said it was better than a therapist named "Cy Cosis." I laughed as she held our glasses under the ice dispenser and then filled them with tea. She handed me the pitcher to carry to the table. "I've been thinking about going back to nursing school. I only have another year to go." She tossed the invoice down on the table beside the bills.

   I settled in a chair and took a mouthful of tea. "I think that's a good idea. You should divorce him and get married to life."

   She nodded emphatically. "I think I'll hire a maid to keep the house, too. This house is a monster to keep clean."

   There were shadows under her eyes. "Is that why you look so tired?"

   "No, I think it's because of the last few days." She jangled the ice cubes in her glass. "It's not like we haven't been engaged in endless debauchery, dear girl."

   My smile came automatically, as I thought back to that episode in the hot tub, when she pushed herself out and sat on the ledge and brought herself to orgasm right in front of me. I'd never had an experience like that before; it was the first time I'd ever been mad with passion without touching anyone.

   "You're thinking about the hot tub, aren't you?" she whispered.

   The blush leaped to my face. "I can't _stop_ thinking about it."

   An evil grin pulled at one side of her mouth. "I was able to do that because I was fantasizing about that priest in the confessional."

   "Bitch."

   "I'm just kidding, lover," she said, touching my hand and displaying a self-satisfied grin. "Really. I've never done that before."

   I remembered the way she never took her eyes away from mine the whole time. "You must be a natural, then." I shivered at her, and she shivered back, and we both laughed.

   "Not to change the subject," she began, "but I wanted to talk to you about a few things."

   "Okay."

   Phoebe drained her tea and folded her hands in front of her on the table. "I think our relationship goes a lot deeper than sex..."

   I could feel the hair on the back of my neck begin to crawl. I hated a preface that sounded like that. She'd already asked me to move in, what else could there be? Did she want to introduce me to dear old Dad? "And -- ?"

   "And..." Phoebe reached for the pitcher and freshened our tea. After she set the pitcher down, she sighed and laced her fingers together in front of her on the table. "That job of yours. I think it's more trouble than it's worth."

   I groaned. "Phoebe, I don't expect anyone to understand, but it's something I enjoy. I feel like it's where I belong -- "

   "Throwing papers?"

   "What?"

   Phoebe crossed her arms. "You feel like you were meant to drive around in the middle of the night, in the freezing cold, throwing papers into driveways?"

   "Oh! The paper route. I thought you meant my investigative work."

   Phoebe grinned. "Now I'm more sure than ever."

   I squeezed my eyes closed and shook my head slightly. "You've lost me."

   Phoebe reached over and took my hand. Her fingers were cold from the iced tea glass. "When I said 'your job' you immediately thought of your investigative stuff, but I was referring to your paper route. That tells me that you don't see that route as a real job, but just as a paycheck."

   "That's true enough, but -- wait a minute, you think that my route is more trouble than it's worth?"

   "Yes, I do."

   "But, Phoebe, I know it like the back of hand. I don't have to think about it while I'm doing it, and it leaves me time to work on my cases."

   "Well, time away from sleeping, too. Wouldn't it be simpler to just quit the route and do the investigation full time?" She took a sip of tea and regarded me with a tinge of amusement in her eyes.

   "It would be simpler, yes, but I wouldn't be able to pay the bills."

   "You're not paying the bills now! Your landlady is trying to barter your rent for sex, for cryin' out loud."

   _Ouch._

   "J-Bo," she began, pressing my hand between both of hers. "I want to finance you."

   I leaned back. "You want to what?"

   "I want to finance your investigation business."

   I must have met Phoebe's solicitous eyes with a vacant stare. She shook my hand as if to rouse me from a sudden narcoleptic snooze.

   "Baby, I care about you. I want you to be happy."

   "I am happy Phoebe -- " I couldn't believe what I was hearing, but the shock was slowly draining out of me, replaced by uneasiness, and the cruelty of fate.

   "You deserve better than a paper route. And I think you could make a go of this detective stuff, if you only had the capital to do it the right way."

   I pulled my hand out of her 'palm sandwich' and sat back against the chair. "If only I had the license, you mean..."

   "Well, can't you just get a license?"

   "I don't meet the criteria." I reached for the tea and took a long drink. "I don't have an honorable discharge, and I can't use my two year's experience as an MP to qualify, because I can't admit I was in the Army."

   "You were an MP?"

   I nodded, sheepishly. "I guess I forgot to mention that." She just shook her head at me as if she had once again come into a room and found me playing with forbidden toys. "Can't you just ... lie?"

   I chuckled. "I admire your moral turpitude. No, because they take fingerprints. The Army, of course, has mine on record everywhere. Especially since I'm AWOL."

   Phoebe looked more dejected than I felt; but I had had the last two years to deal with it. There was something so hard to swallow about loss of freedom, no matter how small the increment. Especially when it was taken by deceptive means. I was seduced by a woman I had grown passionately fond of, and when I gave in to her invitations, I was arrested."Why do you want to do this?"

   She ticked off the reasons on her fingers, "Because I can afford it, because I believe in you, and because I love you, Jobeth."

   My eyes shifted down to the table, and I pressed my fingers to them. It was too fast. It was all happening too fast.

   Phoebe tilted her head, trying to see the expression behind my hand. "Does that upset you?"

   I moistened my lips and met her gaze. "Not that you love me ... just that, well, I feel like -- " _Damn! What was the problem?_ I shook my head helplessly, and pushed away from the table. "I don't know..."

   Phoebe called to me as I wandered into the living room. She caught up to me at the mantle, where I was lighting a cigarette.

   "What is wrong, Jobeth? Did I say something wrong?"

   I pulled on the cigarette and rubbed the back of my neck.

   "Jobeth, am I pushing? Am I suffocating you, or something?"

   "No. I think it's just too fast. It's all so perfect, it's scary."

   Phoebe smoothed my cheek with a knuckle. "Life doesn't always have to be difficult. Look, you don't have to move in if you don't want to, but I still want to finance your business. We'll just have to find a way around the obstacles. You've paid your dues. Why not enjoy the good life for a while?"

   A sane person would not argue with that reasoning, but I don't qualify. Sane people don't sit in parked cars in the middle of the night. Sane people don't find themselves in bed with their landlady, nor have that landlady hunt them down -- "Wait a minute..."

   "What?"

   I had spoken without knowing it. "Phoebe ... remember when Porsha said that my brother told her where I was?"

   "Oh, yeah. Is this another secret?"

   "No. I think it's your husband."

   She almost shook her head, then paused. "How would he know your landlady?"

   "She said she tried to find me. Where would she look first?"

   "Your trailer."

   "Right. What if Steve was there looking for me?"

   She absorbed this, and I saw her set her jaw. "You're not going back over there alone. How did he know where you live?"

   "He might have been there once before."

   "When?"

   Remember that night I showed up with a busted lip and a bump on my head, and told you it was occupational hazards?" She nodded. "I was pistol whipped by a guy in a ski mask. It could have been Steve..." My brain was revved. "And that means that the man I saw in the parking garage last March could have been Steve, too."

   "What happened in the parking garage?"

   I told her the story, and she was least happy about the part where some guy was shooting at me. "You think that Steve was responsible for that, too?"

   "I think he was under orders from Stacey, yeah."

   My cigarette had burned down to the filter, and I flipped it into the fire. Phoebe stood with her arms around herself. "Do you think Steve would really try to kill someone?"

   "You've been married to him. You tell me."

   She locked eyes with me. "He did pull a gun this morning. I guess I just thought he was going to use it to get away ... but, I don't know if..." She looked away. "I guess I don't know him at all."

   "There's probably a lot at stake for them. This operation must be highly profitable, or he wouldn't have tried to shut me up before I even had anything."

   She sat on the hearth. "Please stay here with me. I won't sleep a wink worrying about you."

   I knew the suggestion was a wise one. "I'll have to go back to the trailer and get some more of my things."

   "Okay. But I'll drive you over myself."

     Chapter 15

   I could see the white piece of paper flapping at my door when we pulled up in front of the trailer. "Uh oh."

   Phoebe switched off the engine and looked at it. "Is that what I think it is?"

   I got out and went to the door, tearing the paper away from the masking tape. "She's giving me three whole days, bless her heart."

   Phoebe patted my shoulder. "Not to worry. You have a place to go."

   I noticed that the metal edging on the door had some bent places, and when I took out my keys and tried to unlock the door, it was open. My hand went back to Phoebe. "Stand back against the trailer, Phoebe." She obeyed, and I pulled the .38 from my coat pocket, cocking it quietly. Phoebe's eyes went wide. "Where did you get that?"

   I put a finger to my lips to warn her to be still. "Borrowed it from your desk," I whispered. I opened the door slowly to the sound of creaking hinges, leaning in cautiously, the gun high and away from the edge of the doorway.

   The place was trashed. I tried to ignore this, as I crept inside and checked every room. A few moments later, I came back to the door and told her she could come in.

   "My God," she murmured.

   The sofa had been sliced open in numerous places, the stuffing protruding from inside like giant kernels of popcorn. My books and trinkets from the shelves had been thrown mercilessly upon the floor in haphazard piles. The picture tube of the television displayed a gaping hole. The kitchen was an melange of broken dishes, and spoiling food, and a film of white from the almost empty bag of Martha White flour that lay in the floor amid a puddle of water.

   "Did ... did Porsha do this?"

   "I'd be willing to bet she didn't go past the front door. We both know who's capable of this, Phoebe."

   Phoebe sighed, and went over to a stack of books at the other side of the bar that divided the kitchen from the living room, her feet crunching on broken glass. She picked up a volume of Shakespeare's sonnets and touched the cover sadly, its facing slashed and tattered. "I think I hate him."

   "I'm not real fond of him myself," I told her.

   She squared her shoulders. "He's not going to win. Let's salvage what we can, and get out of here."

     * * * *

The task was not formidable. Steve had left very little. I gathered the clothes he had not damaged, mostly a few pairs of jeans, T-shirts, and sweatshirts. I retrieved a box of keepsakes and important papers hidden in a fireproof box in the water heater closet. We packed it all in a tall laundry basket and left.

   Phoebe was silent all the way back to Leatherwood Landing. I thought I saw a tear in her eye when we went under the night lamp by her driveway. She pressed the remote control mounted on her dashboard, and the garage door opened for the Caddy and closed behind us. She held the wheel and stared ahead at the wall of garden tools and sports gear. "I'm going to make this up to you, J-Bo."

   "You didn't do anything to make up for, Phoebe. Forget it. I didn't have much of value. It's no great loss."

   "Maybe not, but what you had was yours, and it meant something, and he doesn't have the right to destroy it." She knuckled away a tear.

   Our hands found each other in the seat between us, and after a quick squeeze that was almost a symbolic handshake to seal her vow, we got out and carried my surviving belongings inside.

     * * * *

I spent a half hour in front of the cold ashes of the fireplace, trying to figure out what my next move should be. I just kept coming back around to the same obvious but seemingly impossible thing: get new evidence. Phoebe came downstairs and joined me.

   "I put your clothes in the left-hand side of the dresser if you -- " She read my expression. "What?"

   "I need to go out."

   "Why am I not surprised?" She smiled warmly. "Listen, before you go..." She got her purse from the table by the sofa and pulled out her billfold. "I want to retain your services."

   I looked down at the crisp one hundred dollar bills she extended. "Phoebe -- "

   "Look, I know you hate anything that smacks of obligation, so let's just make it formal. I want you to get the evidence on my husband that will put him away, and I'm willing to pay your expenses and any daily fees." She rattled the bills under my nose. "You can't be a proper investigator without funds."

   I pulled them from her hand and counted. "Phoebe, this is five hundred dollars."

   "It's a retainer. I'll go to the bank today and make some arrangements for your expense account." She put her billfold back in her purse.

   "What?"

   She pointed at the bills. "That's just to get you started today. I'll set up an account at my bank with your name on it, and you can draw on it as you need it. That way, you can have the resources you need and still keep your self-respect."

   What a slick way to show understanding. Phoebe was even more shrewd than I thought. "Great. But I'm still not licensed by the state."

   "If there are any problems, I will swear in front of God and everybody that you work for me privately...." She stepped forward and kissed me on the neck. "And that wouldn't be far from the truth."

   I wanted to grab her and kiss her and tell her how much I loved her, but I didn't want to seem like a silly panting puppy. Before I could decide how to respond, she scooped up her purse and headed out. "I've got errands to run. Be careful and stay warm tonight. I'll be waiting up for you." She blew me a kiss and I heard the front door close behind her.

   I sat against the high arm of the sofa and enjoyed a long breath, before looking down at the money. I had some errands of my own before I picked up those intrusive bundles of newspapers.

     * * * *

My first stop was the department store. I filled a cart with the things I thought I'd need to accomplish the items on my agenda, then stopped at a Sonic drive-in for some dinner. I preferred Sonic to the other fast-food joints because I could stay in my car and think; it was a good place to gather my thoughts. After I finished, I headed back to the manor.

   The temperature had dropped, and the radio forecaster promised some snow before morning. I could feel it in the air already. I rolled my papers inside the Falcon with the motor running so I could blast the interior with the heat, fruitless though it was after I started the route and rolled the windows down.

   By the end of my route, I had a plan firmly in mind. My hands were frozen, and I held them over the vents most of the way over to the manor. I was becoming highly aware of the ineffective warmth of my padded vest, as well. When I came through the front door of the manor, I could smell burning wood, and stepping into the open foyer, I could see that Phoebe had built a fire and was sitting on the sofa, reading. I came up behind her, smiling. "Man, that fire feels great. It's colder than a witch's tit out there."

   She lifted a sardonic eyebrow. "And how often have you fondled the tits of witches?"

   "You'd be surprised," I laughed, moving toward the fire.

   I warmed my hands a moment, then turned to get some heat on my backside. That's when I noticed. It wasn't so much the fact that she was wearing that black silk shirt -- although I couldn't ignore the sensation it gave me -- it was more the look on her face. She was up to something, and I assumed it was the obvious.

   "Why don't you come over here and let me warm you up?" She drew her hand up her thigh, the silk riding up with it, so that I could see she had nothing on underneath.

