“Much less often. But even then, it was bondage, discipline, not sex. Sometimes it got out of hand, though. She had one client… well, everybody has a client like that.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Who pays extra for you to go…too far.”

“Tell me about this client.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know much. Don’t know his name. But I do know he was rough. A real sadist. But the money was good, and he never went…too too far.”

“And this bus-station pimp still gets his cut?”

She flashed a smile; her teeth were nice, on the small side. “No, that’s part of what made us so lucky. He got killed. Some other pimp slit his throat.”

He got his cut, after all.

She was saying, “Which is sad in a way, because he was good to us, way better than most. We’ve been freelance ever since. Solo venders, no organized ring, no pimp. We have arrangements with taxicab drivers, hotels, law firms, businesses, the M and B game.”

Manufacturers and buyers.

“Our clients wear Brooks Brothers,” she said. “I never walked a street in my life, Mike. Neither did Jasmine.”

Maybe she was lucky. But Jasmine hadn’t been.

I asked, “Did one of those Brooks Brothers types kill Jasmine, d’you think, Lily?”

Her forehead furrowed. “Almost has to have. She wouldn’t let a stranger in. A cop with ID, maybe. It would be clients, mostly regulars. Sometimes referrals from those places I mentioned.”

“Businesses. Was one of them Colby, Daltree & Levine?”

“No. Is that a law firm?”

“Brokerage. Was Vincent Colby a regular?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know who that is. I stayed out of Ronnie’s business. She stayed out of mine. She was discreet. But I’ll tell you one suspicious thing.”

“Please.”

“She did keep a book, strictly for herself. A notebook, meticulous—neat rows of names, places, figures.”

“For blackmail purposes?”

“No! She wasn’t that kind of girl. It was to protect herself. She called it a life insurance policy.”

Hadn’t really paid off, had it?

“You need to understand the setup, Mike. We had the whole floor. We lived in one half, Jasmine did business in the other. I never brought anybody home.”

“This notebook…”

“Gone. Somebody took it. Might be the cops, but I’d guess whoever did this terrible thing to her is who has it now.” She sat forward, the big dark lenses staring at me. “Mike—Velda says you’re a detective. That you’re looking for whoever did this.”

“I am. Jasmine isn’t the killer’s only victim—we know of two others, who died the same way. And it’s possible another two were disposed of otherwise.”

Her mouth tightened. “Disposed of.”

“Sorry. That was a cold way to put it. You girls had been friends for a long time.”

“We weren’t friends, Mike.”

“You weren’t?”