A sense of dread filled her at the sight. Strange implements hung on the wall: whips, collars, gags, paddles. The bed was a mess of tangled sheets, and two glasses of wine stood on the nightstand next to a nearly-empty bottle of Dom Perignon. The blanket had been pulled over the edge, masking the space beneath the bed.

Roth? Harley called, moving cautiously toward the bed. This is the FBI. Were here to bring you in for questioning.

A heady whiff cologne filled Harleys nostrils; it seemed to wreathe the bed like a cloud.

Cardamom and cinnamon, she thought. I know that scent.

Harley grabbed the blanket and threw it back. She peered beneath the bed and saw a face there looking back at her from the darkness: a pair of eyes round with fear and lips parted like those of a gasping fish.

A womans face, Harley realized with a sinking heart. She was about to ask the woman where Roth had gone when she heard a flush of water nearby. A door that she had not known was a door, because of how cleverly it fit into the paneling of the wall, swung outward as Roth entered the room, wearing nothing but a towel. His hair was wet and slicked back, his cheeks ruddy with the porcelain polish of a hot shower.

This is a pleasant surprise, he said, smiling at Harley with a look of amusement in his eyes. Im afraid you just missed the festivities.

She wanted to slap that smirk right off his face. Instead she turned to Callaway, who stood in the doorway of the room.

Cuffs, she said, holding out her hand.

Kinky, Roth said with a wink.

Callaway hesitated, perhaps questioning the legality of the issue, since Harley was technically only a consultant. Then he relented and handed her the cuffs.

Lawrence Roth, she said, advancing toward him, you are under arrest for prostitution and suspicion of murder.

What, Roth replied, youre not even going to let me get dressed? Going to march me out half-naked in front of all my friends?

She stopped. As much as she would enjoy humiliating him any way she could, she knew there was a good chance his lawyers would look for any excuse to argue he was being unfairly treated. Better not to give them any ammunition.

Go on, she said, gesturing toward the pile of clothes he had shed on the floor. Hurry up.

Staring directly into Harleys eyes, Roth untied his towel and dropped it. He moved slowly, prolonging the act, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

Harley kept her focus on his eyes and tried not to see anything else.

When he was dressed, he adjusted his sleeves and brushed his hair back. No need for those cuffs, agent. I can walk out on my own.

Im afraid I must insist, Harley answered, twisting his arm behind his back and slapping the cuff on his wrist. He grunted in pain.