   For just a moment I forgot to breathe, but reminded myself that it was an important part of staying conscious -- and I certainly didn't want to miss this. I took off my vest and tossed it in the hearth in front of the wood box. Circling the sofa like a hungry cheetah, I let my eyes ingest all that sensuality she was transmitting. I leaned over the back of the sofa and put my hands on her shoulders, sliding them down over her breasts and up again, tilting her head back to kiss her neck and nibble an earlobe. She moaned, and I came around in front of her, dropping to my knees and placing my hands on her thighs. Holding her eyes with mine, I parted her legs and moved my body between them. She grinned knowingly, her breaths growing deeper, as I glided my hands up her tawny, muscled thighs, bulldozing the silk shirttail ahead of my fingers. She took my face in her hands and leaned in for a sweetly passionate kiss. I took hold of the backs of her knees and pulled her forward on the cushion. "You make me so hungry," I whispered.

   "Dinner is served," she offered, breathing deep and quick.

   I lowered my face to kiss her thighs, that velvety junction of leg and torso, and gently smoothed her open for the first taste. She was sweet like berries, and I wondered what she must have applied to this intimate place in anticipation of my willing subjugation. I took my time, reluctant to rush, unwilling to sacrifice a single heat-sweet moment of this luxury. Her fingers writhed in my hair, massaging, as she watched me peer up at her. My lips and tongue found her already swollen bulb, and I toyed with it until she moaned with delight. Holding the bulb captive in my lips, I vibrated it mercilessly with my tongue, like a boxer flailing a speed bag. She came at once, undulating, clenching the shoulders of my shirt, crying out, "J-Bo!" and bending forward as if to draw my whole body inside her.

   When the waves began to subside, she pulled me up to her and kissed me fervently, pushing me over onto the sofa and releasing the buttons of my jeans. The sensation was still frightening to me, yet laced with a thrill that was still new and overpowering. She removed my Reeboks and grabbed the bottom of the jeans legs, jerking them free of my body like a magician removing a tablecloth from beneath a place setting. She was less careful with my underwear. She grabbed them, punched holes in the cotton with her fingernails, and ripped them away from the treasure she sought.

   By this time, I was breathless, and she stole what little breath I had left as she descended on me, her mouth ravishing and her tongue warm and probing. The tingles began there at her lips and seeped upward. The sensation was a burning poison that would rise to my heart and make it stop beating, or make it explode, or --

   She lifted her face and looked at me. "I love you, J-Bo." Her fingers found my warm recesses, sinking deep, petting me from the inside. The burning tingles exploded throughout my veins, and I was clenched in a fist of pleasure. I pulled her down against me and rode the waves into shore.

   We held each other for a long silent moment there on the sofa. I touched her cheek and kissed her. "It's never the same with you, Phoebe."

   "I'm glad you feel that way. I wanted you to know you could have all the variety you could take with just one woman."

   It occurred to me then that the obsession I had always harbored for the newness of every lover, the first time with them, had little to do with the need for different partners. Phoebe was right: Variety was the issue. I had never lost interest in her. This time with Phoebe had been as thrilling as the first. "I never thought I'd say this, but I can't even imagine being with anyone but you now."

   Phoebe propped herself on one elbow to regard me with pleasure in her eyes. "I'm glad you feel that way, too. I have a surprise for you."

   As she pushed off the sofa and stood up, I offered, "You're carrying our child?"

   She gave me a sidelong glance. "Immaculate Conception was a one shot deal, my love."

   She reached behind the far end of the sofa where my head was and pulled out several large shopping bags. "Uh oh. I see you dusted off your charge card."

   "It was for a good cause." She peeked into one sack and had me close my eyes while she pulled out its contents. When I opened my eyes again, she was holding up a suede jacket the color of an old penny. The texture suggested the softness of a Basset hound. "I couldn't stand to see you wear that flimsy vest-thing anymore. Try this on."

   My eyes went wide. "Phoebe -- "

   "Don't ruin my fun. When's your birthday?"

   "Not until March."

   "Well, that was your old birthday. Today is your new birthday. People with two identities get two birthdays, didn't you know that?"

   I laughed. "Okay. But unless you have a pair of underwear in one of those bags, I'm not moving," I said, securing the sofa pillow over my lap.

   "As a matter of fact -- " she leaned over and pulled a small sack out of the bigger one, tossing it on my stomach. There was, indeed, an assorted collection of panties and several sports bras. The same brand she had torn off me.

   I sat up and pulled out a purple pair and slid them on, reaching for my jeans, and standing up to pull them on as well.

   "There are some jeans ... 501's, stone-washed, black, blue, gray ... and those slouch socks, too. And I got you some sweatshirts, and some button-down shirts. I tried to get the same kind that you had before ... before Steve slashed them to pieces." She handed me the sacks that she kept pulling from behind the end of the sofa. "Are they the right kind? I mean, I don't want you to pretend you like them if you don't. Everything can be exchanged -- "

   Phoebe," I stilled her, laying my hand on the back of her head, stroking, as I stood over her sitting there on her knees. "Everything is perfect. You didn't -- "

   "Don't say I didn't have to, because I did. But mostly I wanted to. I had so much fun today running around buying things for you."

   I knelt to kiss her. "You are an angel, Phoeb'. I'm lucky to be here with you. I think I'd feel lucky if we lived in a cardboard box and dined at a soup kitchen."

   She teared up. "I know. That's why I wanted to."

   I hugged her.

     * * * *

Moments later, she had revealed still more gifts that she'd hidden. She presented a Canon 35mm camera with several special lenses, and a plethora of accessories. She bought me a silver nugget bracelet and a matching ring.

   "Phoebe," I protested. "This is insane."

   "Just enjoy it, Jobeth. What good is money if you can't spend it?"

   "That's easy for you to say. You're rich."

   "You're rich, too," she said pointedly.

   I looked into those eyes. "Yeah, I am."

   "So!" she clapped her hands together. "Let's go have some of that birthday cake."

   I followed her toward the kitchen, admiring my ring and bracelet. "You bought cake, too?"

   She tossed back over her shoulder in mock innocence, "Well, I didn't have the energy to bake one after running around the mall all evening."

   The cake waited on the table. It was decorated with a Sherlock image, complete with magnifying glass. The lettering read, 'A.K.A. Investigations.' I looked up at her, and she smiled expectantly.

     Chapter 16

   Over cake and ice cream, I told Phoebe of my plan.

   "That's against the law."

   I swallowed a mouthful of cake and mushy French vanilla. "I know. If you have a better idea, let's hear it."

   She took a drink of milk, thought it over, took a bite of cake. Another drink of milk. "When are you going to do it?"

   I knew she'd see it my way. "Tomorrow night." I looked at my watch. "Well, tonight, actually."

   "Isn't that when they do their real business?"

   "It's Sunday."

   She laughed, choking on cake. "Oh, they don't fuck on the Sabbath?"

   "Phoebe!" For a Catholic girl, she sure could be risque. But then, I understood it to be common for that denomination.

   She giggled. "Like I have a lot of room to talk." She wiggled her eyebrows at me.

   "That's not what we were doing. We were making love. There's a difference."

   She nodded. "I'm still a sinner. I didn't go to mass."

   "I'm trying to keep you out of that confessional. It's not safe for the priests."

   She flung a piece of frosting at me, and it landed on my chin. I scooped some from the top of my cake and flicked it at her in return, and she tried to catch it in her mouth. I loved her playfulness. "At any rate, I'm on a mission tonight. They probably keep everything I need in that shop. All I have to do is get in there and take it."

   "What if you get caught?"

   "I won't get caught." I finished my cake and stood up, taking her dish and mine to the sink.

   "Why don't I go with you?"

   "No."

   "If you had me as a lookout, you could concentrate on getting the information. I mean, I have a stake in this, too."

   She had a point. But I had strong misgivings about involving her in breaking and entering. "If you're with me, and we get caught, who's going to bail us out of jail?"

   "My attorney," she answered simply.

   I dried my hands on the teal towel on the refrigerator handle, staring at the crucifix magnet on the front of the freezer door. "I don't know..."

   She got up, bringing our glasses to the sink, turning toward me with her hands on her hips. "Sometimes it's a good idea to have a partner, and you know it."

   "Yeah, especially in bed," I remarked, popping her with the towel.

   She came over and took the towel away from me. "Let me go with you, J-Bo. Maybe if we work together, we can get Steve out of our lives completely."

   _And I can give Mr. Huxley a call in case he's still interested in saving that fat check he probably still writes to Stacey._"Okay. But you have to follow orders."

   She saluted.

     * * * *

She tied the bandanna around my head, successfully obscuring my vision. The feeling was altogether unnerving, standing there in the back hallway by a door. I heard Phoebe giggle.

   "What's so funny?"

   "I was just thinking about how interesting it would be to have you like this upstairs instead of down here in the hall."

   I shivered. "Yeah, yeah. Now what's the big secret?"

   She took me by the shoulders and nudged me forward a few steps. "Okay, just a second." I heard the door open, and then she stepped in front of me. "Okay, now put your hands on my shoulders, and follow me down the stairs."

   "Stairs?" I could just see myself breaking my neck on the way down.

   "Just step when I do, and go slow."

   Her shoulders dropped and I slid my foot until I found the edge of the first step. In awkward increments, we made it to the basement floor. I still had no idea what she was up to, or what this surprise was she was so excited about.

   "Keep your eyes closed." She removed the bandanna. "Okay. Open."

   The basement had obviously been cleaned recently. There was a desk in the corner, adorned with various office supplies, including a phone. There was a chair in front of the desk, a large area rug beneath the whole array. "What's this?"

   "Your new office."

   "In your basement?"

   "It's perfect, Jobeth. In this area, the clientele would prefer it if they weren't seen going into some old seedy building to see an investigator."

   I moved over to the desk and ran a hand along the mahogany. "Oh, now I have a clientele?"

   She came up behind me a reached for the Rolodex, zipping a fingernails across the batch of cards. "You do now. I've always kept names, addresses, numbers, and information about everyone I meet, if I have any dealings with them at all. Most of them have need of your services. They pay out the ass to keep from taking their problems to that seedy building. I'm sure they'd rather have it over with." She pulled a card out. "For instance, here's one you might be interested in. Claire Diffy. Her husband owns a string of Beemer dealerships, and is frequently in the company of other women. She wants a divorce, but she never can prove infidelity. He's too smooth an operator. She'd pay a pretty penny to get him out of her life." She waved the card in my face. "They have separate bank accounts, and the last time I talked to her, she was anxious to spend time with this younger man who works at the country club."

   "Don't tell me -- the golf pro, right?"

   "No, actually, it's the chef. He's French, and she has this thing about men with accents."

   I could see the balance of my bank account climbing as Phoebe fed me the information. If she had details like that on her entire circle, the clients would have to take a number. I moved around the desk and eased into the soft, high-backed leather chair. Luxuriating in the feel of it, like being encased in one of those soft leather ladies dress gloves. I liked the fit.

   "Anyway," she continued, placing the card back in the Rolodex. "Most of the work would be gathering grounds for divorce -- surveillance, photos. The same thing you're doing now. I've been out of the circle for a while, but I could get back in easy enough by throwing a party. Then you could meet them all and get a feel for them."

   My brain was careening into a canyon. She was talking about the perfect setup for any private detective. How many of them got to live in a mansion with an office in the basement and a gorgeous woman to pay the bills, hand them money, lend out her Cadillac? How many P.I.'s got access to a Rolodex of the Rich and Famous? And how many of them got to share a bed with the lovely patron who provided all these amenities? I suddenly felt cheap. "Phoebe, I appreciate all this ... but ... I don't know if I can accept it."

   I got out of that chair while I still could and started for the stairs. She grabbed my arm. "Hey. I know your deal. You're too proud to accept charity. You don't want anyone else to control you. Yeah, yeah, we've been all through that stuff. I just want to help you. You've given me so much; I feel like I should repay you."

   I couldn't stop the guffaw that burst from my throat. "Repay _me?_ Me, Phoebe? You've got to be out of your mind. You live in the lap of luxury, and you've been sharing it all with me. You've even been sharing _yourself_ with me, for Christ's sake! And you think you owe me something?" I shook my head and chuckled again at the inanity of it all.

   She reached out and gave me a shove so that I sat down hard on the steps. Thrusting a red-nailed finger in my face, she lowered her voice and said ominously, "Look, chick, this office is not free. You're going to pay me rent, and I get a cut of the business as well. And when you're done chasing errant husbands and dropping off telling film at the Fotomat, you're going to come upstairs and make me feel like ten million bucks, because that's how much I'm worth. Got it?" She brushed past me and stomped up the stairs, slamming the door after her.

   I sat there, staring at the bronze Halogen lamp perched on the corner of the desk across the room. It looked like a black praying mantis, leaning over the surface of the new quadrille ruled desk pad. A deep breath brought me back from numbness. There was a fine line, here, and the fact that I had crossed it was not in question; the question was, were Phoebe and I looking at the same line?

   I pushed myself up and climbed the stairs. She was standing next to the teapot, the gas flame under it a muffled, squalling tempest of heat. She unwrapped a tagless chamomile teabag and tossed it into the bottom of a stoneware mug, dropping two sugar cubes on top of it. Her nostrils flared with every breath. She jerked out the silverware drawer, seized a spoon, and slammed it on the counter next to the mug. She had not turned around to look at me.

   "Phoeb -- "

   "You're punishing me because I'm wealthy," she said toward the wall in a voice strained with anger. "That's just as unfair as punishing someone for being poor."

   I took a slow, silent breath, watching her chest swelling in and out in four-four time. "Phoebe -- "

   "Shut up," she whispered.

