She smiled and kept the eye contact. “Sorry, sir. I’m just window dressing.”

Nice and polite. Someone had taught her manners. “You know what, darlin’? That’s okay with me. Right now, all I want to do is talk.”

Eyes fixed on his face, her expression hardening. “Against the rules.”

Decker took out a hundred-dollar bill. “You know, I bet it’s pretty slow right now. We don’t even have to tell anyone.” He winked. “Please?”

Stealing a quick glance over her right shoulder. Decker followed it and made out a small door that blended neatly with the lobby’s paneling. Someone was behind there. No doubt someone with a gun. Again she shook her head, her carriage holding the confidence of big-time protection. Merrin had his fingers in a lot of pies. She kept her eyes on Decker’s. “No can do, sir.”

“I’m a very good friend of Chief Merrin’s,” Decker persisted.

“I’m glad to hear that, sir, but that’s completely irrelevant—other than the ten-percent discount. Which I’m happy to extend to you for any of our massage therapists.”

“So that’s what they’re calling themselves nowadays.”

Abruptly, her eyes turned gelid, a very familiar expression, though he couldn’t quite place it. And then, in a flash, it came to him—that “Of course, you idiot” sudden brand of insight that made you want to hit your forehead. He smiled slightly, giving her a superior look. “And what would you do… if I told you that C.D. sent me?”

A red wash permeated her cheeks. Again a glimpse behind her back. “ID, please?”

Decker took out his driver’s license. She took it, got up, and locked the front door, hair brushing over her shoulders as she walked. She wore a black leather miniskirt and spiked heels. He watched her rear sway as she disappeared behind the panel-hidden cubby. Five minutes later, she returned. Without a word, she took Decker’s hand, leading him up the stairs. Her expression had turned blank, not a hint of defiance. There was no eye contact this time. Some mysterious, hidden voice had told her to behave. Failure to do so would have serious repercussions.

32

The suite was at the end of a long, narrow hallway, up two steps and facing the back of the building. Dark and musty, it held yards and yards of draped cloth over the windows and hanging from the ceilings: rich fabric in oxblood velvets and ruby satins. Between the textiles were mirrors—on the walls and on the ceiling. The bed was king size, dressed in gold silk and layered with pillow upon pillow. A crystal chandelier threw disco light over a bedspread vaguely redolent of cigarette smoke and perfume. So prototypical whorehouse, it could have been a movie set. The blonde went over to a mirror and bent down, showing off a nice, tight rear. She pushed in a panel, and a cubby opened up. She took out a portable phone and stood up, extending it to Decker.

“He wants to talk to you.”