   I felt like she had slapped me, and my own anger began to grow. I looked at the side of her face, the line along her jaw hard as she clenched her teeth. I had a sudden urge to bite her. I stepped forward and pulled her against me roughly, clamping my teeth on her neck. She gasped and pushed me away, heading for the table, perhaps to put it between me and her. I followed her quickly, grabbing her shoulder and whirling her around. I slammed her against me again and clamped my teeth on that cord of muscle that joined shoulder and neck. She pushed at me, but I held her firm, moving her backward until the small of her back met the edge of the table. I lifted her up to the table and pushed her back, my hand going between her legs, rubbing through her jeans. She growled at me like an animal during mating season, unhappy with the endeavor, but unable to stop the instinctual response to it. My heart was hammering in my chest as I grabbed the edges of her shirt and ripped the buttons away. They exploded to the floor on both sides of the table, some ricocheting off the wall and pinging through the kitchen. I released the front latch of her bra and my mouth fell over her nipple, drawing it harshly into my mouth as my hand unfastened her jeans. Her arms came around me then, and she arched to meet my hungry mouth. We kissed, our tongues devouring, our teeth pulling on each other's lips. She reached down and wiggled out of her jeans, and I plunged two fingers into her. She arched to meet me, and I added two more fingers as her Kegel muscles pulled and squeezed. She came, then, a long, jerking climax that melted into release in time with the shrill whistle of the tea kettle boiling on the stove behind me. I drew my fingers out of her and stood upright again beside the table looking at her spread out there like a banquet. Her eyes came open and she lolled her head over to look at me, the kettle still screaming at us both. "Tea?" I asked in mocking nonchalance. She just grinned.

     * * * *

Moments later we were using the table for its intended purpose as we enjoyed tea and studied each other silently across the wooden divide. I couldn't help but think of the episode with Porsha in my trailer. I didn't want Phoebe relegated to that category, and I was concerned about her impressions of what had happened.

   Her shirt hung open for lack of buttons, and I could see the hook at the front of her bra. Her chest still glistened with sweat. She sipped her tea for perhaps the seventh time and cleared her throat. "I didn't know you had that in you, J-Bo."

   The nickname. Good. That meant she wasn't mad. "I didn't either. I don't know what came over me."

   She grinned. "Let's call it passion and move on."

   "I hope I -- "

   "You didn't hurt me. You didn't offend me."

   The woman was now capable of reading my mind.

     * * * *

That afternoon, I called my boss at the paper and gave him my two week's notice. He told me he didn't need two weeks if I didn't -- that there was someone else who wanted my route. A list of someones actually. My uptown route was the prime choice among the other carriers, and the guy who subbed for me before already knew the houses. I was a little put off by my boss's hurry to get rid of me, but paper delivery was not a career with much protocol. Phoebe thought it was just as well, when I told her about it. She even called it fate. I didn't trust much in the happenstance of fate, but this time it agreed with my agenda, so I let it go.

   Late that night, Phoebe and I dressed in black and I brought the Mag-Lite and the backpack and all the supplies I had purchased earlier that day. Phoebe carried the camera with high-speed film in it. We both wore surgical gloves.

   The front door would be the first big obstacle. I took out the plastic fishing lure case and rummaged in the assortment of blank keys. I had purchased two of each kind from the department store. The clerk had been bewildered; he wanted to know why I would buy all those uncut keys. I gave him some marmalade about how it was for a fake trophy we were going to give to someone at the office. He seemed sufficiently entertained with the idea and sold me the keys without further questioning. The total was, after all, a hefty sum.

   "You have a key to the front door?" Phoebe whispered, a tint of disappointment in her voice.

   "Not yet," I smiled. "Keep an eye out for cars or people. We're going to be here a while." I dug the tiny Bic butane out of my pocket and held the key over the flame until the metal turned black. Then I inserted the key into the lock and turned it back and forth a few times. I used the lighter again to illuminate the key; there were shiny parts in certain places on the business end of it. I looked back at Phoebe, who had squatted down on the sidewalk behind me. She was frowning, but attentive. Next, I took out the rat-tail file from the backpack and filed down the places that were shiny. Then I charcoaled the key again with the flame and put it back into the lock. I continued this process until Phoebe started giggling.

   "Where did you learn to do this?"

   "Books," came my cryptic answer.

   We were on the sidewalk in front of that door for over an hour before the key finally caught and released the lock.

   Phoebe took the key box and put it back in the knapsack. "Couldn't you just use a bobby pin?" she said smartly.

   "Bite me, Phoebe," I laughed back at her, motioning her inside while I slid a metal pin inside the keyhole to keep Stacey or her goons from unlocking the door with their key and sneaking in behind us. I clicked on the Mag-Lite, pointing it at the door in the back. I had noticed it the first and only time I was in the shop that day I procured Stacey's business card. Phoebe followed me to the door, and I found it locked. I tried for long moments to pick it, but to no avail. I would have to charcoal another key. The tumblers were simpler in this lock, so the process was a bit faster.

   Inside the tiny office we found two filing cabinets, the large, five-drawer metal kind -- with the lock on the side by the top drawer. "Damn!" I spat. "If I have to charcoal another key, I think I'll bang my head against the wall." I tried the obvious approach first: check to see if the drawer was actually locked. It was. I sighed heavily, checking my watch. It was getting close to three in the morning. I asked for the key box and discovered I didn't have a key to match it. "Shit!" I didn't think about getting a key this size.

   "Can you pick it?"

   I thought about this for a while. "It's worth a try." I took the lock-picking tools from the knapsack and went to work, while she held the flashlight. These tools had been safe from Steve's destructive visit; they had been in the fireproof box in the water heater closet. Long moments later, I still had no success with the lock, and Phoebe began to get antsy.

   "Can't you get it open?" she whispered.

   I stopped and turned to her, rolling my eyes. "Obviously not, genius."

   "Well, I mean, we've been here a while, and still haven't gotten into any papers or anything."

   "Take that flashlight, and get me the smaller one from the pack. Snoop around while I keep trying."

   She took the flashlight out and handed it to me. "What am I looking for, exactly?"

   "Anything incriminating. Papers that suggest an operation other than a hair salon ... a kilo of coke ... an uzi..." I didn't care what it was at this point; I would find a way to make it Stacey's swan song. I turned back to the cabinet.

   "I can't believe I married a man like him," she grumbled from the nearby desk, where she pulled out drawers and shuffled papers.

   "I can't believe you did either. But if we don't find something tonight, we're in deep shit." The question was, did we want to leave any evidence that we had been here? Did I intend to take the evidence, or make copies, or photograph it? While I was musing on this, Phoebe crept up behind me, giving me a start.

   "Sorry," she whispered. "I don't see anything suspicious on the desk or in it. All the drawers were unlocked."

   "Did you look under the desk and check for secret compartments?"

   "Do people really do that?"

   "People are people. They'll do whatever they think will work." That's what I had to do with this filing cabinet. I put the flashlight in my breast pocket and took the small crowbar out of the knapsack and placed the claw in the seam of the top drawer.

   Phoebe grabbed my arm. "What are you doing?"

   "I'm trying to open the filing cabinet."

   "You're supposed to be able to pick the lock, aren't you, Ms. Marple?"

   "I guess you'll have to send me to locksmithing school."

   Her flashlight beam landed on the cabinet. "I don't need the light for this, Phoebe," The light was reflecting off the shiny front of the cabinet and interfering with my vision. "Phoebe -- " I said, turning around. That's when the light caught me in one eye, and the side of my face. She was frozen in the other half of the beam like a deer in headlights. A tall dark figure was holding the light. "Deep shit," I whispered.

     Chapter 17

   I clutched the crowbar and wished it were the .38. The knapsack was too far away for me to reach the pistol in time to use it. The beam stayed on our faces for a few seconds before it clicked off. While my eyes adjusted, I reached for Phoebe's sleeve and pulled her behind me.

   He took a step forward, but I couldn't see his face.

   "Having any luck?" he asked softly.

   It didn't sound like Steve. Steve's voice was higher, more splenetic. "Not really," I answered cautiously. I had no idea who we were dealing with, and I didn't want to say the wrong thing. If it was a cop, we would be making that call to Phoebe's lawyer. If it was one of Stacey's goons, we wouldn't be calling anyone. Ever.

   I thought about the metal pin I had put in the keyhole before we came inside. "How did you get in here?"

   "I was here first," the voice said. "Who are you?"

   "Who are _you?"_ I countered.

   "Breaking and entering is a felony." His tone had not changed. I tried to think of what I wanted my last words to be. _I love you, Phoebe ... or, please don't kill me I don't want to die ... ?_ He stepped forward and stopped a few feet in front of us; he seemed familiar ... light brown hair cropped short ... wearing sweats. He reminded me of a drill sergeant I had once, except he wasn't wearing the asinine Smokey the Bear hat.

   He stepped forward and handed the flashlight to Phoebe, taking the crowbar from my hand. "Allow me," he said, driving the claw into the seam and ripping the drawer open. "These locks aren't as strong as they look."

   Phoebe and I both shrank back. He was setting us up. Making it look like a more legitimate breaking and entering. Then he was going to call Stacey. Then he was going to call the police ... Well, at least we wouldn't die tonight.

   "So what's the best thing to look for?" He started thumbing through files.

   "What?"

   Phoebe found her voice. "She's blackmailing you, too, isn't she?"

   He looked at her briefly, then turned back to the files.

   Duh. My brain just seemed to fold in on itself sometimes. I took the crowbar from the top of the cabinet where he had put it and used it to open the other cabinet. The three of us thumbed through files and gathered bits and pieces that we thought might be incriminating, and then we crept back outside.

   When we reached the safety of the alley across the street, I got a better look at him. He had been on that roll of film that Steve destroyed. The distinguished gentleman. But my pictures weren't the ones he wanted. I suggested we adjourn to The International House of Pancakes for a summit. He followed me and Phoebe to the I-HOP on Sixty-Third.

     * * * *

The ancient waitress shuffled over and took our order for coffee all around and shuffled away again, pleased for something to occupy her time in the cop-strewn eatery. It made me a little nervous, but I told myself they were too busy eating pastries and drinking coffee. And of course, there was no probable cause.

   "Mr. Webster, I would be happy to get the information she has on you if you'd like to retain my services." Why mince words? After he introduced himself, I thought it wise to just broad-jump with both cleats.

   The man nodded to the waitress who filled our cups, waiting patiently for her to hobble away. "Can I afford you?"

   I snorted, "Probably."

   "Are you sure you can get the photos? That's the most incriminating thing she's got."

   "I'm working on it."

   Phoebe looked down at the gold band on his finger. "You're trying to protect your wife, aren't you?"

   He didn't seem surprised by her question. "I'm retiring this year. If this got out, I'd lose more than my wife and children. I'd lose forty years." He sipped his coffee and looked at the pile of useless papers in front of us.

   "I'm sorry those papers weren't valuable. And we've tipped them off now. It'll be twice as hard to get information." I flipped my reasoning in the other direction, sort of a psychological devil's advocate; it helped me see things in new ways. "On the other hand, it's probable that the information is somewhere else anyway. I just have to figure out where."

   He looked over my shoulder into the parking lot, the reflection of the night light making tiny white circles in his eyes. "I don't have much money left. I've used all my savings paying off that b -- " He checked himself, glancing at Phoebe as if he was afraid to offend; I wondered why he didn't give me the same look. "If I don't get everything she has on me very soon -- " He took a drink of coffee, looking over at me steadily. "What would you charge to do that?"

   Obviously, the man was not without guilt; he had been playing slap and tickle with one of Stacey's girls. But my heart went out to him. Who knew what his situation was? Maybe he was having trouble with his marriage. Maybe his wife was ill. Maybe she was frigid. Maybe he was oversexed. Like me. At any rate, his retirement pay was probably all he had left. "I'm sure we can work something out. I'll need to get some information from you for my files." He cocked his head, lowering his brow at me. "It's all strictly confidential, I assure you."

   He reached for his wallet and pulled out a green-tinted card, tossing it on the table in front of me. It slid to a halt next to my coffee cup, right-side up. An unexpected chill went through me. Across the top of the card, the words, 'Armed Forces of the United States' and under it was his picture, his name, and 'Major General.' I looked up at him. For a quick second, I feared for my own safety, but I could see by his expression that it wasn't about me. "I can see why you want that information, sir."

   While the major general took out a pen and his card, I gave Phoebe a warning with my eyes. I didn't want Phoebe to mention the details that the major general and I had in common. We both were affiliated with the military, and we both wanted to avoid repercussions for choosing the wrong bedfellows. He handed me the white calling card with his name and number on it, and also gave me the number of his private line.

   Phoebe elbowed me with a stern expression, and I tried to ignore her. "Jobeth," she became insistent. "Maybe the major general can do you a favor in lieu of payment -- "

   I slumped in the seat and closed my eyes. She had brought it up anyway.

   "How can I do that?" he asked.

   They were both waiting for an answer, but I felt like I was cornered.

   "Jobeth. This may be your only chance to -- "

   "Phoebe, shut up." She frowned at me, an expression of hurt on her face. I sighed and looked over at him. "Sir, it's just that I have a little situation that I'm not too happy with either. It's nothing. I'll call you when I have something on this case."

   He leaned back and regarded me. "I'm pretty tapped out. If I can do something in return for your services, maybe we can all get something out of this deal."

   Okay, the door was wide open. If I slammed it, I might never have my investigation license. If I walked through it, there was no turning back and no way to ensure my safety. "I was in the Army a few years ago."

   He lifted his eyebrows. "Yes?"

   "And..." I glanced at Phoebe who was nodding her head at me to tell all. "I got into a sticky situation with CID."

   "Oh, those idiots. What did they do?"

   "They set me up."

   He folded his arms and grinned. "You're AWOL, aren't you?"

   A chill settled at the back of my neck. I had just walked through that door. "Yes, sir."

   "What did they get you for?"

   The waitress appeared and filled our cups without asking if we wanted any, and I waited for her to leave. As I emptied several creamer packets into my coffee, I continued, "Sexual misconduct."

   His grin grew wider. "With an officer?"

   "With a CID agent."

   "Ah, I see." He regarded me thoughtfully. "They rarely use an agent for entrapment, unless they're trying to trap homosexuals."

   I swallowed, glancing around uneasily at the array of blue uniforms. "Yes, I know."

   He sipped his coffee, completely at ease with the information. "What do you need?"

   "I need my name cleared ... just like you do."

   He took a napkin from the dispenser and put it down in front of me. "Put your real name down."

   I looked up at him with surprise. I never had told him I was using an alias. He just half-smiled, and I took a pen from my pocket and wrote down Grayson O'Reilly, the ink bleeding into the napkin in spots. He slid out of the booth and stood up, looking at the name. "That should make it easier." He thanked me for the coffee. "I'll see what I can do."

   I watched him leave, nodding to the two officers by the door, whom he seemed to know. I released a long breath and leaned back into the vinyl covered padding. Phoebe slipped her hand over my leg and onto the inner part of my thigh. "It's going to work out, J-Bo."

   People only said that when things looked pretty crummy.

     * * * *

When we got back to the manor, it was close to four in the morning. It had always been a popular hour for Phoebe and me, but without saying it, we both knew we needed sleep more than anything else. We got undressed, and Phoebe slipped into a satiny black kimono, tossing me a terrycloth robe. She went into the master bath and turned on the hot tub.

   The soak was just what I needed, and when Phoebe climbed into bed and snuggled up next to me, I knew I'd sleep long and hard.

     Chapter 18

   I awoke suddenly, my mind in high gear. There were things to do today, and when I checked the clock, I saw that we had slept until one. I lifted Phoebe's arm off my chest and placed it gently on the bed after slipping out from under her. Yawning, I went downstairs to make coffee.

   There had to be something about Stacey that I didn't know; something that would make a difference. As I scooped the dark grounds into the filter well, Major General Webster came to mind, and I wondered if he might have some information that Mr. Huxley did not. I turned on the coffeemaker and started toasting some cinnamon-raisin bagels.

   I went out the kitchen door to see if the new paper-carrier had left a gift in the driveway. It was there, covered by an orange polybag, light snowflakes drifting off the slick plastic. I ran out in my sock feet and grabbed it, running back inside and shivering. I warmed my hands over the toaster and pulled out the bagels when they popped up, smoothing a dollop of cream cheese over them and adding them to the bed-tray with a carafe of coffee.

   I took the coffee and bagels upstairs and sat down on the bed next to Phoebe. Her face was still smooth from the innocence of sleep. "Phoebe..." I said softly, touching her cheek. She stirred, moaned, and I called her name again. She opened her eyes and smiled at me. Then she saw the breakfast tray, and her face brightened.

   "How sweet." She pulled herself up, propping pillows behind her, glancing at the clock. "Man, we really did sleep late. How long have you been up?"

   "Not long. I wanted you to know that I'm going to set up a meeting with Webster today." I took a bagel and bit into the warm, squishy cream cheese. "What are your plans today?"

   Phoebe poured us both some coffee from the carafe and dipped cream into the cups, stirring. "I was going to go down to the Med center and sign up for those nursing classes. But now that I've slept on it -- " She took a sip of coffee, making a pleasurable noise. "I think I'd rather help you finish up this case first."

   "You want to help me?"

   "Haven't I been doing that, anyway?"

   Good point. "I guess so, but -- "

   "Unless, of course, I'm in the way." She took a bite of bagel, and I remembered that tirade on the basement stairs when she shook her lovely finger in my face and read me the riot act.

   "No, you're not in the way. I just don't want you to feel like you need to get involved." The coffee felt good against my dry throat.

   "I'm already involved, my dear. At least with this case. And until you get your office up and running like you want it, you'll need someone to take care of the busy work." She swept finger across an extra glob of cream cheese and plunged it in her mouth. "I'm volunteering."

   "Well, okay. Where should I tell Webster to meet us?"

   She chewed pensively, washing a mouthful down with more coffee. "I have an idea, if you're up to it."

   _Up to it_ ... a veiled challenge if I ever heard one. "What?"

   "We could have him meet us for lunch at the country club, and then we could play a game of racquetball."

   The idea was quite appealing. My fantasies about her in shorts and a tank top would be proven accurate or off-base. I touched the wound on my arm to test for sensitivity and wiggled my wrist around. "I think I could handle that."

   "I don't want to hurt that arm, though. If it's not well enough, just tell me."

   "It's okay. I need the exercise anyway."

     * * * *

Webster met us in the main dining room, and we all had chef salads and tea. After we had finished, I got out my notebook and pen. "Major General -- "

   He held up a hand as he lit a fat cigar. "Call me Hal, please."

   "Hal ... I need you to tell me everything you can remember about Stacey. Her habits, where she puts things, anything that might give me a direction to go in."

   "Well," he blew a stream of smoke. "I didn't spend a great deal of time with her, actually."

   "Tell me about your first meeting with her."

   "I made an appointment for a haircut, and when I got to the salon, she called me back into the office. She asked me what my ... preferences were ... it was the way she said it. I knew she wasn't talking about hairstyle. The innuendoes took off after that, and I realized she intended to set a different kind of appointment for me. My marriage was on the rocks at the time, and..." He shifted in his seat and took a drink of his tea.

   "You don't have to explain, Hal. I'm just after some facts about her."

   He nodded, clearing his throat. "We negotiated a price, and she told me what time to come back that night."

   "Did she write the appointment down?"

   "No..." He reached back into his memory. "She keyed it in on one of those electronic notebooks."

   Bells went off in my head, and Phoebe scooted her chair forward next to me and smiled. "Do you remember what brand it was?"

   "I wasn't close enough for that. It was about the size of a small legal pad ... and it had a tiny little screen that flipped upright. That's all I can remember ... except it was mostly black."

   I sighed. "That's a start. You wouldn't happen to know where she does her shopping for stuff like that?"

   He shook his head. "Sorry."

   Phoebe tapped me on the arm. "What about those papers we got that night. Aren't some of them receipts?"

   "Yeah."

   "Well, why wouldn't she buy all her business supplies at the same place?"

   I smiled. "That's true. I'll check it out."

   We chatted for a few more minutes. Phoebe took the coat check token to get our things. She came back carrying her gym bag, her gray-speckled duster coat, and my suede one over her arm. While Webster left a tip, I took the gym bag from her and told him we'd be in touch.

   On the way out of dining area, I stopped to call Huxley, telling him I was really on to something with the case and expected to wrap it up within the next week or two. He was guarded with his enthusiasm, but it was the most hopeful news I had given him in a long time, and he knew it.

     * * * *

"Are you sure your arm is well enough to play? I wouldn't want to have an unfair advantage."

   She was smirking at me as she sat on the wooden bench that ran between the lockers and laced her court shoes. I had never seen her in Spandex compression shorts. It accentuated the positive. "I think I can keep up." I bounced my racquet on the top of her head.

   "Where did you learn to play racquetball?"

   I tied a rolled bandanna around my head. "On base in Virginia. I used to beat a lot of the guys."

   "I'll just bet you did," she grinned.

   We closed our lockers and headed through the labyrinth of doorways and corridors to the courts. Stepping inside the one at the end of a long hall, and I tested the strings on the heel of my hand while she took the blue rubber ball from its can.

   She bounced the ball a few times, checking me out, and I twirled my racquet to tighten the wrist cord.

   Her first serve was slow, and I returned the volley easily, but her next swing was a bit harder. I crossed in front of her to scoop it back to the wall, and she hit my return high and hard. It whizzed just out of reach of my backhand.

   "Point," she said softly, capturing the ball.

   I took a calming breath and crouched for her next serve. It zipped off the far wall and caught me in the shoulder. I grunted, and she giggled.

   "Are you all right?"

   "Just serve the ball." Okay, so I was out of practice.

   She stepped back into the serving lines and bounced the ball, looking back at me and smiling. "Two-zero," she said just before serving.

   I caught this serve and put it on the left-hand side of the front wall, and it ricocheted off the left wall and shot over her left shoulder.

   "Good shot," she admitted.

   The game continued in this fashion; each of us trying to outwit the other, and finding that we adapted to one another's styles very quickly. It was impossible for us to play the same way from one serve to another, and the game became a bigger challenge as the score climbed toward twenty-one, Phoebe leading by two points, with me holding her serve over and over.

   Forty minutes later, I had won the serve when she double-faulted, and moved the score to twenty-all by returning a shot off the back wall in mid-air. I used my racquet as a trampoline and bounced the little blue ball, concentrating on making the game point. I made a smooth serve, and her return was easy. We volleyed in this fashion for several turns, watching each other peripherally. She was toying with my patience by maintaining a slow pace on such an important play. My nerves got the best of me, and I slammed the ball high. She went back to get it, and scooped it from mid-air off the back wall, as if to prove she could do anything I could do, and more. The return was wild and fast, and it caught me on the front of my leg. I dropped on the floor and moaned just to make her feel guilty.

   She came over and squatted down, touching my leg where I had both hands. "I'm sorry." She grinned. "Are you okay?"

   I gave her a shove, and she fell to her rump. "You little shit. You're just mad because I beat you."

   "You didn't beat me, Phoebe," I smiled, wiping sweat from my face with the cotton wristband. "I beat myself."

   Her face glistened with perspiration, and it reminded me of those nights in the Falcon. "If you wouldn't get so impatient -- "

   I crawled over and kissed her. Glancing up just for an instant, I saw a face in the little window of the court door. I could have sworn it was Steve, but the face was gone a nanosecond later.

   "What?" she asked, watching my face. She turned toward the door. "Someone waiting for us to get out?"

   "Yeah." I didn't want to worry her with something I wasn't even sure of.

   She pushed herself up off the floor and opened the door, peeking down the corridor. "I don't see anyone," she said from the doorway.

   "Just the same, let's get out of here."

   We trekked back to the locker room, showered, changed clothes, and headed out the door.

     * * * *

I took Huntington Avenue through Nichols Hills to avoid the afternoon traffic jam that always greeted me on Grande Boulevard. Huntington was a winding, hilly street that cut through to Leatherwood Landing. The curves could sometimes slow me down, but it was still faster than the bumper-to-bumper free-for-all on Grand Boulevard. Phoebe pulled her woolen duster around her and turned up the heater.

   I was thinking about our conversation with Major General Webster, when a multi-colored Volkswagen pulled out in front of us from Windsor Lane, and I stepped on the brake. The pedal went to the floor, and the VW shot across in front of us like a fat, jet-powered kaleidoscope, barely missing my front fender.

   "Jesus!" Phoebe breathed.

   I tried the brake again with the same result. "Uh oh."

   "What?" she said, still pressing a hand to her chest.

   "We got serious trouble."

   She looked down at my pumping right foot as I wound past Randel Court, then West Pennington, gathering speed. "What's wrong with the brakes?"

   "They're obviously on vacation." The rat I smelled could wait until we were safely in Phoebe's driveway. "It's okay, no problem." I pulled the emergency brake release handle and pressed slightly on the small rubber pedal below it. I wanted her to know that I had the situation well in hand ... or in foot. The Falcon had not slowed, and the tires were beginning to squeal around the corners. "Hold on," I told her, pressing the brake down a bit further. I had a sharp sense of foreboding as the Falcon continued to accelerate through the inclines of Huntington Avenue. There was no leveling of the roadway until far past the entrance to Leatherwood Landing. I tried to call up the map in my head so that I could plan a way to stop the car with the least damage to us or it.

   "Jobeth -- " Phoebe reached over and clamped a hand on my shoulder.

   I grabbed the gear shift and tried to pull it into third, but the gearshift broke off in my hand. I heard Phoebe moan. "It's okay; I've got an idea." The idea I had was to think very quickly of an idea. But I didn't tell her this.

   I saw the kid with the basketball over the next rise as I topped the one before it. I laid on the horn and hoped he heard, as there wouldn't be much time to swerve if he was there when the Falcon crested the hill at Avondale. My hands tensed on the wheel, and I tried to remember my field training of seeing all things simultaneously -- the enemy could pop up anywhere, and I had to be prepared to fire in a split-second. Only, this boy with the basketball was not the enemy, and I did not want to make him a target for this Ford bullet.

   A flash of orange appeared in front of me, and I swerved to the left and back again, missing the boy and also the oncoming van. Phoebe released a long-held breath with a gasp. I knew without taking my eyes off the road that she was hanging onto the armrest for dear life.

   We shot past Leatherwood Landing, and I took the curve that led out of Nichols Hills and became 72nd street. Classen Boulevard was one street over and that intersection was deadly even with the benefit of brakes. But 72nd, thankfully or otherwise, was a dead end. I glanced at the speedometer: 55. I threw the Falcon around the corner and onto 72nd, knowing the street was only two blocks long, and knowing the end was near, so to speak. I hoped the car had slowed enough. The speedometer read 40 mph.

   Phoebe whispered something prayerful as she saw where we were headed. We bumped over the curb that bordered the woods beyond the dead end, and I grabbed Phoebe by the back of the neck, pulling her down in the seat as we came down hard on something and then smashed forward into the trees.

     Chapter 19

   I don't think I was out very long; maybe not at all. There was a short sensation of dimness that brightened again. I must have fallen down on top of Phoebe when I pulled her over, since I felt her under me when I came back to my senses. The gear shift was on the floor next to Phoebe.

   Carefully, I pushed myself up onto the seat and reached down to touch her on the back. "Phoebe?" She didn't answer, her body pressed into the floorboard like a sack of potatoes. My heart lurched, and I thought I was going to be sick. "Phoebe?" She groaned then, lifting a tremulous hand up to the dashboard. I helped her up, and we sat in the seat a few moments, assessing the condition of our bodies. I felt shaken but mostly unhurt. I looked over at her. She had her right hand to her forehead, and I tilted her chin in my direction. She had a laceration over her right eye, just above the eyebrow. She must have clipped the edge of the ashtray on the way down. "Are you okay?"

   She took a trembling breath. "I ... I think so ... Are you?"

   "I seem to be."

   We both leaned back against the seat and stared out over the hood, crumpled toward us, its nose clamped around an oak tree. Bark and limbs and leaves lay across the burnt sienna-colored hood. I could see and hear the steam rising from the radiator.

   "It's a good thing you pulled me down in the seat."

   I nodded. I had a fleeting thought about knowing what it was like to be a crash-test dummy. But if I was going to be a dummy, I wanted it to be a choice I had made and not because of a son-of-a-bitch who liked to play nasty. I reached for the door handle and pushed the door open with some extra effort. It croaked in pain as I pushed it wide enough to get out. My knees wobbled when I stood up, but I stepped through the dead sticks and dry psychedelic leaves. Without stooping to look under, I knew that the axle was broken by the way the wheel fell inward at the top, and the last vaporous breath spewed from the radiator. The Falcon had come down hard on a large hump of bedrock before it had lunged into the tree. I felt suddenly lost, as if a beloved pet had just been run down by a diesel truck. I found myself breathing hard and fighting the mist that swelled in my eyes.

   I heard Phoebe get out and come around the back to join me. "It's totaled, Jobeth."

   "I know." I turned to look at her, and her face was ashen. "You need to go to the hospital." I looked behind us at the house nearest the dead end. A woman was hurrying over to us in jeans and a T-shirt.

   "Is anyone hurt?" she asked, puffing.

   "My friend, here, needs to go to the hospital. Can I use your phone?"

   "Oh, I already called 911 ... They're on their way ... Can I get you anything?"

   I looked back at Phoebe. Her head was bleeding freely, and she was holding herself, shivering in the cold winter breeze. I climbed back in the Falcon and got the bandanna from the back window ledge, calling her over to sit in the seat. I applied direct pressure to the wound and we waited for the police.

     * * * *

I went with Phoebe in the ambulance, and while she was being treated in a room down the corridor, I gave more details to the officer that followed us to Baptist Med. I told him that the brakes had gone out and the gear shift had broken off, and that I had reason to suspect foul play. When he asked me for a name of the responsible party, I backed off, telling him I had no proof. He said he'd have the police mechanic check it out and get back to me later if he had more questions. He told me that the Falcon would be in police impound, when I wanted to get my belongings from it.

   While I waited for Phoebe, I tried to regain my reasoning faculties. I knew that Steve was responsible, but of course, I couldn't prove it. And he would not be stupid enough to leave fingerprints. It had been his face I saw in the window of the court door, and he disappeared after that because he'd already cut the brake line and probably sawed through the gear shift. He just wanted to see us one last time before he sent us to our great reward.

   I was devising a plan to gain evidence of this when Phoebe wandered out of the first examining room. She half-smiled at me, and then went to sign a bunch of papers with the RN. I called a cab, and it was waiting outside when she had finished.

   "Where to, ladies?" the cabbie asked.

   "Nichols Hills, Leatherwood Landing," I told him. "Then to the country club."

   He started the meter and pulled out of the lot as Phoebe turned to question me. "Why are you going back there?"

   "I want to question some people."

   "Like who?" She smoothed the tape holding the gauze bandage over her right eye.

   "Like the security guard, and the guy at the front desk, and the equipment manager."

   "Why?"

   "I didn't say anything at the time, but I could have sworn that person looking in the window at the court was Steve."

   She lifted her eyebrows, squinting at the discomfort. "Why would he be there?"

   I looked over at her pointedly. "My brakes were fine until today. And a gear shift doesn't just break off in your hand for no reason." I could see understanding sweep across her face. She was silent for a few blocks, then she leaned up and told the cabbie to go to the country club first.

   "Phoebe, you need to go home and lie down."

   "No, what I need to do is go with you to the club. People know me there. I can get you in to see all of them."

   Once again, it was hard to argue with her matter-of-fact reasoning.

     * * * *

I tried to pay the cab fare but Phoebe stopped me, pulling a twenty from her wallet and telling him to keep the change. We went inside. The clerk was on the phone behind a glass-walled office. He waved at us to wait and finished the conversation, moving up to the desk. He frowned at Phoebe's bandage. "What happened, Ms. McMasters?"

   "We were involved in an accident."

   "Except it wasn't an accident," I added.

   He looked back and forth between us.

   "We need to ask you a few questions, Billy."

   "Sure. Anything. What do you need to know?"

   She cued me with a glance. "Did you see Steve Hanson while we were playing racquetball earlier?"

   I realized I had forgotten to ask what Steve's last name was. I knew Phoebe had kept her maiden name. For what it was worth, I knew now.

   The young clerk looked at Phoebe. "Your husband?" She nodded. "Well, yeah, I think he was here. But I was on the phone. He walked past the desk without even looking at me."

   "How long was he here?"

   "Well, I had just hung up the phone when he came out and I said hello, but he kept going. He was ... sort of ... smiling real weird."

   Phoebe and I looked at each other knowingly.

   "Can you tell us anything else about him?" I asked. "Anything unusual?"

   He looked toward the door as if the information were written on it. "Not ... not really, other than he didn't notice me. He usually stops for a chat about the Sooners game or something."

   "If you think of anything else," I said, taking a piece of paper from the scratch pad, and writing my name and Phoebe's number on it, "would you give us a call?"

   He took the paper and looked at it. "Sure."

   We thanked him and went inside to see the equipment manager. Arnie was a weight lifter, tall, thick, and Swedish-looking, his blond hair falling just to his shoulders. I could tell he was sweet on Phoebe, so I let her ask the questions. He denied having seen Steve at all, even though his office was near the front entrance to the courts. There was a back hallway that led to the far side of the courts, and the one we were playing in was the nearest to that hallway. Phoebe squeezed his hand in thanks and we left.

   At the gate, the guard recognized Phoebe, and she said she needed to ask him a few questions. He invited us into the booth, and I asked him if he would first call us a cab. He was happy to oblige, offering coffee from the stained Bunn in the corner. We declined the coffee, and I asked the same questions of him. He remembered distinctly that Steve had come through, and better yet, thought how nice it was of him to repair that lady's car. The car, of course, being a rust-colored Falcon. I added his name and number and comments to my notebook, and we chatted with him until the cab arrived.

     * * * *

It was dark when the cabbie pulled up in the circle drive of the manor. Phoebe paid the fare again, and we went in through the front entrance. She handed me her duster, and I hung both our coats on the inside hooks of the foyer closet door while she headed for the fireplace and began to stack logs. I went to the kitchen to make real coffee.

   By six, we were perched on the sofa in front of a roaring fire, holding our coffee mugs and starting to feel the effects of having been thrown into the floorboard of the Falcon.

   "I should have trusted my instincts and checked the engine before we left the club," I said, more to myself than to her.

   "Don't start flogging yourself about that. How could you have guessed what he did? You weren't even sure you saw him in the window."

   "It's my job to deduce things like that."

   "Well, I think that comes with experience, my dear." She saw my expression. "No offense. I wouldn't call you seasoned, would you?"

   I took a drink without responding, and she leaned over. "I'd call you hot, but not seasoned."

   "Don't pander to me, woman."

   She laughed, kissing me on the cheek. "I love you, J-Bo."

   She always knew exactly when to use that pet name, too. It spoiled my resolve. "So how's your head?"

   "It's pounding a bit, but I took about eight hundred milligrams of Motrin a few minutes ago. It'll be okay."

   I thought of the Falcon, impaled with the trunk of that tree. "You know, we could have been killed."

   She stared into the flames popping and dancing on the logs in the hearth. "I know. It's obvious that my soon-to-be-ex-husband is a very dangerous man. I was thinking about calling my lawyer and getting a restraining order or a peace bond -- something."

   "You think that would stop him?"

   "Probably not. But it would be something legal and down on paper in case..."

   "In case he's successful next time?"

   "Something like that." She sipped her dark roast.

   I could picture my fingers around his neck, squeezing, my thumbs on his larynx, pushing, shutting off air. "I'm going to stop him before he gets a chance. Believe me."

   "I believe you," she said simply.

   We spent the evening munching on deli sandwiches and talking about what came next.

     * * * *

By nine the next morning, I was on my way to the shopping center in Lakewood. Phoebe had insisted I take her car in lieu of traipsing about town in taxi cabs. She gave me her extra set of keys, and I didn't argue.

   I knew from the papers we had crowbarred out of the filing cabinets that night that Stacey bought most of her office supplies at a discount place called Office Warehouse. I parked Phoebe's Caddy near the front doors and went inside.

   In the computer and electronics section, I looked over all the electronic secretaries and daybooks. There were only two that matched the size Hal Webster had given me, and only one of those was mostly black. I studied the pamphlet that lay beside the mechanism, and decided it was the most likely candidate. A clerk appeared and asked if he could help. "Does this model let you transfer data to another unit just like it?"

   "Sure," he said. "If you have the right patch cords."

   "Well, if you find me those patch cords and complete information on how to do that, I'll write the check."

   His reaction told me that he worked on commission. I wrote my first check of almost four hundred dollars from the expense account that Phoebe had set up for me, and left the store knowing that I was another step closer to nailing Stacey, and by association, Steve.

     * * * *

I brought the Palmtop PC home and spent the rest of the day familiarizing myself with its operation. Phoebe had more computer experience than I did, and she was a big help in answering questions. While I worked at the kitchen table, Phoebe made potato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch, and stroganoff for dinner, after I told her it was my favorite. The police department called and informed us that, lo and behold, the brake line had been cut and the gear shift had been sawed halfway through, and asked if we wanted an investigation. I told them to put it on the back burner, and made a call to Hal Webster. He offered to help in any way he could.

   We ate dinner and shared some wine, and I told Phoebe that I intended to break another law.

   "You know, you'd better not make this a habit, Jobeth. Next time you get caught, it might not be someone that's on our side."

   "It most definitely won't be someone on our side, since it's Stacey's house I'm going to break into." I didn't like the idea, after our experience with the brake line. But this newest dangerous situation seemed like a cinch.

   I got up to take the garbage out to the garage, while she finished washing the dishes. While I was out there, something caught my eye. In the corner of the garage was a little yellow table with a seat attached to it. When I moved a box away from it, I saw that it was an electric pottery wheel.

   "Phoebe," I said, stepping back into the kitchen. "I didn't know you made pottery."

   She seemed surprised, then realized what I had found. "Oh! That wheel!" She dried her hands and came to the doorway. "I haven't thrown pottery on that thing in ... gosh ... several years." She brushed past me into the garage and pulled the wheel out into an open area. "Let's play. Want to?"

   "I'll just watch you."

   She seemed like a little girl, searching through boxes. "I know I have a bag of clay in here somewhere -- ah!" She pulled a heavy transparent bag out of a small box, lugging the gray square over to the wheel. "I used to do this all the time. Somewhere along the way, I just stopped."

   I remembered the handmade objects scattered throughout the house. "You did that lamp upstairs, and those mugs by the coffeemaker?"

   "Yep. Back when I still knew how to do this." She plopped a rounded chunk of gray clay on the center of the wheel, and then went rummaging through another box. She brought a handful of tools and an airy, hole-riddled sponge back to the seat. She sent me inside for a bowl of water, and when I brought the water bowl back out, she plunged the elephant-ear sponge into the water and saturated the clay. Pressing her hands on either side of the blob, she held it firmly against the wobble of the clay on the spinning wheel. I pulled a miniature step ladder over and sat down next to her. When the clay stopped wobbling and spun evenly between her hands, she braced her right hand with her left, and opened a small hole in the center of the clay, periodically sponging more water onto the shape to keep it moist. As she pulled gently from the center hole, the clay body opened up and suddenly there was a shallow bowl shape. I was already impressed with the result, but she continued, placing fingers on either side of the wall and pulling upward. The clay followed in a miraculous, flowing movement until it metamorphosed into a cylindrical shape.

   There was something so erotic about watching her form a vessel from a wad of shapeless mud. She worked with the piece for long moments, shaping, caressing, and coaxing it until it came alive in her hands. I had felt the magic of those hands, and I envied the clay.

   Finally, she was content with it, and after smoothing the rim with a tiny strip of chamois, she pressed the foot pedal into the stop position, and the bowl eased to a stop. It seemed perfect, and I was about to make that comment when she sighed, "It's lopsided."

   "Lopsided?"

   "Yeah, it's off-CENTER. But then, I'm out of practice."

   "It looks great to me."

   She squeezed water from the sponge around the base of the vessel and picked up a small board she had leaned against the chassis of the wheel. Then she took a thin wire with wooden handles at both ends and slid the wire under the vase to loosen it. She did this several times. "This is called 'floating' it off," she told me. She doused the wheel surface with water again and pushed gently at the base with the vase between her thumb and forefinger. The vessel moved toward her, and she placed the board at the edge of the wheel and slid the piece off the wheel and onto the board. It was the same premise as hydro-planing your car on a rainy bridge.

   "You want to try?" she asked, setting the board with the vase on the floor. "I'll help you get it CENTERed."

   I had to laugh. Nothing in my life had ever been CENTERed. It seemed a blasphemy to try creating a symbol of it. "I don't think so."

   "Oh, come on. It'll be fun. I'll show you." She got up and directed me to sit in the chair. She sponged up the excess water and left the thin film of clay on the wheel where she had cut away her vase. She plopped a another clump of clay onto the slice in the center of the wheel, and I looked at it like it was a bug I wanted to kill, but was afraid of the mess. "Okay, what you do is wet your hands and then press them equally on both sides until it stops wobbling." I dunked my hands in the muddy water in the bowl and she turned the wheel on again, holding her hands over mine. The clay was slick, and I could feel tiny sandy grains scratching through my palms. "Okay," she was saying. "Press hard enough to control it -- " Control ... now that was something I was familiar with. I pressed on the clay and it wobbled crazily, crescendoing until the top half of it ripped away from the bottom. I held the severed clump in my hands and looked back in her direction as she leaned her forehead on my shoulder.

   She sighed, standing upright. "See? You can't always control everything." Her lips curled into a smirk.

   I got up, stepping away from the seat, and smeared both my hands on her cheeks. She returned the gesture, and we traded blows with the goop and wet blobs of clay. A moment later, we were covered in a muddy film and laughing.

   I raced her to the shower.

     * * * *

As the steam rose all around us, I rubbed the bar of oatmeal soap all over her skin. Phoebe propped her hands on the tile as if waiting for me to frisk her. When she finished rinsing off, I kissed her and worked my way down to my knees, where I nuzzled her open. She held the top of my head and as I worked on her erogenous zones, the spray misted my face, and streams of water ran down her stomach filtering through the place where my mouth met her tender, pink folds. A person could drown like this, I thought, but what a way to go.

   Just as I felt her sensations climbing, she pulled me up and dropped to her knees, returning the favor. It took only a few seconds for me to realize that I had never enjoyed this particular game, and did not realize how unwilling my legs were to support me. I braced my hands on opposite tiled walls and tried to stay upright, but my knees kept buckling. She giggled at me and stood up again. "Shall I get you a chair, my love?"

   I gave her a wet slap on the arm. "I think we should adjourn to the bed."

   She reached for the shower door and stepped out while I turned off the water. When I came out, she grabbed my arms and swung me to the floor, falling on top of me, kissing me. She reached over to the bottom drawer of the cabinet and pulled out a long white plastic object that I immediately recognized as a battery-powered vibrator. "Oh, my God. You never told me you had one of these."

   "I forgot until just now."

   "Are you planning to use that thing on me?"

   "Actually, I was hoping you would do the honors..." She put the mechanism in my hand and twisted the bottom of it until it whirred to life. My heart pumped so fast I felt an arrhythmia interrupt a beat. I smiled and pushed her over so that her back was against the front of my body. I put my left arm under her neck, folding it over so that I could finger her right nipple, and with my right hand, I pushed the vibrator between her legs from behind, placing the tip of it against her clitoris. She began to move back against me in tempo, sighing audibly, her right hand reaching back to my side, gripping, caressing.

   I rubbed the tip of the vibrator up and down through her folds. "God!" she said on a short breath. I eased the phallic tool inside her, still working on her nipple with my left hand. She began to buck against me, straining to have it deeper. I tilted the vibrator in the direction of her G-spot, and she exploded. A garbled scream ripped from her throat, and I felt her juices bath my hand. I turned off the vibration with a twist at the base and removed it from her. She whimpered to have it back, and I quickly replaced it with two fingers. "Oh, yes..." she cooed. I kissed her shoulder and waited for her Kegel muscles to slow their undulating movements.

   A moment later, she rolled over and pulled me on top of her, wrapping her arms around me in a full hug. "My God, woman, I love what you do to me."

   At times like this, I felt most complete.

     Chapter 20

   I reasoned with Phoebe, wore her down with my rationale. Finally she agreed to stay home. One person could get in and out a lot faster than two. The boutique was different; no one was supposed to be there. But I would have to get into Stacey's house after she got home, and try to avoid getting caught red-handed.

   I parked down the street from the boutique, and although I couldn't see the front, I could see when and if she locked up. Whether or not she'd go home to stay, or leave and come back, or never leave at all, was up for grabs. The woman was at least partly human and needed sleep like the rest of us. Myself not included. I had to laugh at my own lie.

   As I sat in front of the Ye Olde Daisy Shoppe florist, I wondered if maybe she had already gone home. Since the DMV only had her fake address, all I could do was hope she'd appear so that I could tail her to her to lair-sweet-lair.

   It was getting cold in the Caddy, and I couldn't chance starting the engine. But it was surprisingly pleasant to know that I didn't have to do the route anymore. I was good at it, but I had to admit, to myself at least, that anyone could handle it with a little practice. And that quiet time I used on the route to do my deducting and planning was just as easily done in my new basement headquarters that Phoebe had so generously provided.

   I was on my last cup of coffee from the thermos and fantasizing about that warm Jacuzzi back at Phoebe's -- with Phoebe in it, naturally -- when the door to the boutique opened. It was Steve, and he glanced both directions and into the alley where I usually parked my now-deceased Falcon, the bastard. He went around the far end of the building toward the lot across the street. I lost sight of him for a few moments, until I saw the beam from the headlights of his Jaguar. He turned away from me on the same street in the direction of May Avenue.

   It was a judgement call, and I probably let my personal vendetta fire up the Caddy and follow him. To hell with Stacey, I thought. Steve would pull her operation down if I got the goods on him, just as easily as she would if I got the goods on her. And I wanted to nail his ass.

   I stayed several cars behind him, which wasn't difficult in the Friday-midnight cruising traffic. He turned North on May Avenue, and I was careful not to lose him. The dark gray Jag made no turns for three and a half miles, and then he turned East on 93rd, a street that split the Village -- another well-to-do subdivision -- in half. I followed him past the Village Shopping Center, and left on Ridgeview. He paused at a stop sign and made a right on Barclay. I waited a few blocks away and watched him park on the side of the road, get out, and go inside a dark brick house.

   When the coast was clear, I snailed past the house, glancing at the mailbox. In silver letters, was the name. 'S. Wright.' _I love it when my judgement calls pan out._

   I continued past the house and realized the Cadillac stuck out like a sore thumb. I would have to park it somewhere far enough away so that it could not be identified by Steve should he drive past when he leaves. I found a cul-de-sac four blocks away and parked with the headlights facing the entrance so that the plate wouldn't show. Hitting the automatic lock as I got out, I started down the street toward Stacey's house. The wind had picked up, and I pulled the collar of my jacket up around my neck, aware of how much warmer the suede was than the padded vest I had been wearing for so long. I snapped the jogger's pouch around my waist and pulled the leather gloves from inside, putting them on as I walked.

   A small dog barked as I passed a house, and then all the neighbor dogs followed suit, until I was sure they would announce not only my progress, but my arrival at Stacey's. The last few houses were quiet, and I thanked a higher power for the pet-haters that were probably saving my butt. I wondered if Stacey had a dog and pictured a pit bull. _Shit. That's all I need._ A few minutes later, cold and anxious, I arrived at 1303 Barclay. I crept around to the back, slipping inside the wooden gate, my eyes peeled for a canine of any sort. I saw no evidence of one and moved under the back windows and onto the patio.

   There were sliding glass doors there, covered by thick drapes, but I could see through a crack in the side. I peeked in carefully and saw a glass and brass coffee table with a brass elephant in the CENTER. There was a pack of cigarettes and a gold lighter next to a glass ashtray. I leaned away when I saw a shadow seeping toward my line of vision. Steve carried a bottle of wine and two glasses into the living room from what I assumed was the kitchen, and sat down on the orchid-printed sofa. He pulled the cap off and twisted a corkscrew into the top, saying something to someone I guessed was Stacey. I couldn't discern his words, but his manner was cocky and flirtatious. The scenario was obvious, and although I wasn't surprised, I still found it hard to imagine what Stacey would want with a man who had trouble getting a hard-on with a wife as sexy as Phoebe.

   She swept past the slit in the curtain, then, from a hallway leading back into the side of the house where I had come from, her blazing red hair loose and soft-looking. She was barefoot, wearing a red teddy beneath a white chiffon robe, a wolfish leer perched on her lips. He looked up and grinned like a lusty teenager. She went over to the coffee table and picked up the two goblets and started backing into the hallway again. I looked back at the sound of spattering leaves blowing across the carport, and back again through the slit in the drapes. He followed her as if connected by indiscernible 20-pound test line.

   They disappeared into what I assumed was the bedroom, and I reached for the indention on the glass door, hoping it would be unlocked. I stopped suddenly, as I heard Stacey re-emerge. She trotted to the coffee table and picked up the cigarettes, pausing to look at the front door on the other side of the room. She moved in that direction to a box on the wall, pressed some buttons, then returned to the bedroom.

   _Shit. A burglar alarm._ I hadn't even considered it. Now, it was too late, as I was sure she had just activated it. I had no idea how to get in without tripping it. I couldn't pull that ruse of going to the door and pretending to be someone else, because they both knew me. I would just have to think of something else. What that something else was, had me stumped.

   I leaned back against the outside wall of the patio, shivering slightly in the cold air, blowing into my gloves over my face to warm my cheeks, and tried to conjure my creativity.

   After a moment, I moved back around the side of the house, pausing beneath the bedroom window at the sounds of passion already in progress. Steve's hormones must have preferred red-headed madams to blondes with brains, looks, and personality. Peeking around to the front driveway, I saw the BMW parked there. _Stacey would drive a Beemer_, I thought. _She probably had a burglar alarm on it, too._ I smiled to myself, my feet already moving in the direction of the car.

   I stopped several feet away from the front bumper, testing how near I could get to it with a probing foot, moving it closer by increments, as if I were searching for landmines. When I stood only a few inches away from it, with no result, I glanced toward the front windows, watching for any sign of Stacey or Steve. Okay, so I knew it wasn't a motion-detector alarm. I moved around to the driver's side door. Inside, there was one of those Club-things fastened to the steering wheel. It looked like my plan was not so hot after all. I leaned forward, shading my eyes from the glare of the street lamp, pressing the edge of my hands to the window to look inside. The air was sliced in half by a shrill air horn, and I knew I'd hit paydirt. I turned and sprinted to the opposite side of the house, pressing myself to the bricks just around the corner.

   A few seconds later, the front door flew open and Steve came out in his unbuttoned jeans, followed by Stacey in that flimsy robe that covered but didn't hide a thing. They moved off the porch and over to the Beemer, and I crept behind them and inside the house, dashing into the foyer closet and holding my breath.

   Eventually, the shrieking alarm stopped, and they both came back inside.

   "Probably just kids," I heard Steve say.

   "I'm going to shoot the next one that gets near my car," she spat. They secured the door, and Stacey told him to wait while she reset the alarm. Steve whispered something that made her chuckle knowingly, and they went back to the bedroom.

   I tried not to pat myself on the back until I got what I came for. I opened the door a crack and studied the room. I could see the sliding glass doors that emptied onto the patio, the dining room table next to the glass doors. I pushed the closet door open slowly and crept toward the end of the sofa nearest the front window, where her purse lay. I opened the dyed leather bag and searched through it quietly, keeping my ears cocked for another emergence from the boudoir. If the squeaking bedsprings and grunting and moaning were any indication, I had at least a few more minutes. I prayed for uncharacteristic potency on Steve's part.

   I found nothing of interest in her purse, and scanned the room for a briefcase. I had a sense of dread when I considered the possibility that it might be in the bedroom. I crept along the hall, careful to keep to the wall in case there were loose boards. My shoulder jostled a picture-frame, but I caught it before it fell and replaced it with a silent sigh of relief. I dropped to my hands and knees and pushed the door wide enough for me to crawl through and scan the dim room.

   The alligator briefcase was waiting for me on the Windsor chair in front of Stacey's vanity. I glanced up and could see the outline of Steve's bare rear-end pumping away to the tempo of Stacey's groans. Wishing I had some magic dust that would render them frozen in time, I crawled over to the chair and lifted the case cautiously from the seat, making sure they were still at it before I secured it under my arm and crawled awkwardly back to the door.

   For lack of a better place, I wound up back in the closet by the front door. I fished in my kangaroo pouch for the penlight and clicked it on before bracing it between my teeth. I put my thumbs on the latches of the briefcase and pushed. No go. I pushed again just for good measure. I told myself it was no problem, as long as these locks weren't like the ones on the filing cabinets -- I had not brought the crowbar this time.

   I rummaged in my pouch again and came up with the small leather case of lock tools. It took only a few minutes to get both latches open. I took a deep breath, listening for the sounds from the bedroom, then opened the lid.

   The Palmtop was snuggled between a hairbrush, a checkbook, and several file folders. It was identical to my own. My hands, shaking with excitement, began to patch the cords into receptacles of each machine. I had memorized the process for downloading from one unit to another, and in another minute, the process began, a "Please Wait" message flashing on my screen. I clicked off the penlight and waited.

   Ten minutes later, I heard Stacey cry out as she reached climax, and I knew it would not be long before one or both of them were on their way to the bathroom. I waited in the ensuing silence of afterglow, and then to the sounds of stirring, a bladder being emptied, water running. I closed the lid of the briefcase to stifle the light of the LCD screens. From the direction of the patio doors, I heard the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing, a pop-top can being opened, and a loud belch. Steve. Unless Stacey was more uncouth than I imagined. Footsteps back to the bedroom. When I lifted the lid of the case again, the downloading was complete.

   I hastily unhooked the patch cords, securing the blessed Palmtop in my pouch, while I put Stacey's back in the manner I had found it. I leafed through her checkbook and browsed the files for good measure, coming across a brown envelope marked 'Pending.' Nothing could be more valuable than what I already had; valuable, that is, if I got away with it. But I opened the envelope and shook its contents out into the briefcase. I recognized him immediately. The woman with him was unfamiliar, but the man in the photos was definitely Major-General Webster. They were explicit enough to wreck any man's marriage and his career in the Army in one fell swoop. The negatives were enclosed in a plastic sleeve, and I took all the photos and negatives and put them in my jacket pocket. If nothing else, I would be able to help one of my clients.

   I clicked the latches shut and peeked out the door.

   I was almost to the bedroom when I heard someone get up, and I had no where to go but the hall closet. I slipped inside and covered my mouth as if to shut myself up, lest I blurt something out in some temporary bout with Turrett's Syndrome. Her shadow filled the louvered door, and the door opened abruptly, as I leaned way back. She reached in to grab a washcloth, and went into the bathroom, while I tried to get my breath back. My heart had not raced this fast since that time in the hot tub when Phoebe -- I curtailed the thought, knowing I had to concentrate on the situation I was in right now. She spent the next five minutes in the bathroom, running water and doing God-knew-what, while I shored up my patience and waited.

   When she finally returned to the bedroom, I slid down onto the floor and did some breathing exercises to calm my nerves. I couldn't afford any mistakes now. It wasn't long before the slap and tickle began again, and I heard their merriment turn to serious physical endeavor. I crawled out of the linen closet and down the few feet of hallway to the bedroom door, which she had left open enough so that I could hide behind it and still peek around it. I saw Stacey's bare back, her head tossed to and fro as she rode Steve in a rodeo of ecstasy.

   On hands and knees, I returned the case to the chair and made my way back to the bedroom door just as Stacey began to talk dirty.

   Once in the hallway, I stood up and moved toward the front door, wanting only to grab the knob and dash outside. I considered this a viable option, since I could be blocks away with my bounty before Steve could pry Stacey's writhing body off him and investigate the tripped alarm. They wouldn't think it was kids this time, though, since the door would be opened from the inside. And the first place Steve would go was to Phoebe's --

   And what if something went wrong, and I couldn't get the door open at all? What if there were locks I didn't know about? I considered the risk of staying overnight and slipping out the next morning. I checked the door. There was a deadbolt and a chain and the lock in the knob. Would the alarm go off if I touched them? I filed an order in my head to make myself more knowledgeable about security systems.

   I laid a hand on the kangaroo pouch protectively. If I stayed in the foyer closet, I would surely be found out when I nodded off and they reached inside for their coats. I could be wide awake, and they'd still catch me in that tiny closet. I had to chance the door. Swallowing, I reached for the chain -- my action halted by a vivid image of Steve breaking into the manor and hurting Phoebe. As if that weren't enough reason to keep my butt in that closet all night, I also knew that the only way to beat Steve and Stacey at their own game, was to never let them know you're a player. I didn't want them to have advanced notice when the cops served a warrant.

   Dreadfully, I knew I would have to find a hiding place and stick around until the alarm was off again. _Shit. And if I get caught with these goods, this would be my last night among the living._ I still didn't know if Stacey played the kind of hard-ball that included bumping people off. But it was an easy transition to make, when I recalled that pistol-whipping I received and those shotgun blasts in the parking garage.

   I considered the floor plan. Where could I hide without much chance of being noticed? Under the table? Behind the sofa? I'd always believed that the best place to hide is some place obvious, because no one thinks to look there. From the bedroom behind me, I could hear Stacey whimpering in cadence with the bedsprings. _Bedsprings ... a bed with bedsprings was on a bed frame, usually ... which meant ... _ I turned back to the bedroom and dropped to my hands and knees. Steve lay flat on his back, one hand behind his head, one hand behind Stacey's as her mouth siphoned him as if he were the fountain of youth and she had a face full of wrinkles. I low-crawled to the foot of the bed and lifted the edge of the comforter they had kicked into a bunch. I turned over on my back, grabbed the bed frame and slid myself under like a mechanic on a crawler. Dust bunnies descended on my face like Lilliputians, and I pinched my nose to keep from sneezing, aware of a whole new realm of ways to get caught.

   The springs were swelling toward me in tempo with Stacey's crusade to regain a serviceable tool. "C'mon Stevie..." she cooed between gorgings. "I need that hard, red boner."

   I smiled in spite of myself. Maybe I wasn't far off base after all; maybe Steve's trouble was doing it more than once. That would explain Phoebe's dissatisfaction; she was tired of waiting for those capillaries to fill.

   "C'mon, Steve -- "

   "I'm trying, dammit! You're not -- you've got to do it right -- _ow!"_

   I covered my mouth before I laughed out loud. Evidently, Stacey didn't like being criticized.

   "Ow!" he said again. "Take it easy, Stacey!"

   "I'll take it the way I want it, you son-of-a-bitch!"

   There was a scuffle of sorts on the bed.

   "You've had it once already," he said.

   "No, you've had it once. I wasn't there yet before you shot your wad. Now if you're not man enough to do the job, I can get someone who is."

   There was a crack of palm against skin, and Steve cursed her soundly, the bed rumbling with his movements.

   "Let me go, Steve." Her voice was low and menacing.

   "You bitch. I've done all your dirty work for you, and now you treat me like an errand boy!"

   "That's what you are, Steve. And when I give you special privileges, you can't even keep a hard-on!"

   Growling, more movement. A body being flopped over. A muffled sound of a face in the pillow. "I'll show you a special privilege, bitch!"

   She growled, cursing him, and there was more struggle on the bed. My mind offered me a clear picture of the scenario taking place above me as the entire bed lurched foreword, the headboard banging the wall, and Stacey screamed at him from deep in her throat. "How's that, Madam Bitch? Huh?" The headboard banged again and stopped as Stacey cursed him, and I heard him deliver another slap.

   I had no affection for Stacey, but I did not relish the idea of standing by while a woman was raped -- any woman. Why was I suddenly faced with these moral dilemmas? I reached for the side of the bed frame, but stopped when I saw Stacey's hand flutter over the edge, as if in search of something. I had not noticed the leather pouch at the edge of the bed. Her fingers closed around the handle of the automatic, and she pulled it out. I was frozen for that instant until I heard the shot. There was a gurgling sound, and Steve landed to my left on the floor beside the bed. His face was distorted with surprise; I suspected more because he knew he was dying than because he happened to see me lying there. His eyes closed slowly, and he was still.

   I turned my head back to look at the bedsprings as my whole body began to shake, feeling the cold breath of mortality on my neck. I made a valiant effort to calm my breathing as Stacey pulled herself off the bed, her bare feet padding around to stand beside Steve's body. She reached down and checked for a pulse. "Bastard," she spat, taking her hand away. I heard her pick up the receiver from the phone on the bedside table and punch in a number. She sniffed and said, "Tommy, get over to my house. I need your help." She replaced the receiver quickly and stood there beside Steve's lifeless body for a moment before she left the bedroom.

   I took a deep breath and noticed the tiny trail of blood seeping out from under Steve's chest, heading for me. I reached for the bed frame at the other side and slid out, not missing the fact that she had not replaced the automatic in the holster she had stashed under the bed. If she caught me now, I was history.

   I crept to the door of the bedroom and peeked out. I heard her pouring a drink. She moved past the hall toward the sofa and I heard her plop down, sniffing. "Son-of-a-bitch," she was mumbling.

   I looked around the dim bedroom at the windows. They might be wired to the alarm. If I got back under the bed, I might be discovered when Tommy-whomever cleaned up the blood. I had to get out of that house. I moved down the hallway and slipped into the linen closet.

   While I tried to assimilate everything that happened, Tommy arrived, and I knew Stacey deactivated the alarm to let him in. I waited until she gave him a quick explanation.

   "Shit, Stacey. What do ya want me to do?"

   "Get rid of him, you stupid fuck."

   "Where?"

   "I'm gonna show you where. Just get him."

   They both went into the bedroom, their shadows falling across the louvered door as they passed. Peeking out, I made sure they were out of sight before I slipped down the hall and out the front door.

   I ran all the way back to the Caddy and drove like a demon to the bus stop at the corner of 93rd and Western, careful to avoid the route that Steve had taken down May Avenue. I pulled dimes from the change-holder in the console and left the motor running as I stepped out to dial Phoebe's number on the payphone.

   "Phoebe -- "

   "Jobeth? My God, it's after three. I've been worried sick that something happened -- "

   "Something did. Listen, get dressed -- "

   "Are you okay? Your voice is shaking."

   "I can't tell you over the phone," I huffed, breath-clouds rising away from the receiver of the phone. "Get a cab and ... and meet me ... at the bus stop on ... 93rd and Western."

   "I'll be right there," she said and hung up. I got back in the Caddy and turned up the heat, lighting a cigarette and sucking it hard.

     Chapter 21

   I watched in the rearview mirror as the cab pulled up behind me, its headlights shrinking into my bumper. Phoebe stepped out and slid into the passenger seat beside me. "Are you hurt?"

   "No. I'm fine."

   "Well, what happened? Did you get the information?"

   I took a deep, steadying breath, reaching for another cigarette. "Yes. I got all that information. But I don't think we're going to need it."My hands were shaking, and I had trouble lighting my cigarette.

   "Baby..." she reached over and clasped my right hand in hers. "You're shaking -- "

   "I know." I drew on the cigarette, trying to think of the best way to impart the information.

   "Did you have another run-in with Steve?"

   "Steve's dead, Phoebe." I swallowed and looked over at her. The shock crossed her face, and was replaced by fear.

   "Oh my God, did you kill him?"

   "No. No, I didn't kill him. Stacey killed him. And I saw the whole thing."

   She pressed a hand to her lips for a moment. "Stacey..."

   "She shot him. He was ... he was dead when I sneaked out."

   "God." She leaned back against the seat and took a deep breath. Her brow furrowed. "Why ... what was he doing there?"

   "They were um ... together..." _Oh, that was smooth. Use a scrawny euphemism to tell Phoebe that her husband, hated though he is, was banging a red-headed, black-mailing, madam-turned-murderess._

   She ran a hand down her cheek like she was rubbing something off it, then rested her chin in her hand. "They ... she didn't know you were there?"

   I shook my head. "I had no idea she was capable of that ... he saw me, just before ... just before he died..." I pressed the fingers of one hand against my eyes, trying to erase the memory of his eyes ...

   We sat in silence for a long moment, then she asked,"What are we going to do now?"

   "I don't see how we can do anything except go to the police. Stacey called one of her goons ... a Tommy-someone ... and I imagine they're getting rid of Steve's car, and his body."

   Phoebe slid over in the seat and put her arms around me. "I'm so glad you're okay."

   "It was close." I kissed her cheek. "I think you're gonna have to drive to the police station. I'm still a mess."

   She nodded and got out as I slid over to the passenger side. She started the engine and headed downtown.

     * * * *

We were directed to a back corner of the squad room to a female detective's desk. "Detective Grant?" She looked up from her file of papers. "The officer at the front desk said we should speak to you."

   She turned a page in the file and glanced up at me briefly, then looked up at me again for a long moment before looking back at her papers. "Have a seat. What can I help you with?"

   We pulled two chairs over and sat down. Detective Grant was a stocky, well-dressed woman somewhere in her early thirties. I decided immediately that she was family, hoping my radar was not rusted beyond function. She wore black jeans and leather shoes and a black sweater with a pink shirt under it. She didn't wear makeup, but didn't seem to require any, either. Her complexion was olive, complementing her dark hair, framed with a sprinkle of gray at the temples. I guessed she had Italian blood in her somewhere. "Detective, I've got some information about a woman who's running a prostitution and blackmail operation here in town. And ... she also..." I looked over at Phoebe for a brief draw of strength. "She also killed someone tonight."

   Detective Grant closed the file and set it aside. "Who did she kill?"

   Phoebe cleared her throat. "My husband."

   She gave us a suspicious look. "How do you know this?"

   "Before we start, I want to be sure I don't get my ass in a sling. I've been doing some investigative work, and I don't have my license yet."

   "I see." She regarded me. "But I can't bend the rules for you. If you're a witness to a murder, you'd better start talking, or I may have to charge you with being an accessory after the fact."

   Phoebe stood up. "I think I'll make a phone call to my attorney, Jobeth."

   I nodded, still watching Detective Grant.

   "You have a right to counsel, of course. You may need it."

   I grabbed Phoebe's sleeve to stop her from making that call and stood up. "If you want to collar a murderer, I suggest you be a little more tolerant to this small-time shit."

   She jabbed her pencil in my direction. "Don't threaten me, chick. I'll have you thrown in the cell so quick your head'll spin."

   "C'mon, Phoebe." I said. "The detective isn't interested in our story. Maybe the editor of the _Daily Oklahoman_ will be."

   Grant rolled her eyes. "Sit down, for Christ's sake. We'll work it out."

   I agreed to tell her the whole story, provided I could go off the record on the things that would get me in trouble, and she agreed for fear of losing a chance to bag a big one. I decided not to tip my hand about the photos or the download from Stacey's Palmtop. That information was peanuts compared to what she had done tonight.

   "Okay. How do you know someone was killed tonight?"

   "I was there when she did it."

   "Did you see her kill this person?"

   "Well, I saw her reach for the gun, and I heard the shot, and I saw the body fall to the floor beside me, and I watched him die. Is that good enough?" I was beginning to feel my temper rise.

   "Whoa. Just cool it." She turned to a fresh page in her steno pad and started taking notes in a weird shorthand which had no similarity to the kind they teach in school. "What's your name?"

   I leaned forward. "Jobeth O'Brien. But you don't understand, Detective. There's no time for this. As we speak, this woman and her flunky are getting rid of the body and covering their butts."

   "When did this happen?"

   I checked my watch. "About forty-five minutes ago."

   She looked at both of us quickly. "Come on," she said, standing and snatching her jacket from the back of her chair.

   "Where?" Phoebe asked.

   "I'm not gonna let some rookie make this arrest."

   We followed her out of the precinct to the parking lot, and she opened the door to a baby blue Falcon, pausing to look at me and Phoebe as we stared at it. "What?" she asked impatiently.

   I swallowed quickly. "Nice car," I said, opening the back door for Phoebe and sliding in behind her. I gave Grant the address, and she headed for 1303 Barclay.

   "What kind of car does she drive?" Detective Grant asked, pushing the Falcon to 55 through town, clicking on her siren, blue light flashing on the dash.

   "A Beemer."

   She caught my eyes in the rearview mirror.

   "But Steve drives a silver Jaguar, and I imagine they're in it."

   She nodded. "License number?"

   I took a register receipt from my pocket and handed Phoebe a pen. She wrote it down and I handed it to Grant. My hand fell to the vinyl of the back seat and I stroked it lovingly. Phoebe noticed and smiled.

   Detective Grant was not a timid driver. More than once, we narrowly missed a crash in busy intersections. I caught Phoebe's pallor in the pulsing blue light, and knew she wasn't enjoying the ride as much as I was. By the time we got to 93rd, Grant killed the siren. As we neared Stacey's house, I could see the Chevy truck parked in front. I told her I recognized it as a truck that one of her flunkies used. The Jag was gone. Detective Grant twisted in the seat to look at me. "Where would they go?"

   I looked out the window at the lamp in the yard across from Stacey's, its glow illuminating the concrete drive that led up into a garage. Chewing my lip, I tried to recall the conversation. "Stacey called this Tommy-guy and said she needed his help ... she told him she'd show him where to dump the body." I glanced over at Phoebe, afraid the conversation would upset her, but she had a blank expression.

   "Is that all they said?"

   "Probably not, but I put my knees in the breeze after that."

   Detective Grant slammed the heel of her hand into the steering wheel. "Dammit! Where would they take him?"

   My mind pulled up a map. If I wanted to get rid of a body really quick, what would be the first place that came to mind ... ? "Lake Hefner?" I offered.

   Grant threw the Falcon into gear and headed for the west end of 93rd, which fed into the lakefront and scattered into veins of smaller streets.

     * * * *

When we reached the road into the lake frontage, Grant slowed, turning off the blue light. We rounded a corner and came up over a hill. That's when I saw the headlights approaching in the faint glow of early morning. It was a silver sports car -- "That's him!" I shouted.

   She switched the blue light back on, and the Jag screeched to a halt and made a U-turn, and the game was afoot. "Hold on!" she called to us.

   Phoebe and I were flung all over the back seat as Grant pursued the Jag through the winding hills of the lakeside streets. She radioed dispatch, reporting that she was in hot pursuit of a homicide suspect, giving the license number and requesting backup. Dispatch ten-foured her message, and we heard the dispatcher put out the call to all units in the vicinity.

   The Jaguar made a wrong turn and ended up in a no-outlet parking lot. "Now I gotcha," Grant said softly. She jerked the wheel, and the Falcon slid sideways, blocking the exit. "Get out and get behind the car," she barked at us, grabbing an extra set of handcuffs and poking one ring in her back pocket, as she jumped out and leaned over the hood, her service revolver at arm's length in both hands. "Police! Get out of the car!"

   There was a moment of stillness, then the driver's side opened and a dark-headed man got out, his hands high. "Both of you! Out!" she shouted. Stacey emerged. "Hands where I can see them!" Stacey lifted her hands. Detective Grant went around the front of the Falcon, her .45 still trained on them. "Face down on the ground, now!" she ordered. They obeyed, and she went closer. "Hands behind your backs." Again, they obeyed, and she kept the gun on Tommy as she snapped a cuff around one of his wrists, then the other. She backed away again and saw me come out from behind the Falcon. "Here," she said, tossing the extra handcuffs to me. "Cuff her."

   I was thrilled. It was the perfect end to a perfectly frustrating first case. I snapped the cuffs on Stacey and leaned down to her ear. I could smell her flowery perfume. "I was in your house when you shot Steve, Cartwright ... I was under the bed," I whispered. She gyrated her neck to glare at me.

   I stood up and moved away from her, and Phoebe came up behind me as the other squad cars began to arrive.

     * * * *

The sunrise found Stacey and Tommy safely encased in one of the squad cars, and Detective Grant came around from the open trunk of the Jag. "We need you to identify the body," she told Phoebe.

   "I have enough bad memories of him. I don't need another one."

   Grant looked at me.

   "I saw him die. I don't need to see him dead."

   Detective Grant took off her jacket and snapped the leather strap over her revolver in the shoulder holster. "Look, we need a positive ID."

   I watched Phoebe fold her arms around herself and lower her head. I knew she'd been through enough. "I'll do it, Detective." I followed her to the trunk and looked down at him. His skin was void of color. I nodded to her. "That's Steve." She gave me a pat on the back, and I returned to Phoebe. "It's over, Phoeb'."

   She lit a cigarette and leaned against the Falcon.

     * * * *

We watched the coroner gurney the black bag past us to the long black car, and leave. Detective Grant finished up her business and told Phoebe that Steve's car would be taken to police impound, and then drove us back to the station.

     * * * *

"Why didn't you notify the police before now?" Detective Grant said, her pen poised over the steno pad.

   "Well, before it was just blackmail and prostitution, and I had client confidentiality to think of. But when it became murder..."

   "Well, Stacey Cartwright and her goon may not be the only ones in trouble here."

   I had been waiting for that one. "Look, I've been up-front with you about my license; the details are pending. I'll have it soon enough. In the meantime, let's just say I was doing a favor for some friends."

   Grant scratched the top of her head and smoothed her dark brown hair in a rough, sweeping gesture. "Yeah, that's what I'll put in the report. What's the real story?" She popped a pencil in her mouth and held it between her teeth.

   I looked over at Phoebe, and she spoke up. "I was in the process of divorcing Steve. I needed grounds other than irreconcilable differences. And I had reason to believe he was having an affair. So I hired Ms. O'Brien to find out. She just came across some extra information, that's all."

   Detective Grant gave me a suspicious look, removing the pencil from her mouth with a sucking sound. "And you thought you'd just help her get free by putting him away?"

   "Something like that."

   "Uh huh," Grant said in a tone that suggested she could read between the lines. "Did you break into Stacey Cartwright's house?"

   "I already answered that."

   "Refresh my memory."

   "The door was open, Detective."

   "Did you turn the knob?" she asked smartly.

   I returned her tone. "No, I did not. The door was wide open, and I simply walked through it."

   Grant leaned back in her chair, tossing the pencil on the desk and regarding me with unabashed thoroughness. "Don't jack me around, Ms. O'Brien. If you want to stay out of jail, you'd better tell me everything so I can make it stick on the right people. Otherwise, you're at the mercy of a sometimes merciless system." She stood up. "Think that one over, and I'll get us all some coffee."

   While she was gone, Phoebe and I discussed the possibilities. Grant was a tough cookie, but she knew what we were both holding back. She just wanted to be sure it wasn't something that would rear up and bite her in the ass later. She knew that the real crimes were committed by Stacey and Steve, not an unlicensed P.I. But her dedication to the badge would not let her admit it outright. Phoebe thought we could trust Detective Grant. After all, she had let me cuff Stacey, and that had to be a breach in procedure.

   When Grant returned with the coffee, Phoebe asked her, "Do I need to call my attorney?"

   Grant smiled collusively. "Do you think you might need one?"

   Phoebe's voice went cold. "You tell me, Detective."

   "Just give me everything you know -- both of you -- and I'll call if I need you to come back down, okay?"

   The details took quite some time, and we had all gone through several refills of coffee before Grant was satisfied with the information. She dropped her pencil on the pad and sighed, lacing her fingers behind her neck and stretching. She focused on my face. "When are you gonna get your license?"

   I grinned. "License? I'm just doing a few favors for a friend."

   "Cut the crap, O'Brien. You're doing the work of a P.I. without a license -- of course, that's off the record -- and if you can come up with this much hard evidence, you should be doing it for a living."

   Phoebe smiled smugly and looked down at her hands. I looked at the steno pad. "There's a small matter that is being cleared up right now. When that's taken care of, I'll take the test."

   "Where'd you get your experience? You have to have two years in police work or something similar to qualify, you know."

   "I know. I was an MP in the Army."

   She nodded appreciatively. "That'll do it." She tore out her notes and placed them in the file, closing it. "If I need anything else, I'll give you a call. You know not to leave town and all that, right?"

     * * * *

"I'm so glad this is over," Phoebe said, unlocking the driver's side of the Cadillac and hitting the button to unlock my side.

   I got in beside her. "Oh, I'm sure we'll be hearing from Detective Grant. But Stacey's in jail. And it's where she belongs."

   We didn't mention the fact that Steve was out of the picture, too. Neither of us had any warm feelings for him, but it was a bit awkward to talk about him being murdered like that.

   She checked for oncoming traffic, then pulled out onto the street. "Oh, I know. And there'll be publicity from the trial, and questions and a little scandal, but people have a short memory when you have as much money as I do."

   One of those bittersweet truths in life. One of many, I imagined, that I would discover when I began a legitimate business of investigation.

   We were starving and got some cheeseburgers from a drive-through before heading home.

     * * * *

We showered and changed into sweats, and Phoebe started a fire. We roasted marshmallows, listening to a Bonnie Raitt CD. "Don't you feel better now that you're rid of that damn paper route?"

   "Yes, I do, actually. Even though it means I have no dependable source of income."

   "You will have soon, though." She poked at the burning logs with the end of her charred marshmallow stick. "Won't Huxley pay you for getting Stacey off his back?"

   "Yeah. But it won't be much. And those photos I got out of Stacey's briefcase are gratis, too. Stacey drained Webster dry."

   "You didn't tell me about the photos -- "

   "Oh ... well, there was a lot going on. Yeah, they're still in my jacket. I need to give him a call, ease his mind. He'll freak when he reads the paper." I went over to the phone and punched in his number, telling him that I had what he needed and not to miss the evening news. We made an appointment for the next day before hanging up.

   I came over and swiped a raw marshmallow, cramming it in my mouth. She took a cigarette from the pack in my breast pocket and lit it with the end of the smoldering stick. Inhaling, she made a strange face. "Mmm. Marshmallow-flavored cigarettes. I think I have something here."

   I lit a cigarette of my own, using the flame she offered from her stick. "Now that I have those photos, maybe Hal Webster will have an added incentive to clear my name, and I can take that P.I. test soon." I got a palpable thrill out of knowing that my days in hiding were going to be over.

   Phoebe suggested I go commune with my basement office, and the idea was appealing, but I could feel my body begging for sleep. "I think I need to take a nap first. I feel like a limp dish-rag."

   "I'm still wired. Why don't you go up and have a nap, and I'll take care of some stuff I've let go lately."

   I grinned. "Oh, like those bills you keep tossing, unopened, on the table?"

   She smiled. "Yeah."

     * * * *

When I woke from my nap and came down the stairs, I found her on the sofa leafing through a magazine, having coffee.

   It was just before eight, and the nap had refreshed me. "Can I have a cup?"

   She smiled and stood up, reaching for me, kissing me sweetly. "I have something to show you." Her eyes were bright as she took my hand and led me through the foyer into the kitchen. "Major General Webster called. He saw the news report. The police aren't saying much yet, but they interviewed Detective Grant on camera, and she said she could not have made the arrest without the help of two model citizens." We smiled at each other. "He also said he spoke with one of his friends at the Office of Army Law Enforcement. He thinks it's only a matter of time before your name is cleared."

   My heart leaped in my chest. "Really? Man, that's something I never thought I'd hear." Everything was falling into place. Everything.

   "Oh, and a delivery man left a package for you. I had him leave it in the garage." She pointed to the kitchen door.

   I went over and opened the door and nearly fell down the steps. A black Toyota Four-Runner was parked there. "Phoebe -- what's this?"

   "Your new car," she whispered in my ear.

   I turned around. "You bought me a new car?"

   "I made a call to a dealership owned by a friend of mine from the country club. It didn't take long. I told him to load it up with the works and deliver it."

   I turned back around and went down the steps. Circling the shiny vehicle slowly, I ran my hand along the hood and went around to the driver's side.

   "The keys are in it," she said from the doorway.

   I got in, and she followed, jumping in the passenger side. "It's black, so you can sneak around unseen in the dark, hunting down criminals."

   I laughed. "You never cease to amaze me, Phoebe ... can we go for a spin?"

   She smirked. "Actually, I was thinking we'd christen the back seat."

   I followed her eyes behind us to the open area where a comforter and pillows had been placed. "That's not a back seat," I grinned.

   She shrugged. "It's close enough." She climbed between the bucket seats in the front and stretched out, and I followed her dutifully.

   Epilogue

   _Late November_

   I had been spending a good deal of time in my basement office, preparing for my first clients. Phoebe had talked me into giving it a rest for a few months before I took on another case, and she said she wanted me all to herself for a while.

   In the corner of the basement, well away from my desk, was the back seat of the Falcon, encased in a lacquered mahogany frame, and in front of it was a sofa table made from the steering wheel with a glass top fastened to it. It was a truly inspired idea on Phoebe's part, and I could not help but grin each time I looked at it. She had surprised me with it a week after the arrest of Stacey and Tommy. It was her way of validating my love for the Falcon, and commemorating the carnal memories we had made in it.

   Now, almost two months later, I was itching to use my newly acquired license. I was settled at my desk, reading a book on security systems when Phoebe came down the stairs with Detective Ginger Grant in tow. Ginger shoved my propped feet off the desk and parked one leg along the edge, half-sitting there. "What's kickin', chicken?"

   I put my book down, not missing the snowflakes that were sliding from her jacket and melting into puddles on the desktop, and gave her my best territorial scowl. "Are you here to give me a hard time, Ginger?"

   Ginger Grant snickered and tossed a look over her shoulder at Phoebe. I leaned to one side to have a look at Phoebe's expression. "Okay, what are you guys up to?"

   Phoebe came around and dropped the mail on my desk.

   "Ginger and I were just having a chat upstairs, and we've decided on one of your Christmas gifts."

   "Oh, you have, have you?" I leaned forward and wiped a puddle off the desktop, drying my hand on my jeans. Since the arraignment and subsequent conviction of Stacey Cartwright and her entourage, Ginger had turned out to be a good friend. But I discovered quickly that Phoebe and Ginger had a way of ganging up on me. "Is it better than the backseat of the Falcon?"

   As Phoebe giggled, Ginger cut in, "You know, you never did tell me what special significance that seat has."

   Phoebe glanced at me. "It was where we went on our first date."

   Phoebe and I both laughed, and Ginger said, "Charming."

   "So what's this gift?" I wanted to know.

   "Ginger is going to teach you to fence."

   I looked at Ginger and frowned. "You know how to fence?"

   "Why so surprised?" She glowered at me; I had hit a nerve. _Goody for me._

   "You mean, swords and white suits, and _en guard_, and all that stuff?"

   Ginger nodded. "It'll get you back in shape."

   "Back in shape? Who said I was ever _out_ of shape?" I knew I'd put on a few pounds over the last few months, but I was not about to admit it to these two hyenas.

   Ginger stood up and shook her dripping jacket, stealing a handful of dinner mints from the ceramic bowl Phoebe had placed on my desk that morning. "Fencing teaches you sharpness of mind, forethought, strategy. It improves your reflexes, too. That's something you're going to need in your line of work."

   "You would know."

   Phoebe came over and sat down in my lap, her arms around my neck. "Are you game?"

   I always thought fencing was a cool sport. I only saw it done on television, though, and not very often. "Sure. Sounds like fun." I kissed Phoebe full on the mouth.

   "I'm free evenings. Let me know when you want to have your first lesson."

   "I'll call you."

   Ginger grabbed another handful of mints and started for the stairs. "Oh, and congrats on your license. Maybe I can throw some business your way. Happy Holidays!" She took the steps two at a time back up to the door.

   When I looked back at Phoebe, she was admiring the Honorable Discharge certificate on the wall. "Are you going to stop using Jobeth O'Brien as your name, now that Grayson O'Reilly has her name cleared?"

   I pulled her closer. "I don't see any reason to. I'd still have to go through the process of getting my real identity back so I can get identification and everything."

   "It's snowing out." She leaned down and kissed my neck before she got up and moved over to the desk, wiping at the remaining puddles Ginger's drippy coat had left behind.

   "Would you like to have a snowball fight?"

   "Too cold ... I'd rather stay in and keep warm." She hoisted herself onto the desk in front of me and unfastened the top button of her blouse. "Can I take you out to dinner, perhaps?"

   I pushed out of the chair slowly and came over to her, placing my hips between her knees as she sat on the desk. "That sounds good. How about an appetizer right now?"

   "We've never done it on the desk, have we?"

   "No," I agreed. "We haven't ... _en guard,"_ I said, pushing her back and reaching for the top button of her jeans.

Visit www.dlsijpress.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.